Setting my cell down, I move through the pictures again, slowly this time, and notice more than once that Jordan has met up with women. None of them are women I’m familiar with, but that doesn’t mean shit, since I don’t really pay attention to who the guys are spending their time with. Rubbing my hands down my face, I fight the urge to pick up my half-empty beer bottle and toss it across the bar.

“You good, man?” Sage asks quietly, settling his elbows on the table and leaning forward.

“No,” I grit out.

“It—” His words cut off and his jaw tightens when his eyes move over my shoulder. “Fuck,” he growls, tightening his fingers around the bottle in his hand. Turning my head, I spot Kim walking toward the bar with her boyfriend. “I’m out, man. Call me if you need anything else.”

My eyes move back to him as he pulls cash from his pocket, tossing it on the table before stalking to the door without a backward glance. Looking over to where Kim is standing, I see her eyes fixed on the door that Sage just left through and shake my head. Eventually, one of them will give in to the obvious pull they feel and when they do everyone better stand back.

Chapter 14


“So we agree the colors are peach, taupe, and pearl?” Mom asks, looking across the cluttered table at me, and I nod.

The first week of wedding planning was exciting. The second week of wedding planning was fun. The third week of wedding planning has me wanting to jump out a window. Everyday, I’m more and more tempted to throw in the reins and tell Evan to book us a flight to Vegas and let Elvis marry us.

“And the cake. Do you still like the chocolate one with the raspberry filling?” she questions, jotting something down in her notebook. A notebook that would put the world’s best wedding planner to shame. “I kind of liked the vanilla spice one, but it’s your wedding,” she mutters absently to herself before I can answer, and I roll my eyes. I don’t even think this wedding could be defined as “mine” anymore. I love my mom, but she has lost her damn mind and gone Momzilla all over this damn ceremony.

“Mom, it’s almost ten. How about we work on this again in a few days?” I yawn, looking toward the bedroom, where I know Evan is hiding away, watching TV with Ninja. Both of them are smart enough to stay out of sight when my mom’s here. It’s crazy, but I miss him. We live together and I see him every day, but I miss him. This wedding planning business is ruining my life. I could totally be having sex right now, but instead, I’m confirming things I’ve already confirmed a hundred and fifty-two billion times.

“We just need to go over a few more things,” she says, dropping her pen to the table so she can move some of the swatches and things around on its surface, while muttering to herself under her breath.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell her, but know she is so lost in La-La Wedding Land that she doesn’t hear me. Going to the living room, I look for my cell there, and then head to the laundry room to do the same, before finally finding it in the kitchen under the mail Evan brought in when he came home. Pulling up the text to my dad, I slam my fingers down on my keys in rapid, annoyed succession.

Dad, do whatever you have to do, but get the crazy woman you call your wife out of my house NOW! before I kill her.

I press Send then watch a bubble appear on the screen, letting me know he’s replying.

On it, June Bug.

Sighing in relief, I move back to the table, just as my mom’s cell rings, and take a seat, praying my torture is almost over. Picking up her phone, she looks at it and shakes her head then presses a button, making it go silent.

“Don’t you want to answer that?” I ask in a panic, as she goes back to writing stuff down in her notebook.

“It’s just your dad. He can wait until we’re done.”

Dropping my head to the top of the table, I debate just leaving her and heading for my room. At this point, she might not even notice, I think, as her phone starts to ring again.

“Mom, your phone is ringing,” I point out, watching her silence it once again.

“He can wait,” she repeats then glares at my phone when it starts to ring. “Do not answer that.” Her tone is one I know to obey, one she’s used since I was little. Biting my lip, I sit back and listen to my cell ring and ring before going to voicemail.