Page 85 of A Very Happy Easter

“What thing?”

“The thing. The spark. You must know the spark—you and Heath are hashtag couple goals.”

Well, not quite. More like hashtag wishful thinking.

“If you’re having doubts, don’t marry him,” I tried. “It’s not too late to back out.”

“But we’ve created something beautiful together. What if I lose the custody battle?”

“Fuck him,” Kirsten said. “Fuck him. You’ve got more followers anyway.”

“It’s just a joint BuzzHub account,” Rebecca added. She’d come as Kirsten’s date, a vast improvement on Milquetoast. “Can’t you quickly change the password?”

Thankfully, it wasn’t Constance having second thoughts. Come hell or high water, her marriage to William would be happening, and we might end up with both if this morning’s weather warning was any indication. The words “out-of-season tropical storm” had been mentioned, and Constance’s parents had suggested that maybe rescheduling would be a good idea. Of course, they didn’t know about the baby, and the bridal party had been sworn to secrecy. The distillery had offered to sub alcohol-free rum in the cocktail-making session, although clearly Polly hadn’t taken them up on that option. No, she’d begun drinking from a hip flask at the coffee plantation, and things had only gone downhill from there.

She was seventy percent sure Spencer had cheated on her last month with yet another “collab partner,” but when she confronted him, he’d told her she was being ridiculous and the girl in question was just an acquaintance. They barely knew each other, honest. When he buzzed her the picture of him in his boxers, it was an unfortunate slip of the finger, that’s all.

“He’ll lose his freaking mind if I change the password. How did it go so wrong? I mean, we’re hashtag Spenly, the perfect match; everybody says so. We have the same goals, the same lifestyle, and we both work in the food industry…”

“You’re both competitive as heck,” Kirsten pointed out. “And now you’re competing with each other.”

“Perhaps you could try therapy?” Marielle suggested. I didn’t know her well, but she worked with Constance in an art gallery.

“Therapy, schmerapy. Who has time to talk about their problems?”

Literally everyone in the group raised their hands, including me, although Heath had proven to be the best therapy of all. Tonight, he was out drinking with a bunch of men he barely knew on the stag do, and he’d gone with a faint grimace but no complaint.

Me

How’s the party? Is William still upright?

I’d asked him to make sure William didn’t do anything dumb because Constance would be devastated if there were any more wedding hiccups.

Heath

Willams fine. Driinking coffee and goggling lawyers.

Uh-oh. Usually, Heath’s spelling and grammar were impeccable. How much had he drunk? Enough to override autocorrect, which was something special.

Me

What?

Heath

Spencers with a pear of coppers. Handcuffs..

Me

OMG! What happened?

My phone rang. Heath calling. I backed away from the therapy discussion and found a quiet spot outside the distillery.

“Spencer got arrested? What the hell?”

“He got in a fight with a couple of strippers, and then when the cops turned up, he assumed it was one of those fake arrest pranks.”

“Aren’t those usually for the groom?”