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We’ll do a sailcloth tent on the front lawn. Drape the ceiling in swaths of ivory chiffon. Reese has expensive taste but Southern sensibilities, so we’ll do white oak farm tables set with heirloom china and sterling flatware. A guitarist for cocktail hour. Some kind of whiskey signature drink for Nate.

My pen stops moving in the middle of the word. Irish and American whiskey are spelled with an e, he told me the night we polished off the better part of a bottle of Jameson. Scottish whisky does just fine without it.

And you think you’re Scottish, I’d replied.

Just like Jamie Fraser. That show—

It’s delicious.

No shit. My family actually comes from just outside Edinburgh too.

You’ve only told me that nine hundred times. Why do you think I’m sleeping with you?

He’d thrown his head back and laughed. I’ll be your redneck Jamie Fraser all night, lass.

And he was, right down to the terrible Scottish brogue.

“Now what about the media?” Wilson asks.

My pen jerks across the page, creating an ugly mark through my notes. “Pardon?”

“You know, the press and all that jazz.” He leans back in his seat and folds his arms behind his head. “How do we get this wedding in magazines and newspapers and such?”

Nate goes still beside him. “Dad, we can talk about that later.”

“Well, now, I think it’s important we have a plan from the start.”

“It would be cool to see our wedding in a magazine,” Reese says. “Obviously, it’s not a make-or-break thing—”

“But we would like to get our money’s worth,” Wilson interrupts. Nate winces, a barely noticeable deepening of those crow’s feet.

Anger grips my windpipe and squeezes. Nate’s dad is a dick, pure and simple.

Chris, seemingly immune to Wilson’s complete and utter lack of charm, shrugs. “I didn’t know magazines for weddings even existed until now, so I’m game for whatever.”

“All press is good press. Isn’t that right, son?”

The color drains from Nate’s face with the exception of two pink splotches on his cheeks. “Sure,” he grunts after a long, painful pause. “Whatever you want, Dad.”

“So.” Wilson looks at me. “How do we let people know these two lovebirds are happily married? I imagine there are quite a few outlets that want to keep up with the future of Kingsley Distilling.”

I glance at Thea. Her expression is blank, but her eyes are curious. She’s picking up on it too—the sense that something’s off here.

Then again, family dynamics for weddings can be interesting to say the least. We’ve dealt with worse, and we came out (relatively) unscathed. At this point, I consider helping my brides and grooms navigate these tricky situations part of my job. I’m part therapist, part artist, and part ass-kicking drill sergeant who keeps everyone in line.

“With your permission, we’d submit the photos from your wedding to our favorite publications,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “Martha Stewart Weddings. Vogue. And then there are the online blogs—”

“Old-timers like me, we need to see it in print.” Wilson releases his hands from behind his head and taps his fingertips on the table, gesturing to an imaginary newspaper. “You got a call into The New York Times?”

I bite down on the inside of my cheek. Deep breath. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Good girl,” Wilson replies with a shit-eating smile. “See what you can do for us, and I’ll see what I can do for you.”

I flip him an imaginary bird. You can sit on this and spin on it, dickhead.

“That won’t be necessary.” Nate is gulping his water now. I grab the pitcher from the center of the table and refill his glass.

“Thanks,” he says.

“No problem,” I reply, careful not to meet his eyes. I turn to Reese. “So. What questions do y’all have for us?”

Reese looks at her dad. She smiles. He smiles. He grabs her hand underneath the table, and I feel an odd little pinch between my shoulder blades. I don’t miss my dad all that often—he died when I was young, and the memories I have of him aren’t all that great—but maybe that explains the pinch. I can’t imagine how lovely it must be to have a man like Chris Noble in your corner. A dad who genuinely gives a shit about your happiness.

I have my brothers, granted. But it’s not the same.

We go through a list of questions Reese has put together. Our thoughts on receiving lines (fuck no), the number of rooms at the resort they’ll be able to reserve for guests (as many as they’d like, as long as they reserve them now), what do we usually put in welcome bags (something salty, something sweet, something boozy).

“What a dream come true,” she says when the meeting is over and we’re all inching toward the door. “Milly Beauregard is planning my wedding! I can’t believe it.”

Judging by the look on Nate’s face, he can’t either. He stands beside Reese, and even though he’s smiling at her, it’s a smile that doesn’t touch his eyes. She looks blissfully unaware as she smiles back at him, but I think he’s uncomfortable. Why? He made it clear he didn’t give a shit about me when he walked away. I’m doing us both a favor. You and me, we were never meant to be together. Not for the long haul. And judging by the woman at his side, he’s moved on.