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Harrison nods. “Cowardly and chickenshit are kind of the same thing, aren’t they?”
“Shut up.” I grip my phone and look at the screen.
You have to tell her. I can’t.
That last message from Brad was four minutes after I’d texted him.
I type quickly.
I am NOT telling her. YOU have to tell her. At least call her. Please be that much of a man.
I suck in a deep breath as I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
“Son of a bitch!” I shout.
Harrison looks grim. “He’s really not coming.”
“He’s really not coming,” I repeat. “Fuck.”
“And nowwehave to tell Ivy? Seriously?”
“I…guess.” I feel my stomach knot. I can’t do that.
God, anything but that.
Harrison Reed and I grew up with Brad Richardson. I’ve known these guys all my life. And yes, I’m stunned that Brad is leaving his fiancee at the altar.
But it’s sinking in. Quickly. Ever since Brad moved from Honeysuckle Harbor, South Carolina, to Los Angeles and became a famous chef on his very own television show, he’s turned into a prick. We’ve tried to ignore it—thought once the luster of fame wore off, he would remember who he really is, but this…damn, this is bad.
So fucking bad.
Have I had questions about his relationship with Ivy in the past? Yes. I’ve always been surprised she agreed to go out with him, not to mentionmarryhim. But I wasn’t sure if that was reality or just me being jealous because I’d had eyes on her too.
If Brad had broken up with Ivy six months ago, or even a month ago, or even last week, I would have agreed it was a great idea.
In fact, full disclosure, I would have been thrilled.
Not only is Ivy Scott way too good for the new-undisputed-champion-prick Brad, but Ivy is gorgeous, sweet, funny, intelligent, talented, and…the star of several of my dirtiest fantasies.
I’m not proud of that. But it’s still true.
And if my fucking friend had done the right thing, realized he wasn’t in love with her, and pulled out of their engagementany time before today,I would have made a move without a single hesitation.
Yes, I’ve known Brad since kindergarten, but that doesn’t matter. If he let Ivy go, I wouldn’t have hesitated to let her know that I was interested. Before the dozen or so other guys who would absolutely be waiting in the wings did.
But do I want to be the one to tell her that her wedding isn’t going to happen?
When she’s literally five minutes from walking down the aisle?
When the chairs outside in the gorgeous flower garden they’ve chosen for the ceremony are full to the brim with her family and friends?
When she’s spent the morning getting her hair and makeup done and is now wearing what I assume is her dream dress?
Fuck. No.