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Axel

T he wedding plans quickly got out of control.

What started as a “simple ceremony on the mountain” turned into a guest list that looked suspiciously like a military reunion, a small-town fair, and a reality TV crossover episode.

But I didn’t care.

Lark was glowing. And every time she said “fiancé,” I puffed up like a rooster in spring.

The team came in full force—Max, Nate, Jack, Fraiser, Rush showed up with a new woman on his arm and a flask in his boot.

And then there was Marley.

She showed up late, looking like she hadn’t slept, in a green dress that made Frasier forget how to blink.

“You good?” I asked him as he watched her from across the makeshift dance floor.

Frasier didn’t look at me. Just lifted his beer. “Define ‘good.’”

“Define ‘what the hell happened between you two.’”

He muttered something into his drink that sounded suspiciously like “Morocco.”

I squinted. “You slept with Marley in Morocco ?”

“Technically, it was Tunisia. But she doesn’t know I live here, and I didn’t know she was her

, and now every time she looks at me, it’s like she wants to set me on fire with her eyes. So yeah. Good times.”

I whistled. “Well, that explains why she tried to bail on the wedding three times.”

“I thought she hated weddings.”

“She doesn’t. She hates you. ”

He nodded. “Yeah. That tracks.”