Page 29

The reception was winding down. People were full, tipsy, happy — the kind of happy that gets hazy around the edges and makes everyone a little more honest than they meant to be.

Ella had been whisked away for a round of photos with the last of the extended family.

I was chatting with Henry and one of Ella’s cousins about the house remodel when I heard Carol’s laugh , her fake one.

The one she used when she was about two seconds from lighting someone on fire.

I turned, and sure enough—there it was . The storm cloud gathering at the bar.

Gabe was sitting on a stool, casually nursing a whiskey, looking like a magazine ad for emotionally repressed athletes. Carol stood beside Ben, stiff as a statue. Ben, for his part, looked cheerful and completely unaware that he was stepping into a minefield.

“So wait,” Ben was saying, pointing a finger at Gabe, “you’re that Gabe McCloud?”

Gabe blinked. “I… guess? Depends who’s asking.”

“Man, that’s wild,” Ben said, practically glowing. “I used to watch you in college. Number 92, right? You had that brutal tackle in the semifinals—dude, you were a beast. ”

Carol’s expression went flat .

“You want an autograph, maybe a beer coaster signed?” Gabe asked dryly.

Ben laughed, clearly thinking this was all friendly banter . “Seriously, it’s so cool meeting you in person. I had your jersey, man. You were insane out there.”

“Still is,” Carol muttered, barely audible. I heard it. Gabe definitely heard it. Ben, unfortunately, did not.

“I didn’t even realize you guys were related,” Ben said, turning to me. “You and Gabe. Brothers, huh? That’s crazy. Total legacy family.”

Carol’s shoulders tightened so fast I could practically hear the thread in her dress cry for help.

Gabe looked like he was trying very hard not to roll his eyes into the next dimension.

Then Ben turned back to Carol, all proud of himself, and said, “You didn’t tell me you knew Gabe McCloud.

That’s badass.” The poor guy was clueless that Carol was one word away from a slow-burning detonation.

“So, you two know each other well, huh?”

Carol gave Gabe a look. “You could say that.”

Gabe didn’t blink. “She used to braid my hair when she was in fourth grade. Then weaponized it in fifth.”

“I was nine,” she said through clenched teeth. “And you deserved it.”

“You told everyone I had lice.”

“You called me a Tinker Bell lookalike with bad bangs.”

Thorne huffed. He wasn’t wrong. Her bangs were an abomination.

I coughed into my drink. Ben, still smiling like a Labrador at a dinner party, said, “That’s adorable. Childhood rivals turned friends?”

Carol turned her head so slowly I thought I heard vertebrae crack. “Friends?”

“Well—sure,” Ben said, glancing between them. “I mean, right?”

Gabe raised a brow. “You think we’re friends, man?”

Ben blinked. “Aren’t you?”

Carol made a noise. I don’t know how to describe it. It was feral . Like someone had crossed a jungle cat with a microwave about to explode.

“I once put Icy Hot in his jockstrap,” she said casually, sipping her champagne.

Ben choked on his beer. “What?”

“Right before my first pro game,” Gabe added.

"You didn't." Ben's head swiveled to Carol, torn between admiration and horror.

Curiously, I leaned closer, not wanting to miss this. Thorne snorted .

He’s dead. She's going to eat him. I want a front row seat.

Carol shrugged. “Oh,” she said slowly, “don’t clam up now, McCloud. Tell him what you did. You cracked my login, scrolled through a minimum of twenty chapters , and quoted my fake mafia dom character on local television. Why?”

Gabe sipped his drink with the casual air of a man trying not to look like he was drowning. “It was research.”

Carol barked a laugh. “Oh my God. That’s what you’re going with?”

“You were a public figure.”

“I was a teenager hiding under a pen name called S.J. Flame.”

Ben let out a squeaky sound. “Wait. You’re S.J. Flame?! The one with the mafia chef who?—”

Carol whipped around so fast, he choked on his own voice. “Finish that sentence, Ben, and I swear to God I will file for a restraining order before dessert.”

He held up both hands. “Nope. All good. Love your work.”

Thorne was wheezing inside me now. She’s going to bite someone. Maybe two someones. This is better than cake.

Gabe leaned back with an unreadable expression. “It wasn’t personal. I recognized the dialogue. That’s all.”

Carol narrowed her eyes. “Recognized it from what ? ”

Silence followed. Gabe, honest to God, looked like a man who was backed into a corner and knew it. Carol noticed it too. Her pointer finger went straight into his face, her eyes squinting. “From what, Gabriel?”

“I don’t remember,” he said too quickly.

“Oh, now you don’t remember?” she said, eyebrows launching into the stratosphere. “Was it the line about a girl getting hot with the mafia boss's son out at the lake?”

Ben leaned toward me and whispered, “I don’t know what’s happening, but I think I need to sit down.”

“You are sitting,” I muttered.

“I need to sit deeper.”

Carol crossed her arms, eyes still locked on Gabe. “Say it. Admit it. You were reading it for fun. ”

Gabe’s mouth twitched. “The prose was passable.”

Thorne groaned with glee. He’s dead. We’re having roasted linebacker tonight.

Carol gasped like she’d just been personally assaulted by a thesaurus. "Passable?”

“I liked the line about her screaming his name while he made her?—”

“I'm going to kill you,” Carol snapped.

I stepped between them, hands raised. “Okay. This has been… enlightening. But maybe we don’t need to reenact your entire enemies-to-lovers subplot at my wedding?”

Carol was still glaring.

Gabe stood. “I need another drink.”

“You need a muzzle.” Carol hissed.

Ben nodded sagely. “Or a safe word.”

Carol spun on him so fast he dropped his drink.

“I take it back,” he said. “No talking.”

Gabe was already ordering another drink, and Carol turned on her heel and stormed off in the opposite direction, muttering something about passable prose and one day I’m writing you into a book as a roach.

I stared at the swaying string lights overhead and sighed.

Ella appeared beside me, eyebrows raised. “Everything okay?”

“Just the usual,” I said. “Gabe being a menace. Carol being Carol. Ben possibly developing a stress ulcer.”

She took my arm, smirking. “So… normal.”

I smiled and kissed her forehead. “God, I love our family.”

The moment I’d finished declaring my undying love for our twisted little family, the DJ’s voice came over the speaker with too much enthusiasm and way too much volume.

“Alright, folks, it’s time for the garter toss! Gentlemen, make your way to the dance floor!”

I turned toward Ella, a wicked grin on my face. She shook her head.

“Don’t make it weird,” she said, already backing away a step as I approached.

“Oh, sweetheart,” I grinned, “I am the weird.”

“You make one innuendo, and I’m calling Carol back over.”

I held up both hands like I was negotiating a hostage release. “Understood. No jokes about what’s under the dress.”

“Also, no teeth.”

“You wound me.”

She narrowed her eyes, then slowly lifted the hem of her gown and put one foot on the chair the DJ had pulled out like some kind of ritual sacrifice. The crowd whistled. Henry shouted something about keeping it PG, and Carol yelled, “I swear to God, if you use your teeth?—”

“I heard you,” I called back, crouching in front of Ella like a man about to perform open-heart surgery.

Her garter was pale gold lace, delicate as spun sugar.

I slid it off slowly and reverently, wishing I could keep it.

Then I turned to the dance floor. A cluster of guys had assembled: some groomsmen, a few brave friends, and Ben, who looked like he was praying he didn’t catch it, but also like he wanted to impress Carol. The duality of man.

Gabe, of course, was at the back of the group, drink in hand, very much Not Participating .

I grinned. Then I launched that sucker. High arc.

Good spiral. Straight out of the NFL playbook.

Born from muscle memory and instinct, Gabe caught it.

He stared at it as if it were roadkill. Laughter erupted.

Gabe held it up with two fingers, like it was a contaminated lab sample, and said, “Not it.”

Carol raised her glass from across the room. “Coward.”

Gabe smirked. “Felony prevention.”

Ella had doubled over laughing by now, and I took the moment to wrap an arm around her waist and pull her close.

“You know,” I murmured against her temple, “it’s possible we just cursed my brother with a romantic subplot.”

“Good,” she whispered back. “It’s time.”

Thorne purred inside me. The chaos has spoken.

The reception had begun to drift into that golden lull — that slow, honeyed part of the night when the music is softer, the shoes come off, and even the rowdiest guests are two drinks away from taking nap selfies on the nearest hay bale.

Ella was glowing, flushed from laughter, hair a little messy in the way I loved most—the way that meant she’d lived in the moment. Our moment.

She tossed the bouquet not long after the garter incident. It flew in a perfect arc and—of course—Carol caught it, purely out of reflex. She stared at the flowers in stunned betrayal, as if they'd personally violated her five-year plan.

Ben tried to high-five her. She handed him the bouquet and walked away.

And that was our cue.

I found Ella at the edge of the barn, her back to the lights, arms folded as she stared out at the moonlit field beyond. She heard me coming. I saw the way her shoulders softened the moment I was close.

“Too much?” she asked without turning.

“Never,” I said, wrapping my arms around her from behind.

She leaned back into me, warm and perfect. “The lights, the cake, your brother catching a garter—this whole night has been ridiculous.”

“And somehow still less dramatic than our first date.”

She laughed, low and sleepy. “Fair point.”