Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Mira: I’ve coordinated with Cathy on snacks for everyone while we set up on Friday, and she’s handling the food for the reception.
Me: Nettie told me this morning that she still hadn’t confirmed a pickup time with Cookie’s Cakes. Cookie happened to be at the market this morning, and she said we can get the cake around 4:00 on Friday. I can totally grab that if you want me to.
Nettie: Thank you!! Love you! Can you take it to Mira’s? I already paid for it, by the way.
Audrey: I’m paying you back! What did it cost?
Nettie: It was free. Weird, right?
Audrey: Nettie … I’ll figure it out and get you the money.
Me: Yeah, I’ll take it over there. Who’s making sure it gets to Audrey’s for the reception?
Mira: Cathy, Lolly, and some of Lolly’s friends. They’ve taken over everything food-related.
Astrid: I think your grandma and her friends just want to see Hartley in a tux.
I laugh, because Astrid is probably right. Lolly does have a bit of a crush on Hartley.
Mira: There is zero doubt. Oh, and Markie—she found out about Jory. So be expecting a call.
Me:
Mira: I’d prepare to bring him to Sunday dinner.
Me: I’m not ready for this.
Mira: At least she didn’t make you get married to get your inheritance.
Me: OH, PLEASE. Don’t even act like that was an inconvenience.
Mira: It was still unethical.
Gianna: And you’re still married to a fucking cowboy. Nobody wants to hear you whine.
Audrey: She didn’t mean that as harshly as it sounds, Mira.
Gianna: No, I did.
Astrid: Trying to get you all to cooperate is like trying to herd a bunch of caffeinated kittens.
I can imagine Astrid staring at the ceiling, daydreaming about strangling us. The thought makes me laugh.
I toss out my coffee from this morning and shut down my computer.
Gianna: I sent the DJ a playlist of songs that I want him to use for the reception … including “Shoop” for Hartley, Mira.
Mira: Someone better get some alcohol in him.
Gianna: I’ll volunteer Drake for that job.
I gather the rest of my things and toss them in my bag as I watch my friends go back and forth. The way they show up for each other, and me, fills my cold, black heart with an almost unsettling warmth. It’s scary, and it reminds me of how I feel when I’m with Jory.
A smile touches my lips immediately as what feels like a cozy blanket slips around me.
I can’t tell if he was sent by God or an agent of the devil. Because there’s no doubt that he’s the last unicorn, the man on par with my daddy and Gray and Brooks. He’s protective and kind, thoughtful and honorable. And the things he can do with his tongue …
But I can’t keep him. He might be a one-in-a-million, but he’s not mine. I just get to experience him for a few more weeks, and then he’ll gallop off into the sunset.
It’s a knife to the chest, the truth stealing away my breath as I imagine what it will feel like to say goodbye and never see him again. But that day is coming. And if I pretend it’s not, it’ll fuck me up even harder when it does.
I shut off the light and close the door, hitting my voicemail button as I walk out.
“Hey, honey, it’s Lolly. Just reminding you that your hind end better be at my house for Sunday dinner. And that stud that you’ve been seeing—which I had to hear about at the nursing home yesterday, and we will be discussing that at a later time—had best be with you. And so should his son because apparently, that’s a thing too. Dinner with them is not a suggestion, Markie. Love you. Bye.”
There’s no way of getting around that.
“I need to enjoy Jory while I have him,” I whisper as I step into the parking lot. “And warn him about my five-foot-nothing grandma.”
I grin. Or not.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
Markie
I flip on my turn signal and wait at the stop sign for a van to pass.
“Hello?” Miles says. He must know it’s me because he’s already distracted.
“Hey, Miles,” I say, at least pretending to sound like I want to talk to him. “How are ya?”
“What’s up?”
What’s up? I roll my eyes. “Okay, I’ll cut to the chase. For some reason, your rental house’s tax bill is being sent to my address. To you, not me, but you at my address.”
“Yeah,” he says, his voice distant. “I know.”
“Well, what do you want me to do with it?” I feel like I’m talking to a toddler. “Are you just paying it online anyway, or do you want me to mail it to you?”
He groans, as if this conversation is the most grating thing in his life—like I’m calling him to waste his time. A long sigh slips through the line as I turn toward the park.