“Wait,” I interrupt, holding up a hand, my dark red nails glinting in the sun and a dull ache starting to form behind my eyes. “Jesus fuck, Drake. Do you think you’re coming with me?”
He flashes a half-cocked, wholly smarmy grin. “Well, yeah. I got us two first-class tickets to Michigan.”
My eyes slip closed, and I bite back a groan. “Whatever gave you the idea you were invited?”
To his credit, or maybe not, he seems genuinely confused. “Your best friends are getting married. I’m trying to be supportive here. Making amends. All the garbage I should have done before. I told you this already in my texts. And I left a voice mail. And made a post on Instagram.”
I ignore the whole “garbage” comment, as if being a wedding date for someone who you supposedly love is the same as disposable. “And you thought now was the time?”
“What d’you mean, now? Hell, Lore, I’ve been at this for months. Years even.”
I scoff and roll my eyes. “Oh, sorry, were those vague social media posts that your publicist wrote supposed to be for my benefit or the benefit of your legions of rabid Colter fans?”
To his credit, he doesn’t hesitate—much. “Obviously yours. If you’d let me near you, I’d tell you to your face, but clearly”—he gestures at my crossed arms—“you’re still shutting me out.”
He takes a step closer, his scent all too familiar, and for a habanero-hot second, I’m tempted to suck more of him into my lungs to savor. Just one more hit for the road. But just as quickly, I catch a whiff of the familiar eau de heartache, disappointment, and Sorry, baby I would return the favor, but I’ve got an early morning in the studio. Can you maybe get yourself off tonight? I shake my head, pushing him away with my palm to his （unfortunately） firm chest. “I told you, Drake. It’s too late.”
“It’s never too late. I still love you. You still love me. This is real.”
I exhale in an irritated rush. “Well, that’s entirely debatable, but we’ll leave it for another time when I’m not at risk of missing my flight. Kindly fuck off, Drake.”
“Hey, Lorelai. Everything good? Ready to go?”
Huck.
Craig Boseman, or Huck, Huckleberry, Huck Finn, Huckleberry McSmartass, or whatever other derivative I can come up with, stands a few inches taller than his former partner. He’s long and lean, in well-worn jeans, classic Vans, and a black Johnny Cash tee, covered by a faded dove-gray corduroy blazer. Not a bulging bicep or flexed ab to be seen, but he still manages to make me breathless when he catches me off guard.
In my defense, he writes erotic poetry and wears reading glasses. You just know he’s the kind of man who excels at the art of cunnilingus. Well, okay, maybe you don’t know that from the blazer and Vans, but let me tell you, from one particularly memorable experience too many years ago … he is, and he does.
My inner thighs clench and I shake off the inappropriate thought. Friends—especially friends who have recently taken up sharing a duplex with thin walls—don’t think of other friends’ talented tongues curling along their—
I clear my throat and reach for my suitcase, closing the purple door behind me with a click, double-checking the lock. “Yep. I’m all set.” I look at Drake and sigh, steeling myself against the attractively wounded expression on his face.
“Look. I really don’t love you anymore and you’re delusional if you think you ever loved me.” I lift a shoulder, resigned. “If you had, you wouldn’t have walked away like you did when shit hit the fan.” Craig reaches for my suitcase handle and I let him have it.
I give Drake one last glance and take a deep breath before delivering the final blow. “There was a time when I couldn’t wait to go to a wedding with you. Our wedding, in case you’ve forgotten. But you backed out. Without bothering to tell me first. Instead, you ignored me and chose to air our business all over social media. That’s how little you thought of me and my feelings back then. You asked me to marry you, Drake, and didn’t even care enough to tell me you changed your mind.” I shake my head and swallow against the threat of emotion. He doesn’t deserve my tears. “I’ve moved on. Please let me go.”
We make it to Craig’s Outback and I’m pulling open the passenger door while he drops my suitcase in the trunk before Drake calls out. “Wait! Does this mean Boseman’s going with you?”
I meet Craig’s light blue eyes over the top of his car, and they crinkle kindly, as if to say “up to you,” and he ducks into the seat. I pause, contemplating the space where he used to be. That’s Craig for you. Never pushing, never forcing, never asking for more than I can give, never taking what isn’t his. If he and Drake were opposite each other in a Venn diagram, there would be zero overlap.
Except for that time they were the power duo of country music.
A movement behind me reminds me of where I’m at. “Go home, Drake,” I say over my shoulder. “You’re too late.” And I climb into the car, not willing to let him ruin this.
I have a wedding to get to.
3
LORELAI
MY BEST FRIEND’S WEDDINGS
Seven hours later, I’m inhaling a bone-deep breath of fresh late-summer North Woods air before pulling open the door at Lake Front Distillery in Le Croix, Michigan.
I’m met with the booming baritone of Kevin VonHause and a rush of cool, air-conditioned air the moment the door closes behind me. “Lorelai Jones in the house!” Kevin’s the towering owner of this fine establishment and the groom-to-be’s best man.
Conveniently, he’s also one hell of a bartender.
I clip along on high-heeled booties toward the gleaming bar that extends the length of the broad open space, headed for where Kevin is standing. I step up and have to perch on the footrail to reach him for a quick hug and a peck on his bristly cheek. We pull apart and he looks over his shoulder. “Aren’t you missing someone?”
Flashes of the men I left in Nashville burn behind my eyeballs. “Hell no,” I tell him. “These days I need a man like I need a burr in my ass.”
He barks out a laugh, raising two beefy hands, and without another word, he gets to work making me a cocktail. It’s easy to like this mountain of a man.
Truthfully, I’ve been too busy to worry about things like dating. I’ve gone so far as to download a dating app onto my phone, but not far enough to register and come up with a password. I’ve got a music career to reinvent after abject humiliation and unanimous public outcry. Do you realize how impossible it is to become a famous country starlet one time, let alone twice? I’d have better odds inhabiting Mars on some billionaire’s dick rocket.
I don’t say any of this to my bartender, though. I can’t. Everyone here is solidly Team Boseman and they haven’t even tried to be subtle about it. Especially after he came to my rescue with the whole rental thing. Truthfully, I get it. The man’s so fucking perfect he’s ruining my edgy comeback vibes and making me all soft and mushy in the middle. Thank Jesus for Drake and his complete lack of self-awareness or I’d be stuck writing sappy ballads （as it stands, this morning’s debacle proved just the thing）。