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“I haven’t canceled all the vendors yet,” Hanna says. “We should keep whatever we can and only change what you two feel strongly about. Because that’s a really short time frame. Are you going to do evites?”
I hadn’t given it a millisecond of thought, but I nod. “And we’ll keep it on the small side, since we know it’s incredibly last minute.”
“You’ll all be at the wedding, right?” Hanna asks, panning her gaze around to all my brothers.
It’s not really a question. It’s pretty obvious that to make this convincing, we all have to play our parts.
Preston and Rhys say they can come back then, and Tucker grunts in a way that’s probably a yes.
“Kali, too!” Hanna tells Preston. “We miss her. Tell her she has to take work off.”
For no particular reason, my eyes are on Preston’s face when Hanna says that, so I see what almost no one else sees: all the color leaving his face.
“Uh, I’m pretty sure she has a conference then,” he says, voice strained. “Ninety percent sure.”
“I’ve got Friday morning free if you want to come in for your first meeting then,” Hanna says.
“I have to check with Ivy?—”
“Where is Ivy?” Hanna asks.
“She and I thought given how fast this all happened that it would be better for me to tell you all first before you meet her.”
“I would have thought she’d be here. Such an important day. Such a big party,” my sister needles.
“She didn’t want to overshadow Eloise’s big day,” I toss back.
“What a sweetheart,” Hanna says dryly.
It’s going to be a long month.
“And, uh, I need some help with something else,” I say.
Eyebrows rise.
“I need a really good proposal.”
12
Ivy
I’m eating breakfast the next morning—granola and milk—when Shane shows up at my front door. He’s wearing jeans, a soft sage-green T-shirt, and a pair of expensive-looking suede tennis shoes.
It’s not so much the clothes themselves, though, as the way they fit his strong, muscular body. He leans casually against one pillar of my porch, hands shoved into his pockets, and my mouth goes dry.
“Uh, hey?” I say.
“Sorry to just show up like this.” Although he doesn’t look sorry. He looks the way Shane Hott always looks, accustomed to getting his own way, comfortable in his own skin, at ease in the world. “But it occurred to me we should say as little in text as possible, so our texts don’t become something Weggers can use against me later.”
“Makes sense.” I don’t point out that he could have called, because I’m actually delighted to see him. Which I hate, to be honest. And perhaps because of that, I’m still lingering on my side of the door, not quite opening it all the way to him—like my front door is any kind of shield against Shane’s bigger-than-life Hottness.
“I thought we could plan the proposal.”
“Ohh,” I say. “Yeah. Okay. Come on in.”
He follows me inside. “Really cute place,” he says, looking around.
My house is a twelve-hundred-square-foot bungalow, cozy as a blanket. My couches were Craigslist specials, my rugs hand-me-downs from late relatives, my furniture garage- and estate-sale finds. I bought it with the last of my Bridge earnings, it’s all been assembled with love, and I adore every piece—but suddenly I’m self-conscious. I’m betting he lives in a ten-thousand-square-foot Hollywood mansion.
