There’s a rustling sound, like she’s stepped away from the dough disaster and lowered her voice. “Why are you buttering me up like I’m a batch of croissants? What’s going on?”
I swallow, pacing across the kitchen floor as I try to figure out how to phrase it, but then I just say it. “I need you to come to Birchwood Springs next weekend. For my wedding.”
Silence. Then, “Excuse me?”
“It’s not a real wedding,” I rush to explain, squeezing my eyes shut like that’ll help me get the words out. “It’s a wedding of convenience. You know, a business arrangement. A temporary inconvenience. A?—”
“You’re getting conveniently-married?” she interrupts, her voice rising to what I’d call dangerously loud. “Gale, are you okay? Blink twice if you’ve been kidnapped. I told you this inheritance was fishy shit.”
I groan, rubbing at my temples. “I haven’t been kidnapped.”
“Are you in debt? Do you owe the mob money?”
“No.”
“Then why on earth are you getting married? Fake or otherwise?”
I flop onto one of the chairs at the breakfast nook, staring up at the high ceilings. “It’s . . . complicated.”
“Complicated?” she repeats. “Did Chase come back and threaten to auction you off to pay for the honeymoon suite you never used?”
I glare at nothing. “Don’t bring Chase to this conversation. He’s dead to me.”
“Fine.” She sighs heavily. “Explain.”
I take a deep breath and lay it out for her—the inheritance, the archaic clause, the deadline that’s barreling toward me like a freight train. I tell her about Maple Haven and the way my grandfather tried to make sure no woman would ever sit at the helm of his precious syrup empire. I tell her about Ledger Timberbridge, the infuriatingly smug jackass who somehow turned into my best option.
By the time I finish, Aiden’s quiet for so long that I pull the phone away from my ear to make sure she’s still there.
“So let me get this straight,” she finally says. “You’re inconveniently-marrying some guy named Ledger—whose name sounds fake, by the way—so you can inherit a maple syrup company?”
“That’s the gist of it, yeah.”
“And you want me to come to Birchwood Springs to help you plan the fake wedding next weekend?”
“This upcoming weekend,” I correct quickly. “But yes.”
She lets out a long, dramatic sigh. “Do you even know what you’re asking me? I’ve got dough-killer Tommy trying to reenactRockyin my kitchen and a boss breathing down my neck because she’s afraid I’m going to go solo before she finds someone better than me. And now you want me to drop everything and come save your ass from this bizarre turn of events? What happened to I’m rich and maybe I’ll buy you an industrial blender for your birthday?”
“Things changed,” I say. “A lot.”
“And you’re just calling me with this? I’m hurt. You should’ve called the moment you knew what was happening,” she chides me.
“Well, I’m calling now,” I say, hoping she doesn’t hold the grudge for long. “I’m marrying Italy guy if that helps.”
“What?” she screeches. “What do you mean Italy guy? Hot-abs? I’m-too-coward-to-stick-around-so-I-left-for-Tuscany guy?
“That one,” I say and tell her the rest of the story.
Aiden mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like, “Unbelievable,” but I know I’ve already won. “This shit only happens to you, Gale.”
“Aiden,” I say, instead of discussing my luck, “I really need you. This place . . . it doesn’t feel like home. And I can’t do this alone. I need my bestie.”
There’s another pause, and when she speaks again, her voice has lost its edge. “You’re really serious about this, huh?”
“Yeah,” I admit quietly. “I am.”
“Fine,” she huffs, and I can hear her smacking her hands against the counter like she’s already resigned herself to this. “I’ll come. But you owe me, Gale. Big time. I want unlimited access to that kitchen while I’m there, and you’re taste-testing everything I make. I don’t care if you don’t like salmon. You’ll eat whatever I make.”
