It seemslike the Timberbridge name carries weight in Birchwood Springs. My brother Malerick—Sheriff Malerick Timberbridge, as he insists on reminding people when he’s on the phone—knows exactly how to use that weight to get things done. Or maybe he’s reminding everyone that Therese Smith was our mother and how much she loved us—even when we were a bunch of ungrateful pricks. Either way things are getting done.
I’m slouched in one of the armchairs in his apartment, watching as he types out an email with military precision. His laptop is open, and his phone’s been ringing incessantly for the past hour. He has some emergency, but honestly the only emergency is me trying to figure out why he called me—again.
It’s like my upcoming nuptials are his new job.
“How the hell did you pull this together in a day?” I ask, rubbing at the tension building in my neck. “You’re the sheriff of a small town. You’re not supposed to have these many connections.”
He doesn’t look up from the screen as he answers. “You’re not supposed to get married for business reasons either, but here we are.”
“You suggested I do it and she asked,” I say defensively.
“Which I appreciate, but as I explained yesterday, you could’ve eloped. A courthouse thing wouldn’t have worked,” he states. “We want the town to love the Timberbridge boys, not to say fuck them for being assholes—again.”
I grunt in response, but he’s not wrong.
Things are moving fast. Too fast. Teddy St. James and Fitz Everhart might’ve been the first strike. Deliveries are scheduled to start arriving on Thursday: flowers, decorations, and even security—because apparently, if I’m flying in half a professional hockey team, the Timberbridge wedding needs an exclusive guest list.
“I still don’t understand why I let you talk me into inviting my former teammates,” I grumble, sinking deeper into the chair. “This is too much for aninconvenientmarriage. And you’re lucky they’re off season or no one would’ve agreed to it.”
Mal finally looks up, a smug grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Like Keir said, this is a chance to make the Timberbridge boys look good.”
“Fuck looking good,” I mutter under my breath, but I know when to pick my battles.
Keir—our middle brother and the suit—isn’t technically wrong. Inviting my former teammates to the wedding adds polish, charm, and maybe a little distraction from the very real, very messy reason this wedding is happening in the first place.
Still, the thought of coordinating a damn charter flight to get a bunch of rowdy athletes here—renting out the only inn in town for two days so they have a place to crash—feels completely insane. It’s a good thing that the wedding will take place at the Doherty Mansion.
“This is going to be a circus,” I say, dragging a hand through my hair.
Mal shrugs, looking annoyingly pleased with himself. “Maybe, but it’ll be a classy circus. The inn’s handled, the security team is in place, and Teddy St. James is an absolute godsend. You’ll look like the picture-perfect groom.”
“Picture-perfect, huh?” I let out a dry laugh. “The question is how did you get all these people to work for you so fast?”
He shrugs. “When you work for important people, you make connections and try to collect favors for the future.”
Somehow that sounds like a lie, but I don’t push him. Hopefully, he’s not some dirty cop who’s been working for the wrong people and now my wedding is tainted with blood money. The less I know and all that shit.
He closes his laptop and levels me with a look. “What’s the alternative, Ledger? You botch this wedding, people start asking questions. Galeana loses the inheritance, Maple Haven collapses, and suddenly everyone’s blaming the Timberbridge name for killing a family legacy. You might not care about looking good, but we can’t afford to look bad.”
I want to argue, but I don’t have a good rebuttal. He’s right. I hate that he’s right, but I’ve been around long enough to know how small-town whispers can spiral into full-blown scandals.
“What now?” I ask, eyeing his phone as it buzzes again.
“Now,” he says, standing and stretching, “we get you the rings.”
I blink at him. “Rings?”
“What part of ‘this needs to look fucking real’ did you miss?”
Before I can argue, he opens the door and a man I don’t recognize walks in, carrying a black velvet case in one hand and a leather satchel in the other. He’s older, silver-haired but sharp-eyed, dressed in a crisp navy suit that looks custom.
“Ledger, meet Mr. Gallagher,” Mal says, gesturing to the man. “He’s one of the best custom jewelers in the country.”
Mr. Gallagher nods politely, setting his case on the coffee table and clicking it open with a soft snap. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Timberbridge. I’ve brought a selection of unique pieces, but we can also discuss custom designs if you’d prefer something specific.”
I stare at Mal. “You brought a jeweler here?”
“You’re welcome,” he replies, unbothered. “Now pick something before you ruin this whole wedding. Obviously, you’ll be paying for it.”
