1
Beth
The shrimp is excellent. Buttery, well-seasoned, probably worth whatever obscene amount Harper paid per head for this catering.
"—and I told her, honestly, the hydrangeas were a better choice, but you know how brides get about peonies."
I freeze mid-chew.
Mrs. Patterson is standing in front of me, champagne flute in hand, eyebrows raised in that waiting-for-a-response way that means I've missed my cue.
I swallow a bit too fast and reach for my water on the buffet table.
"Absolutely," I manage. "Hydrangeas are... very bridal."
This is not a take. It's barely a sentence. But Mrs. Patterson beams at the response.
"Exactly! Especially when—oh, there's Dorothy, I absolutely need to catch her before she leaves—"
And she's gone. Mid-sentence.
I stand there for a second, blinking. I had a whole thing about stem length queued up, but I guess she won't be needing my professional opinion.
I sigh.
I'm on the sixth version of the same conversation tonight anyway. The topics rotate—flowers, the venue, howgorgeousthe sunset looks over Lake Vienne—but the structure is always the same: small talk, and the inevitable sidelong glance at my ringless finger. At least we didn't get to that part this time.
But enough complaining, tonight is not about me.
It's about Harper and Ben. And I'm happy to report their engagement party is in full swing. Champagne is flowing. Across the venue, Harper's dad is clinking a fork against his glass, gearing up for what I can only assume will be an extensively researched toast about the couple's first meeting.
The party's a hit. My best friend really outdid herself.
"Still guarding the buffet?"
Speak of the bride. Harper appears beside me, and for a second I just stare. She’s in an ivory dress with her golden-brown hair down in loose waves, wearing the kind of smile you’d see in a toothpaste commercial.
She's radiant.
And I'm genuinely, completely happy for her. Even if a tiny, petty gremlin in my brain whispers it's cosmically unfair for one person to getthatmuch distribution of good fortune.
But that's the gremlin talking, and we don't listen to it.
"You know you're allowed to mingle, right? You know, with other humans," she continues, her warm amber eyes shining.
"Mingle? At aparty?" I press a hand to my chest, scandalized. "Bold suggestion for your maid of honor, who is clearly very busy protecting your sustenance from potential party crashers."
"We're at a private venue, Beth," she puffs. "There's literally a guy with a clipboard at the door."
"The shrimp isthatgood. Word gets around. Clipboard guy can be bribed."
She laughs and gives me warm look. The one she's been giving me since we met two years ago, when I showed up in Lakeview trailing an alpha I was stupid in love with and a mighty collection of houseplants I couldn't bring myself to leave behind.
Harper was the first person who actually talked to me. Notatme, the way most of the town did.
It's hard to explain how we clicked instantly. Sometimes you meet someone and it feels like you've known them your entire life, or maybe like youshouldhave known them, and you're just catching up on lost time.
Harper's one of those.
