“No,” Alf responds at the exact moment the cop rips off his sunglasses and demands, “Now, who areyou?”
“Charlotte Beekman,” Randy offers up from the back of his rig.
I pull my shoulders back and harness the energy of Lawyer Charley when she’s in her burgundy pantsuit that’s tailored to perfection. “That’s right. Charlotte Beekman with Anderson & Gottlieb. I’m this man’s attorney.”
“Jesus Christ,” Ethan mutters under his breath. He grabs my arm with a grip that’s begging me not toLegally Blondehim all the way to jail.
I change tactics. “Look. You want us off the marathon route, and we’re on our way to a wedding—”
“Our wedding,” Ethan ad-libs.
I swivel my head toward his. Apparently we’re going for broke, the fake-engagement kind of broke. My eyes wander all around the freckles on his face and then skitter back to the men in front of us.
“Mm-hm.” I inhale through my nose. “We’re eloping in the Boundary Waters this weekend, but we’ve run into a little bad luck.”
He pulls me against his side and I dutifully lean into him like a woman desperately in love with Ethan Powell would. His morning scruff scratches against my cheek, and for a millisecond, I forget myself and enjoy the crackle that travels across my skin at the memory of our kiss.
I clear my throat and make myself stand a bit straighter. “Officer, if you could give me and my, um,husband-to-bea little help, it would mean the world to us.”
“A wedding present,” Ethan adds, his eyes twinkling.
I direct all my energy to keeping my lip twitch under control.
Officer Louderman places his Oakleys on his forehead and tilts his head toward the van’s sad front wheels. “Fine. But Randy’s brother is an idiot. I’ll have Randy take you to my guy a bit farther north. Tell him Billy sent you and you might get a deal on those tires.”
Ethan’s shoulders relax. “Thank you, Officer.”
He nods back at us.
“Congratulations,” Alf tells us once we’re hooked to the wrecker. “It’s a beautiful day for a wedding.”
•••
Randy hauls thethree of us and the van to a shop forty-five minutes north. Eventually, the road narrows through towering pine trees on either side as we enter the harbor village of Grand Marais, a vacation destination with a thriving art scene, bustling small businesses, and a coastal breeze that is as pleasant as it is hypnotic. It’s the kind of place you visit and make genuine plans to stay. You ask yourself whether you trulyneedto be within an hour’s drive of a Target or a Menards or even asupermarket. Maybe you could become the kind of person who valuesexperiencesoverthings.
I bet Ethan would thrive here.
When we pull in front of a darkened Brother’s and Son’s Tires and Auto Body, we’re greeted by aBe Back Latersign that hangs below an intricate stained-glass window. Randy swipes Ethan’s credit card through a chunky POS machine and unhooks the van.
“Kyle comes in around eight,” Randy calls out through the window as his tires crunch over the pebbled drive. Then the tow truck disappears into the distance, leaving us alone.
“Do you think Kyle is the brother or the son?” I ask Ethan.
We hop onto the hood of the van so our bodies face the shoreline, but both of our necks are craned in the direction of the empty building.
“Aren’t all brothers necessarily sons?” Ethan posits.
I peer at him in my peripheral vision, but his eyes are pinched shut. “What do you think happened to the father/brother who connects the two?”
“I’m not awake enough for your word problems, Beekman. We still have an hour before this place opens. Should we explore a little?” Ethan tilts his head toward the town.
I adjust the strap on the pricey leather crossbody cell phone case I bought in a different retail haze (separate from the light therapy mask and designer tote one) and briefly consider whether I might have a shopping problem. “I need to find food before we do anything.”
He twists his backpack around to his front and pulls out a Lärabar without looking at me. Which I find thoroughly annoying considering I’m painfully aware of whyI’mavoidinghis eyeline—the general humiliation, regret, and shame from kissing my best friend when he was trapped in a locked van with me—but I can’t for the life of me understand whyhe’savoidingmine.
I rip open the package. “You are an angel sent from heaven.”
“You always were easy to please,” he hums.
