Page 86 of Ballrooms & Blackmail

She smiles. “Me too.” Then she leans over and hugs me tightly. “I know you like to keep busy. I know you like to bake, but our wedding is going to be small—for obvious reasons—and I want you there as you, honey. Not worried about icing melting or food being hot. Just attending as the awesome woman who’s my friend.”

I blow out a shaky breath. “No fair.”

Her expression softens but her eyes dance. “You can stress bake all you want after the wedding.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Why not before?”

“Because I need to fit into my dress.”

I still.

Then we’re both laughing, and for a moment I’m not thinking about Thorn—much anyway. I’m happy to be with my friend, happy to be alive, happy to be part of a family that may not be blood-related, but is mine.

Briar stands, holds out her hand. “It’s time.”

“Ominous, much?”

“You know that delicious, sugary carbs are nothing but serious.”

My lips twitch. “You’re not wrong,” I tell her, looping my arm through hers and letting her guide me inside. Wedding preparations are underway—flower arrangements have been chosen, a menu selected, Jean-Michel has provided his wine and Chrissy’s cranky senior cat, Joan of Freaking Arc, is going to be the ring bearer while baby Mia is going to be the flower girl. Tiff is putting together an impromptu bachelorette party with the help of Rory, and Marie arranged for a getaway at one of Jean-Michel’s properties as a surprise (and safe) honeymoon.

Because Brooks and Briar are building their future.

I rub my hand over the ache in my chest, look out the windows, and take one last look at the gardens.

At the flowers reaching for sunlight.

At the paths winding effortlessly forward.

Then I close the door on my sadness, on my regrets, and follow Briar into the kitchen.

Toward cake.

Toward whatever comes next.

Toward whatever future I’ll build.

Even if Thorn Wilkenson is making that significantly more difficult than necessary.

Twenty-Seven

Thorn

Pascal is enjoying this.

I can see it in the subtle lift of his brow, the slight smirk that clings to his mouth.

I scowl at him as we sit in my office.

“What?” he asks as he reads through the packet of papers.

“Nothing,” I mutter, wondering if we’ll ever finish wading through the trail of shell companies.

“Sergio still texting?”

“No,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “He seems to have given up on the blackmail attempts.”

“Hmm.”