Page 27 of Unmanageable

I drop down to my knees, right into the dust of the bridal suite floor, and pull a dramatic, horrified face. “Wait, did you say cactus bugs? Hold on, let me use my special legal powers to evict them. Ahem. Attention all bugs, you are trespassing on Princess Sophie’s royal tulle, and you have exactly three seconds to vacate the premises!”

I tickle her ribs just enough to make her giggle and forget the scratching, then give her nose a playful, grounding boop with my index finger. “There. Eviction notice served. Do they still bite, or did my agent voice scare them away?”

“They’re gone,” she giggles, finally standing still as I smooth down the scratchy tulle lining with my thumb so it won’t rub against her bare skin.

I stand up, smoothing my own dress over my hips and taking a breath. I offer her a small, reassuring smile. “There. You look like an absolute princess. Go find your mother and tell her you’re ready to steal the show.”

I check my reflection in a nearby gilded mirror as she runs away.

My red hair is pinned up in a way that looks effortless but actually required half a bottle of extra-hold spray and three separate mental breakdowns in the bridal suite bathroom.

I look amazing, if I do say so myself.

I also look like I’m about to watch my best friend walk away from our us-against-the-world pact and into the arms of a man who literally spends his life getting hit by frozen rubber disks for fun.

Or at least he did, before he decided to take this permanent vacation from reality.

“Scottie! They’re lining up! Move your gorgeous ass!” Jenna’s voice echoes from the stone patio.

“I’m coming!”

I gather my skirt and stride out.

The back lawn of the estate is a goddamn Pinterest board come to life. Rows of pristine white wooden chairs are set up in a perfect arc facing the stone altar, decorated with overflowing arrangements of white roses and eucalyptus.

Ivy is at the very back, hidden behind a tall floral screen with her father.

I catch a glimpse of her through the slats—the intricate lace, the soft glow of her veil, the sheer, breathtaking Ivy-ness of it all—and my throat suddenly feels like I’ve swallowed a handful of dry sand.

“You’re late,” a deep, gratingly familiar voice says.

“I was saving a child from a wardrobe malfunction, Finnian,” I whisper, stepping into my place in front of him, keeping my eyes locked straight ahead so the wedding coordinator doesn’t assassinate me with her clipboard. “It’s called being a hero. You should try it sometime.”

“I’m the Best Man, Scottie. My only job today is to hold the ring and make sure Callahan doesn’t pass out and crack his skull on the flagstones. I’m currently two-for-two. It’s a delicate balance of hydration and emotional support.”

I look back over my shoulder, and my heart does a weird, traitorous little jump.

Cash is wearing a black tuxedo that should probably be illegal in at least forty-eight states. The way the fabric pulls across his shoulders makes me want to find a reason to scream.

“Your tie is crooked,” I lie.

He doesn’t reach for the silk bow. Instead, he steps half an inch closer, his chest brushing my bare shoulder blade where the dress dips low.

“Liar,” he murmurs. “You just wanted me to look at you.”

“I have three hundred people looking at me, O’Connell. I think I’m good on the ego boost.”

“Yeah, but I’m the only one who knows you’re wearing those leopard print Spanx under that dress,” he murmurs, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face.

I freeze. “I am not—okay, maybe I am, but how do you even know that?”

“I never reveal my sources,” he says, his eyes dancing with amusement.

“I hate you so much.”

“Keep saying that, Sharky.” He tilts his head. “Maybe one day it’ll actually be true.”

The wedding coordinator, a woman with a high-tech headset and the eyes of a hawk, signals me. Go.