Page 12 of The Wedding Party

I decide I need to start drinking rather quickly or I’ll end up confronting each and every one of the groomsmen about who sent that box and what was inside.

Oliver’s closest friends, all members of his cigar club, are gathered at the building adjacent to the Stanley, known as the Lodge, for drinks. Once I’ve coordinated the weekend events with the hotel staff, I head in that direction to update Oliver on a few details about tomorrow night’s big party and events. The Lodge resembles a giant old-fashioned house. When I arrive, I find Josh, the best man, and Cade, a groomsman, on the porch beside a large white banister, sipping whisky and chatting.

Both men smile at me, and Josh waves me forward. Returning their smiles, I hurry up the wide steps, feeling blessed to quite like Josh and Cade, since they are, in fact, Oliver’s closest friends. At thirty-four, Josh is Oliver’s age and especially kind. He’s often in our company and seems oblivious to his young Leonardo DiCaprio–ish good looks and massive success as a corporate attorney at Phoenix Technology. Cade is nice enough as well, though a bit older, in his forties, and while not as good-looking, he sports an excess of arrogance. But then, aren’t all surgeons arrogant? My exposure says, oh yes, they are.

“Seen any ghosts yet?” I ask, completing my climb to join them.

“The ghosts of whisky past,” Josh indicates. “We’re about a bottle in so far.”

“Which is by design,” Cade adds. “It’s our way of being so damn mellow the ghosts won’t feel threatened.”

I snort. “Mellow? That’s not what I’ve heard about you two and whisky. There was that arm-wrestling incident.”

Josh laughs. “Oliver actually arm-wrestled the CEO of one of the largest banks in the country. And at a high-end cigar bar, no less.”

“At your prodding,” I remind him. “That could have gone badly. He could have made an enemy.”

“And yet, he didn’t,” Josh reminds me. “Now he’s investing in Oliver in all kinds of ways left and right.”

“He’s got a point,” Cade says.

“Speaking of Oliver,” I say, “where is he?”

“No idea,” Cade replies. “He was here and then just kind of disappeared.”

I eye Josh, who replies with, “What he said.”

“He went to his room to work,” Nick Ross, another groomsman, the CFO of some security company, calls out from a seat on the porch.

My fingers curl into my palm. Oliver promised me no work this weekend. Josh must read my reaction, offering me his version of comfort, his voice low and for my ears only, and Cade’s as he’s right here with us. “This deal he’s trying to close will set your kids up for life,” he says. “He’s looking out for your future.”

I have two thoughts. One: it seems odd to me that Josh doesn’t know that Oliver and I don’t want kids. Oliver and Josh are like brothers. And two: yes, Oliver wants to take care of me, but it’s unlike him to leave guests unattended. He’s not himself right now. He hasn’t been ever since that box arrived.

“I’m going to check on him,” I say. “Don’t forget the ghost tour tonight at ten.” With that, I turn away from the guys and begin tracking a path back to the main hotel. And I do so confused. Oliver and I already celebrated the success of his new acquisition over a week ago.

Chapter Ten

Oliver and I are in room 407, which is said to be haunted by a lord of some sort who used to own land here where the property sits. Apparently, he still feels he has a claim to ownership and likes to move things around and frustrate those staying in the room. I doubt we’ll actually have anything crazy happen to us in our room, or the hotel in general, but it would be nice to just be with Oliver and find the fun in all of this. There is a rich history here at this hotel, and Oliver loves history. I need to find out what’s going on with him once and for all and, if it’s really work stress, help him free himself from the responsibility.

I slide my keycard and open the door to find Oliver sitting at the desk, busy at work on his MacBook. “Hey,” I say, entering the room with a bottle of whisky that one of his buddies handed me downstairs. “Look what I have. Compliments of Trevor.”

Trevor is yet another member of Oliver’s cigar club and some sort of cable TV exec. Apparently, cigars and whisky go together, though I wouldn’t know or pretend to understand. That’s Oliver’s thing. I don’t particularly like either.

“That’s an expensive bottle,” Oliver says, shutting his MacBook and joining me in the center of the room to inspect its label. He’s in jeans and a polo shirt today, looking as handsome as he does in a suit, but no more relaxed. His shoulders are stiff, his energy tight. His hair is mussed up as if he’s been running his fingers through it.

“I’ll pour you a much-needed glass,” I offer.

“Great.” He runs fingers through his hair, adding to its disarray. “I do need it, actually.”

This admission offers me hope that he’ll really talk to me about whatever he’s struggling with. Our room isn’t fancy. The price to be in a haunted room was to give up luxury, but the fun is worth it, though our space is limited. So are the room’s resources—thus, I’m forced to grab a glass from the bathroom that I fill with ice and whisky. When I return to the main room, Oliver’s by the window, looking out at the mountains, and while his MacBook remains, for some reason I notice there was a file on the desk that isn’t there any longer. I have no idea why this stands out to me or why it bothers me.

I step to Oliver’s side and offer him the glass. “Thanks, babe,” he says, leaning in and giving me a peck on the mouth. “Did all of your ladies get in just fine?”

“They did. Lana brought an old friend. Would you believe we have a real FBI agent at our party?”

“No shit,” he says. “That’s interesting.” His surprise turns to a grimace. “Are we sure she’s a friend of Lana’s? I mean, how well do you even know Lana?”

I blink. “What? Why are you even asking that?”