Mav’s attention slides to the table across from us before coming back to me. “But that’s not your girl.”
“No,” I say. “That is not Shay.” Fuck. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Can I take a picture? Would that be going too far?
“Well, score one for Team Easton. Does she know?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Holy shit, man. You’re gonna tell her, though, right?”
My jaw ticks. “I think I have to, but I doubt she’ll believe me.” She certainly didn’t appreciate it when I told her about Buttercup.
He hisses. “What a fucking mess.”
“No argument from me there.” They’re sliding into the same side of the booth now, but they’re all over each other. I drag a hand through my hair and blow out a breath. “Listen, you mind if we jet? I suddenly lost my appetite.”
“Sure. I understand.” Maven pulls a twenty from his wallet and throws it on the table to cover our coffees.
I stand and head toward the door, but after three steps, I turn around and go to George’s table.
He’s so absorbed with his company that he doesn’t even notice me scowling down at him. I clear my throat. “What do you—” He blinks at me. “Easton.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “This is Buttercup?”
The blonde frowns. “What are you talking about?” She looks to George. “Who is this?”
George shakes his head. “Someone I know from work.”
“Who’s Buttercup?”
I grunt. Jesus, how many women is he stringing along?
“Did you need something, Easton?”
I think through my options. I’m just a hair too civilized to punch him, though he definitely deserves it. “Nah. I’m good. Just wanted to let you know I’m here.” I pause a beat. “And I’m paying attention.”
His date arches a brow. “Who do you think you are to interrupt our meal like this?”
George smiles at me, unfazed when he should be horrified. “He thinks he’s a big shot just because he’s an athlete.”
Oh, fuck that. He realizes I’m going to tell Shay, right? “Shay deserves better than you,” I say.
Maven grabs my arm and tugs me toward the exit. “Come on, East. Let’s get out of here.”
Shay
Molly is the last person I expected to insist on a small wedding. I knew Brayden would be on board for anything she wanted, and I expected something elaborate.
Molly runs the new Jackson Brews Banquet Center and specializes in over-the-top, beautiful weddings. She’s so good at them, in fact, that I always assumed she’d have one of her own. But when Brayden proposed last fall and they started talking wedding plans, Molly made one thing very clear: she didn’t want all the fuss. All that mattered to her was having her mom and all of the Jacksons there. She wanted Noah to walk her down the aisle and my siblings standing beside them as they said their vows.
Upon hearing this, my mom burst into tears. It’s a good thing we aren’t a competitive bunch, because in that moment, Molly may have become Mom’s favorite.
Molly and Brayden decided to have the big day at our family’s cabin about thirty minutes outside of Jackson Harbor. At the time, I didn’t think anything of it. They were planning it for the spring on the tiny beach in front of the lake, and I was thinking of Molly in a white dress, of Brayden with that dumbstruck, loving look he’s had on his face since Molly moved back from New York. I was not thinking of Easton Connor being back in town. I wasn’t thinking of the house where we played Never Have I Ever and he snuck into my room after midnight to sleep next to me. I wasn’t thinking of New Year’s Eve.
Now I’m thinking of those things. Since he’s practically family, everyone assumes he’s coming. As twisted up as the idea makes me, I’d be disappointed in him if he didn’t.
“I like that one, Shayleigh,” Mom says.
We’re trying on bridesmaid dresses. Molly decided she didn’t want us all to match. She wants us to wear different spring colors in knee-length dresses of any style. I’ve realized since the minimal plans have been in motion that if I told Molly I wanted to show up in PJs, she probably wouldn’t bat an eye. All that matters to her is Brayden.
I look down at the dress my mom likes so much. It’s a warm peach strapless dress with a high waist and a poufy skirt that makes me think of 1950s swing dresses. It shows off my legs, toned from running and twice-weekly weights. I love my legs and I feel pretty in this, which is a plus. I have much more confidence than I did when I was a teenage girl in love with Easton, but feeling pretty still doesn’t come easily.
I look to Molly. “Do you like it?”
“You look amazing,” she says with a big smile.