The Worst Wedding Date

Laney takes a million hours in the shower, and when she finally emerges, she’s in shorts and a tank top.

No bra.

And the shorts are short, which show off the slender legs hiding under her ass.

I’m staring at her ass—swear to god, even her ass is sophisticated—as she heads to the main door of my suite, opens it, and pulls Sabrina Sullivan inside.

If Emma’s the smart one of the trio they formed when Em skipped second grade and joined us in third grade when the rest of us were eight, Delaney’s the perfect one, and Sabrina’s the green-eyed, red-haired fun one.

Sabrina’s also the biggest gossip in all of Snaggletooth Creek.

She knows things she shouldn’t.

But she can also keep a secret. Most of the time. Unless it’s beneficial for her to not keep the secret.

Which is what has me on edge as she surveys me with a cool glance. “Theo. Lovely to see you and your underwear.”

I have a babysitter, and now I have the town gossip way too close to my kittens.

I’m in paradise and it fucking sucks. “Sabrina. Missed you at the pool.”

Her nose lifts a quarter-inch in the air. “I was having my own fun.”

Yep.

She’s still pissed at me.

She’ll get over it. Or she won’t. But since helping with her problem would make bigger problems for me, she’s gonna have to find another solution.

“We’re going out for a little dinner,” Laney says, clearly avoiding looking at me and my underwear. “Back in a bit.” She gives me a finger wave, grabs Sabrina, and the two of them slip out the door.

I give it a minute, head to the door, and look out the peephole.

Yep.

They’re whispering right outside.

Perfect.

I leap into action. Have to hide my recording equipment under the bed. Shove my knitting under my underwear and swim trunks in my duffel bag. Unplug my computer and stash it behind the wedding gift that Chandler will hate and Emma will laugh and laugh and laugh over.

And then I peek out the peephole again.

The women are still there.

I could leave off the deck on the ocean side of the bungalow, but that would put the kittens at risk of discovery when Laney goes snooping, and right now, I don’t have a better place to keep them or a way to get them there without being spotted and questioned by my guard at the front door.

I’m trapped.

I hate feeling trapped.

Hate. It.

Reminds me of school.

Rather be back at the pool. Hanging out. Drinking tropical drinks. Flirting with a few ladies. Eating fish.

Eating.

Just eating.

But instead of wallowing in self-pity, I indulge in kitten therapy. Miss Doodles—yes, that’s mama cat, and no, I have no regrets about her name—isn’t as hostile as she could be, but she’s still a scratch risk while she’s being protective of her kittens, which I’m guessing are about a month old. Eyes are open. Ears are up. They’re playing with each other. Using the litter box. Attacking the toys I picked up yesterday after I found them.

And still nursing off of Miss Doodles, whom I’m working to fully win over.

If I could move in here and close the kittens inside the ginormous bathroom in this primary bedroom, I would. But I can’t.

This bedroom is an open-concept suite. A half-wall separates the bed from the tub. Two sinks are opposite the wide shower, and the closet has no door. I’d have to trap them in the throne room, and I’m not doing that to the kittens. And putting them in the other bedroom wasn’t an option. Not when cleaning up their messes requires access to water.

The kittens have clearly had an eventful day exploring in here. It’s not long before they get tired of me and pile on each other to sleep next to their mama, so I leave them to rest. I’m back in the main living area flipping through channels between sit-ups and push-ups and burpees—never have sat still well—feeling more like myself, more like I can handle being babysat, when Delaney lets herself back into the room. I brace for impact, waiting for her to freak out on me over my side hustle since I’m assuming Sabrina would’ve told her how best to manipulate me into behaving, but she doesn’t say a word.

Just leans against the door and looks at me like she’s tired and doesn’t want to be here.

I’m not a sigher. Prefer to spend my time and energy living, having fun, building up everyone around me the way my mom used to build me up instead of grumbling.

But a weighty sigh leaks out of me right now.

“Take the bedroom,” I grunt.

“I don’t mind sleeping on—”

“Take. The fucking. Bedroom.” She has a bigger job than I do this week. Not only is she in the wedding, but she has to make sure Chandler isn’t pissed at me for breathing.

That’s a Chandler problem.

Not a me problem.

I know he’s not pissed that I’m breathing. He’s pissed for other reasons.

But no matter why Chandler needs a buffer from me, Emma thinks he does, and Emma thinks Laney’s the person for the job. So Laney should have a real bed.

And that’s why I’m staring down the Tooth’s original Little Miss Perfect and giving up the fight against having a babysitter.

To make my sister happy.

No matter how pissed I am that I went from being my normal happy-go-lucky, mischief-loving self an hour ago to being a problem who needs a solution in the form of Delaney Kingston as my babysitter now.

This is so much like high school I want to check the date on my phone to make sure I haven’t been sucked into a time machine. And I don’t want to talk about what it’s doing to my mental health.

Her whole body sags, and she glances down at her own bare feet before looking up to meet my gaze again. “Thank you. We can trade off. I don’t mind. I can—”

“Stop at thank you next time.” Fuck, I hate being grumpy. But when it comes to Laney, there’s rarely another way.

Call it self-preservation.

She eyes me for way too long, then looks way too long again at the closed door to the other bedroom.

“Okay,” she finally says. “Thank you. I’ll be quiet when I get up in the morning. If you want me to bring something in for breakfast—”

“Go to bed, Laney.”

Thank fuck, she listens.

As soon as the bedroom door closes behind her, I poke my head out of the bungalow.

Sabrina lifts a single brow at me. She’s standing at the edge of the porch like she has Theo radar, arms crossed, taller than genetics made her thanks to her chunky sandals.

Don’t take on a five-foot-two redhead who knows all the dirt on you.

Just don’t do it.

“Hey, Sabrina.” I grin at her like I’m not agitated as fuck over how far down the toilet this day has been flushed. “Like your shoes. That flower between your toes is a nice touch for the tropics.”

“If you’re going to sneak out, you should put on pants first.” She snaps a quick photo of me, then pockets her phone. Blackmail material. Awesome. “Emma would appreciate it.”

I like Sabrina.

She never judged me for being a crappy student. Occasionally has a drink with me. Sometimes slips a little hint about who I should or shouldn’t piss off or help out.

You want to know what’s going on in the Tooth, she’s your person. Provided she deems you worthy of the information.

And right now, I want more information. Because the bomb she dropped on me yesterday is still sitting heavy, even if I have no intention of being the one to bail her out.

Plenty of people around town would do what she asked me to do.

For instance— “Why didn’t you ask Laney what you asked me?”

“Reconsidering?”

“Nobody’s giving me a loan to hand over to you and you know it.”

“You don’t need a loan, and you know it.”

I shrug.

While she’s not wrong—my side hustle brings in a pretty penny—I don’t like that she knows it.

And she probably doesn’t like that I have dirt on her now.

Not that I’d use it. That’s not my thing.

Won’t catch me holding it over her that Bean & Nugget is overextended after expanding into neighboring communities that weren’t as interested in Snaggletooth Creek coffee. Or that they’re two years behind on taxes. Or that they’re at risk of shutting down.

Sabrina wants help bailing the shop out.

And she came to me.

Wonder if she knows I’m paying for the wedding this week too. At Chandler’s request. Which I doubt Emma knows.

And yeah, his damn pride over that is the reason I have a babysitter and he doesn’t. Working hard to not be pissed about that.

Not there yet.

But I’m not refusing to help Sabrina because I’m a dick, or because I want Bean & Nugget to fail.

I know she can get the money. She has friends like Laney, whose family could bail out the café without hardly blinking. Kingston Photo Gifts has done fucking awesome for themselves.

The Kingstons might not be my favorite people in the world, but I can’t deny they’ve been successful, and they’ve done a lot of good things for the town and the people in it.

And they’re not the only people who could afford to help Bean & Nugget.

Much as I love my hometown and the people in it, I don’t want them knowing anything about my side hustle or what it’s done for me. The minute people find out you got yourself something of a windfall, it’s no longer let’s go hang pickles off the tree in the park and see how long it takes people to figure out it was us.

Then, it’s hey, wanna get a box at the Avs game? Or you need a financial planner, because I’d love to help you make your money make more money for you. Or yo, Theo, we should hit Vegas and see if we can get into the high-roller rooms. Or, can I borrow a fuckton of cash because my family’s café shouldn’t have expanded to more locations that we can’t support and now we’re in debt up to our eyeballs?

Add in how I make my money with my side hustle, and there are even bigger problems.

I spent the first twenty or so years of my life as the problem child of Snaggletooth Creek before I found where I fit and what I love. Now, when I hit a bar with the triplets, I know they’re with me because they like hanging with me, not because they’re hoping I’ll pick up the tab on some high-end whiskey.

When I’m on a job with the construction crew I’ve worked with for about five years now, my coworkers aren’t nice to me because they’re hoping I’ll drop off random sacks of money outside their house at Christmas, and the boss doesn’t ask my opinion because he’s hoping I’ll buy out the owner or give him tips on how he can get himself a side hustle to make him some dough too.

I don’t keep my day job as a cover. I keep it because I like it. It makes a difference in the community.

I make a difference in the community.

Having something physical to do where I’m improving something around town matters to me. Makes me feel good.

And I do care that Bean & Nugget is in trouble.

It affects Emma. It affects her friends. It affects the whole town.

“Why didn’t you ask Laney?” I repeat.

Sabrina sighs and rubs her palms into her eye sockets. “Already did.”

“You know your lip does this funny thing every time you lie?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

It doesn’t. But I’m not telling her what her actual tell is. And she is definitely lying. “Can’t help you if you don’t tell me.”

“You’re not going to help me anyway. Even though it would be helping Emma too.”

“If Emma wanted my help, she’d ask for it herself.”

Sabrina pulls another face and looks off toward the lights of the other bungalows glowing in the darkness down the way.

I bite my tongue to keep from asking if Emma knows.

She knows Chandler.

She knows what she’s getting herself into. Says all the time that they don’t keep secrets. Which means she probably doesn’t want to tell me because she knows I don’t like him, no matter how much I try to hide it. Or, if he’s keeping secrets from her, I’m still the bad guy if I let it slip.

Just when I think Sabrina’s gonna mutter something about finding someone else to loan her the money to get Bean & Nugget back in the black, she makes eye contact with me and scowls. “I can’t ask Laney because my family won’t take things from her family. That’s all you need to know. But if I have the cash to save the company, I can buy it off of Chandler and fix this.”

My dad runs a taxidermy empire that’s grown in the digital age, much to Emma’s credit for getting Dad on the internet and managing his sales and advertising. But it doesn’t have the same impact in the community as Bean & Nugget.

If Rocky Roadkill went under, no one would care. They’ve never really cared. Why would they?

But if Bean & Nugget goes under, the Tooth loses one of its primary hangouts. A bunch of people lose their jobs. Em would deal with the stress since Chandler would be dealing with it, even if she can support herself with her own accounting business.

She can support him too.

But she can’t dig the café out from its debt. She doesn’t have that kind of cash.

“We have maybe two months, Theo,” Sabrina says. “Think of the wedding gift this would be to Emma.”

And the gift it would be for Sabrina too. It’s her life, even though her mom sold her share in the café to Chandler’s parents so she could send Sabrina to college. The triplets’ parents sold their share to Chandler’s parents too. And they handed the reins to him not long after Grandma Sullivan passed away.

“If Emma wanted my help—” I start.

“She wouldn’t ask you for it, because she knows you don’t want anyone to know you can afford it, she knows you don’t want people knowing why you can afford it, and she knows how much Chandler would hate knowing you’re the reason he’s no longer in debt.”

I feel like I’m about to crawl out of my skin.

If Bean & Nugget’s time came to an end, some other enterprising person in Snaggletooth Creek would open a new shop.

We wouldn’t be without coffee. People would get jobs back. There’d be a new kind of hangout.

Some people hate change.

I love it. It has a scent of possibility. Of surprises. Of fun.

But I don’t like knowing that change hurts in the middle of it. Especially when it could hurt my sister.

And I don’t like feeling trapped and blackmailed.

One more checkmark in why I don’t want people knowing my bank account—the one not kept at the Tooth’s local bank—is as large as it is.

“You gonna sit out here all night?” I ask Sabrina.

“For Emma and Laney? Yep. Also, I scattered broken glass on the ground under your porch on the other side, so if you’re thinking of going out the back way, I’d advise you to reconsider.”

I know she knows that I know she’s lying, but I also know if I leave here and run into Chandler and anything goes wrong again, she’ll probably do worse. I grunt a noncommittal noise and turn back to my bungalow door.

I can handle being trapped inside for one night, even if it makes me testy as hell.

Chandler will get his head out of his ass for Emma’s sake—much as I don’t like him, I can admit that he treats my sister right and gets along with me for her sake too—and tomorrow will be fine.

“And go easy on Laney,” she adds softly. “She will fix anything to make sure Emma has the wedding of her dreams. It’ll be easier on everyone if you just avoid Chandler until after the wedding. No matter how unfair it is that you don’t get to enjoy this week the way you should.”

Hell. Does she know I paid for the wedding too?

“Do not tell Emma,” I say.

She scowls, but she doesn’t tell me I can buy her silence by saving her family’s café.

Two points to Sabrina. We might stay friends beyond this week after all. And not because she’s borderline blackmailing me for money.

“And I’ll think about it,” I mutter.

Two months.

I don’t have to decide today.

The café has two months. Emma can get back from her honeymoon. We can sit down and talk. Clear the air. I can ask her what she wants me to do.

How to do whatever she wants me to do.

Or if she wants me to do nothing at all.

I tell Sabrina goodnight and let myself back into the bungalow. Both bedroom doors are still closed. The balcony doors off the living room are open though, letting in the sound of the surf and the scent of the ocean through the screens.

Not a bad way to sleep.

And I’m honestly ready for sleep.

Run hard during the day.

Crash hard at night.

It’s crash time.

I head to the couch and toss the cushions aside to pull out the hide-a-bed.

Or try to.

I get the thing halfway out, and it sticks.

Totally, completely frozen.

I tug.

It doesn’t move.

Tug again.

Still doesn’t move.

It’s just hanging out, sticking out of the couch at a forty-five-degree angle.

So I push it back in, except that doesn’t work either.

Try unfolding the lower half of the bed.

No dice.

No matter how I push, pull, tug, lift, or do anything else, the damn thing will not move.

“Are you kidding me?” I mutter to it.

I don’t go looking for trouble.

I don’t.

Not anymore.

But it’s apparently finding me this week in all kinds of inconvenient places.

Mama cat meows loudly inside the primary bedroom.

“You’re right, Miss Doodles,” I answer, knowing it’s not an invitation from the cats to join them. They’d scratch me all to hell, Emma would notice, Laney would notice, Laney would turn me in for the cats, and then everything will go to hell. Better to let them decide they like me before risking them eating my face off in the middle of the night. “I am paying for this place.”

Mind made up.

I have three beds in this suite, and I’m sleeping in one of them.

No matter how much it’s going to suck.