Page 4 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Biker

But first, I needed to escape. The cabin I'd rented sat ten minutes outside town, far enough from Broken Bend's Main Street to avoid running into anyone I'd gone to high school with. I dumped my bags inside and pulled out the emergency wine I'd packed for a post-wedding celebration.

One glass turned into two.

I'd spent eighteen months learning to take up space again. One weekend with James shouldn't undo that. But I needed backup anyway.

I scrolled through my contacts, my vision slightly blurred from the wine. Everett would come if I asked. He'd position himself between me and James at every event, run interference during uncomfortable conversations, and know how to handle things while I was pretending to be fine.

I found his name and tapped. Voice-to-text seemed easier than typing.

"I need you to come to Lyra's wedding as my plus-one. This is a genuine family emergency because James is the best man and apparently everyone decided I didn't need to know. Your responsibilities will include keeping him away from me, stopping me from drunk-crying in public, dancing with me at least once, and reminding me that having the maid of honor murder the best man would ruin Lyra's wedding. Please say yes."

I sent it before I could second-guess myself.

Then I added… Wear the black suit. You look good in that one.

His response came within thirty seconds.

Everett: What time do you need me?

Relief crashed through my chest. I typed out the address and the rehearsal start time, my fingers feeling fat and clumsy on the screen.

Everett: I’ll be there.

I set the phone down and finished my wine, already feeling better.

With my older brother by my side, I’d definitely be able to survive a wedding weekend with James Keller.

CHAPTER 2

GRIM

I stared at my phone in the quiet garage, reading Hannah's messages for what had to be the fifteenth time since last night.

Hannah: I need you to come to Lyra's wedding as my plus-one.

Hannah: Wear the black suit. You look good in that one.

That last message was the problem. Hannah noticed my suit.

I remembered exactly when she'd seen me in it. Last Christmas, I’d dressed up for Mama Mae's annual dinner. Hannah had arrived late, her cheeks pink from the cold, wearing a green sweater that made her eyes look more gold than brown. She'd stopped in front of me, tilted her head, and said, "You clean up scary good."

I'd told her not to get used to it.

She'd laughed and stolen the roll off my plate.

At the time, I'd assumed she was just being friendly. That's who she was… warm and easy and generous with her smiles.

Now I wondered if I'd misread her.

She'd probably just invited me because she needed someone intimidating enough to keep her ex away. Nothing complicated. But that explanation didn't account for the comment about my suit.

I set my phone facedown and went back to the Harley on the lift. The carburetor rebuild should've held my attention. Problems with machines had identifiable causes. I figured out what was wrong, fixed it, and moved on. But this time, work didn’t distract me.

I kept checking my phone even though it didn’t ping with a new message, and I was pissed at myself for doing it. Usually, I could keep myself from spending too much time thinking about Hannah.

But my mind drifted to the time she came home from college that first summer looking all grown up. She’d walked into the garage looking for Everett, leaned over my workbench, stolen my soda, and smiled at me like she had every right to it. I'd spent the rest of the afternoon trying unsuccessfully to ignore her.

Since then, I'd kept my distance.