Page 91 of Filthy Twisted Devil

I laughed and took a screenshot of it, because of course Brinley never asked me to be her maid of honor. She didn't ask because it wasn't a question. It's how we both knew it would be. If I ever got married, she would be my maid of honor, too.

That night, a massive bouquet of peonies appeared at my door with a bottle of my favorite red wine. There wasn’t a card because Brinley didn’t need to send me one. We have the almost-psychic ability to skip parts of conversations, because we know what the other one is thinking. We’ve been doing it since we were ten.

I miss how uncomplicated our relationship used to be. I hate that we went from “As my maid of honor” to “Thanks. I’ll review soon.”

The worst part is that I did the math—I always do the math—and it doesn’t balance. Whatever Luke and I are becoming, I paid for it with fourteen texts and three voice notes and a laugh across a kitchen counter. Nobody warns you that falling in love can send the bill to your best friend.

It's my own fault because I kept things from her, even when she asked me for honesty. I built the barrier between us all by myself.

I move the dark red dress to the back of my closet, where I don't have to look at it.

It takes me three hours to whittle down my clothes into a reasonable amount to fit in two suitcases. By the time I’ve zipped them shut and filled my carry-on, it’s almost midnight.

I check my phone one more time before I go to bed. There are no new messages from Brinley, and no new messages from Luke. I can't decide which hurts more.

“You know, at some point, we're going to need to eat on the table,” Wade grumbles behind me.

I ignore him and keep on flipping through fabric swatches. I stop on a light gold color and show it to Mom. “What do you think? For the ribbons on bouquets along the aisle?”

Mom wrinkles her nose. “A little too shiny for my taste.”

“What if I can find the same color in matte?”

“I liked the ivory you were looking at earlier.”

I bite my lower lip and flip back through the samples until I find the ivory. I hold it up next to the gold for Mom’s opinion. “Do you still like the ivory better?”

“Well, now I don't know. Have we thought about a pale yellow?”

“Jasper is almost finished making his sandwich,” Wade says. “I imagine he'd like a place at the table to eat it.”

I glare at him. “I’m sure Jasper can eat at the counter.”

“Jasper was actually going to take his sandwich out on the porch,” says Jasper, making me give him an approving smile.

“The point still stands,” Wade insists. “This is the family dining table. That means it's for the family to dine at. Which means that you have to clean all this shit up at some point.”

I gesture at the piles of binders, folders, and linen samples spread over the table. “It's not like I have another place to work. Reed stole my old desk for his room.”

“Then he'll give it back.” Wade’s firm voice makes it clear he doesn’t care what Reed has to say about that.

“How about everyone eats lunch at the counter, but Eden promises to have the table cleared for dinner?” Mom says.

I whirl on her. “Mom! Where am I supposed to put it all?”

“I'm sure you'll figure something out. Wade’s right. We should have dinner at the table.”

Wade sticks his tongue out at me, victorious, and I groan. I’ve only been home for three days, and we’ve already regressed back to childhood.

Even though my brothers all have their own houses and their own kitchens, there’s an unspoken agreement that if they’re not busy at dinnertime, they’ll come to the main house. Mom loves to feed them, and she can use the help for cleanup. When I’m home, they make an extra effort to show up.

My phone buzzes and I reach for it so fast, I almost knock over my cup of coffee. I eagerly swipe up and read the message and my face falls.

“Who’s that?” Wade asks.

I glare. “Nosy much?”

“Evasive much?” he shoots back.