Page 67 of The Boyfriend Algorithm

We’re at a patio bar three blocks from the bakery. The sun is low and warm, and we’re squeezed around a table that’s too small, which is how we always end up because Liv picks restaurants based on vibes and not on table dimensions.

Aiden is in the chair next to mine, wearing a navy henley and dark jeans, looking like a man who belongs at a happy hour with his girlfriend’s friends. He has a glass of water in front of him that he won’t drink, and he’s scanning the patio with the quiet, methodical attention he gives every new environment.

“The wedding was fine,” I say. “We survived. Nobody figured anything out. Mission accomplished.”

“That is the most boring summary of anything I’ve ever heard,” Liv says. “I didn’t ask for a press release. I asked for details. Did your mom love him?”

My smile is immediate. “My mom wants to adopt him.”

“Did Ben try to kill him?”

“Ben tried to interrogate him. Aiden was…” I glance at him. He’s not listening. His attention has drifted to a table two rows over, where a woman is sitting with a French bulldog on her lap. The dog is wearing a tiny sweater, and Aiden is watching it with the fixed, reverent focus of a man experiencing a religious vision. “Aiden was fine. He handled Ben.”

“What about Josh?” Gemma asks.

“Josh was Josh. He asked if the bakery was ‘hanging in there?’ Aiden squeezed his hand too hard during the handshake.”

“On purpose?” Avery asks from behind her wine glass.

“I don’t know. Maybe. Probably.”

“Good,” Avery says, and takes a sip, looking pleased.

“Okay, but I need to know about the room situation,” Liv says. “One bed, right? You were sharing a room with one bed. What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

Aiden turns from the dog. “That’s not accurate.”

The table goes silent.

I close my eyes. Say a small prayer to whoever might be listening.

“Several things happened,” Aiden continues. “The first night, after the rehearsal dinner, I kissed Ruby in front of approximately sixty people.”

Gemma gasps, Avery smiles, and Liv chokes on her margarita.

“—she invited me to lie next to her in the bed. We cuddled. She fell asleep against me. The next night, after the reception—”

“AIDEN.”

He stops. Looks at me. Tilts his head. “Your friends asked; I’m only answering.”

“Well, stop answering.”

Liv is gripping the edge of the table. Her knuckles are white. Her eyes are enormous. “Ruby Hart, you let him finish that sentence right now or I am climbing across this table.”

“There’s nothing to finish.”

“He said, ‘the next night, after the reception.’ What happened after the reception?”

“We went back to the room,” I say with a nod.

“And?”

“And we… talked.”

“You talked.”