I smile at her, lean in for a hug. “Perfect. Thank you.”

  She kisses my cheek. “This is what friends are for, Nova.”

  I change into the shirt—which isn’t really oversized, but whatever. I’m too tired from crying, or maybe it was the twenty-hour shift I’d worked followed by three hours of wedding planning; every detail of which made me think more and more of Craig, and the wedding we never got to have.

  Regardless, I passed out the second my head hit the pillow.

  Chapter 2

  I wake up disoriented—I’m not in my bed; what time is it?

  I blink slowly, stretching, noticing that the sun is blazing in through the window, high in the sky. Ten? Eleven? Near noon, maybe? I know it’s later than I’ve slept in a long time. I hear voices, smell food being cooked. Grilled cheese? Oh my god, I’m hungry—I skipped both lunch and dinner yesterday, and now I’m famished. I follow my nose down into the kitchen, bleary-eyed, still half asleep, and disoriented and groggy. When I stumble to a halt in the kitchen, I’m still half asleep. I was not thinking about anything except where the coffee pot was, and how I could get my hands on a grilled cheese sandwich. I’m not thinking about what I’m wearing, who’s here, or what I look like.

  At the same round table where I’d sobbed last night, I see Ryder, Nova, Nate…

  And James.

  Nate is in Star Wars pajama pants and nothing else, chattering a mile a minute about who knows what, he’s just talking for the hell of it. It’s too early for that much chipper chatter. Ryder and James are both dressed for work, in faded jeans, hoodies with sleeves pushed up around their thick forearms, Oakleys pushed up on their heads, massive clunky boots under the table.

  James has his huge bear paw hands wrapped around a diner-style coffee mug, making it look like a toy teacup. His brown eyes slide across the room and land on me, and flick in slow increments downward—eyes, hair, chest, legs. He coughs, suddenly—as if he literally choked on his coffee.

  I remember, groggily, that I’d braided my hair before bed but didn’t have a hair tie, so it came loose from the braid, which means my hair must be coming loose in a bombed-out spray of curly ginger. Like a cloud of red around my face, loose and wild.

  And then I remember that I never took off my makeup, so I must have raccoon circles and smears.

  Furthermore, I remember that I borrowed pj’s from Laurel, and that she’s four inches shorter than me, and at least one cup size smaller in the chest.

  I glance down at myself: a blue Eeyore T-shirt that’s probably adorably too big on Laurel, but on me is more than a little tight around the chest and the hem barely covers my butt. My nipples poke against the fabric, tightening under his scrutiny.

  James’s eyes widen, rake upwards and latch onto my breasts one more time. And then he clears his throat gruffly, yanking his gaze away, staring determinedly into his coffee.

  “Mornin’, Nova,” he mutters.

  “Hi,” I mumble back. “Is it morning? I have no idea.”

  Ryder gives me a quick once-over, glances at James, and then at Laurel, not quite hiding a smirk. “It’s eleven thirsty—I mean thirty.”

  James gives Ryder a death glare. “You can just shut the fu—the heck up.”

  Nate grins widely. “I know what you were going to say. You were gonna say a bad word.”

  James rolls his eyes. “Got me there, kiddo.”

  “Mama says I shouldn’t repeat pretty much anything any of you guys ever say, because you’re all good guys but terrible potty mouths.”

  James snorts. “I’d say your mama is right.” James is studiously avoiding looking at me.

  I cross my arms over my chest and take a seat at the table—and, unfortunately for both of us, the only open seat is next to James, between him and Nate.

  Laurel is biting her lip to keep from laughing. “Good morning, Nova. Sleep well?”

  I nod. “Yes, I did, thank you. I appreciate the hospitality.”

  “I’m guessing you wouldn’t turn down coffee and breakfast?”

  I shake my head. “I certainly would not.”

  “I have grilled cheese and tomato soup, but I can rustle you up some eggs, or a bagel, or something else if you’d rather.” Laurel pours me a cup of coffee into a giant Blackhawks mug.

  I accept the coffee and smile at her. “Grilled cheese and tomato soup sounds incredible.”

  “You’re gonna have lunch for breakfast?” Nate asks.

  I glance at the kid—I’m not much for children, as a rule, but with James’s girls and Laurel’s son, I’m learning to deal with them. “Food is food, kiddo. Steak for breakfast, pancakes for dinner, eggs for lunch, it’s all just food.”

  “Mama, can we have steaks for breakfast tomorrow?” Nate asks.

  Laurel laughs. “Maybe.”

  Nate, being a kid and thus lacking in any concept of social convention, is staring at me. He frowns. “Is that my mom’s shirt?”

  I nod, sipping coffee. “Yeah. I stayed the night and needed something to sleep in that weren’t my work clothes.”

  He frowns a bit harder, his stare unabashedly curious. “It doesn’t fit you.”

  I blink at him, unsure how to respond to that. “I…um. No, I guess not. But when you borrow someone else’s clothes, that happens sometimes.”

  “Is it because your no-no’s are so much bigger than Mom’s?”

  I choke on coffee, spluttering and coughing.

  “Nathaniel Paul Madison!” Laurel snaps. “What the hell is wrong with you? You know better than to talk like that! Especially to a guest.”

  Nate’s face falls, and he meets my eyes, abashed. “I’m sorry, Nova.”

  James looks like he’s about to bolt, and Ryder is choking back laughter. Laurel, however, is furious.

  “It’s fine. I wasn’t thinking clearly when I came down dressed like this.” I stand up, leave the table. “I’ll be right back.”

  “I mean, the kid does have a point,” I hear Ryder say.

  “Ryder,” Laurel snaps. “Not helping.”

  “Sorry, Laurel.”

  “I…um—I have to go,” I hear James say. “I’ve got, a, um…I’ve gotta go.”

  “You’ve got a…tit-uation?” Ryder says, chuckling.

  “RYDER MCCANN!” Laurel shouts. “Not okay.”

  “I swear I’ll fire your ass, Ryder, best friend or not,” James says. “Now let’s go. We have work to do. Early lunch is over.”

  “I’m still eating, James,” Ryder says, “so chill.”

  I don’t hear the rest of James’s response as I enter the bedroom and close the door.

  God, I don’t remember the last time I was this embarrassed.

  I suck up what’s left of my dignity, change back into my scrubs, head into the bathroom down the hall and find a hairbrush, drag it through my hair, and steal a hair tie from the doorknob. I wash the makeup off my face, dry off, and head back downstairs. Ryder and James are both gone, and Nate is in the living room playing Mario Kart on a console, tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth, utterly focused. Laurel is at the stove, stirring tomato soup in a pan, and using a spatula to tip a grilled cheese up to check the doneness on the bottom, scoops it onto a paper plate, ladles a full bowl of soup, pours a fresh mug of coffee for herself and warms up mine, and then sits kitty-corner to me as I take the seat at the table where she placed the plate and bowl.

  I eat a few bites of each, groaning in pleasure. “God, grilled cheese and tomato soup are my comfort foods. How did you know?”

  Laurel laughs. “It’s become a staple in this house. It’s both Nate’s and Ryder’s favorite thing to eat, so I make it for them pretty much every afternoon. James and the guys all work early, usually, but then take an early lunch, and there’s always at least one of the guys here for soup and sandwiches, so I’m always making a lot extra. I wouldn’t be surprised if Jesse or Franco breeze in at some point.”

  “Well, I needed this, so thank you.”

  She shrugs. “You’re welcome.”

  “I mean thanks for last night, and for breakfast. Lunch, whatever. Everything.” I lapse into silence for a few moments, take a few bites of soup. “I haven’t cried like that in…god, years. Not since Craig died. I guess I…I’ve held it in so long I’d almost forgotten how to…” I sigh, unable to articulate it any further.

  “How to express emotions?” I nod, and Laurel rests a hand on my forearm. “You once joked that you’re a cold-hearted bitch. I don’t think you are, Nova, I think you’re just pretending to be one because it feels safer after what you’ve been through.”

  I dip the sandwich into the soup, and take a bite. “I’m not sure how pretend it is, Laurel. Most of the time I really, truly, genuinely just don’t want to connect with anyone, and don’t care about much of anything.”

  “You’ve trained yourself not to.”

  I shrug. “You may be right. I needed to vent, and you were here for me, so thank you. That’s my point.”

  “I’m sorry about Nate’s comment. He’s not usually that kind of kid. I feel terrible.” Laurel winces as she says this. “He definitely knows better.”

  I chuckle. “I mean, I was essentially naked. The poor kid is probably traumatized for life.”

  Laurel snickered. “I dunno about that—he walked in on me in the shower more than a few times before I lost weight. If that didn’t traumatize him, seeing a beautiful, fit, well-endowed woman in a T-shirt and underwear certainly isn’t going to.”

  I snort. “You’re well-endowed—I’m a freak of nature.”

  Laurel bit her lower lip, a pained expression crossing her face—as if trying to hold back a comment that was bursting to emerge.

  I roll my eyes. “Don’t say it, Laurel.”

  “I’m not.”

  I glare at her—she’s still biting down on her lip as if literally biting down on the joke. “You want to, though.”

  “So bad.” She grimaces. “Sorry.”

  I set the sandwich down and lean back, crossing my arms over my chest. “Fine. Go ahead. You’re clearly about to burst.”

  “James was walking kinda funny when he left,” Laurel says in a rush. “And the only way he could’ve gotten out any faster is if he’d run.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, well, I have that effect on men.”

  She tilts her head toward me with a droll stare. “Not what I meant.”

  “I know, Laurel.”

  “I meant he was running because he was worried you’d come back down and see him trying to hide his erection.”

  I groan. “I know what you meant, Laurel. God.”

  She grins. “Had to be said. The man is wildly attracted to you.”

  “So is my department head at the hospital, but I don’t date him, or sleep with him.”

  “Probably because he’s eighty, bald, and overweight,” Laurel says.

  “Actually, he’s a fit fifty, and a silver fox.” I pause for effect. “And an obnoxiously arrogant, self-important, sexist douchebag, but that’s beside the point.”

  Laurel finishes her coffee. “I mean, did you see the look on James’s face when you came down?”

  “He choked on his coffee.”

  “Because all the blood in his body ran south, leaving him without enough brainpower to breathe, look at you, and swallow coffee all at the same time, and clearly looking at you won that contest.”

  “Laurel.” I shake my head. “I’m not gonna keep having this discussion, not with you, not with anyone. James and I are not a thing, and we never will be.”

  She shakes her head again. “Shame.” She eyes me. “So, you’re gonna stay celibate the rest of your life, then?”

  “Maybe,” I say. “I’m a lot more productive this way. Men just get in the way and distract me.”

  Laurel stares at me thoughtfully for a moment, and then throws up her hands. “I’m obviously not going to change your mind, so I’ll stop bugging you about it. But let it be known, my dear Nova, it is my firm belief that you and James are meant for each other, and you’re only delaying the inevitable, and depriving yourself of something amazing in the meantime.” She holds up her hands and brings them down in an X motion. “And that’s my final word on the subject forevermore. I support you regardless of whether or not I think you’re being an idiot.”

  I narrow my eyes at her. “Wow, okay. Delaying the inevitable, depriving myself of something amazing, and an idiot. Anything else?”

  She shrugs cutely and leans in to hug me—which is awkward for me because I’m not a hugger. At all. Or much for any kind of affection, really.

  “Only that I love you,” she says.

  “Love you too, Laurel.” I can’t be mad at her—she’s too sweet, too well-meaning. I hug her back, briefly, rigidly, and then stand up. “By the way, I have one question for you.”

  She stands up with me and walks me to the door. “What’s that?”

  “Why does your son call breasts no-no’s?”

  Laurel blushes and laughs. “Well, as a little guy just learning to speak and having just been weaned, he was constantly grabbing my chest. So I kept saying no-no to him whenever he grabbed at my boobs. Which led him to call them no-no’s, and it just stuck even at an age where he knows what they’re called, plus a few other slang terms for them.”

  I laugh. “Ah. Kid logic.”

  She nods, laughing. “Yep, kid logic.” She shoos me out the door. “Now go on with you. Take your big ol’ no-no’s and go to work.”

  “I’m actually off today. I’ve got some work to do around the house, and I have to talk to Jesse and Imogen about finding someone else to finish planning their wedding.” I wince. “That’s gonna suck. I hate letting them down, but it’s just too hard for me.”

  “They’ll understand, especially if you give them some backstory as to why. The abridged version, at least.”

  I hesitate on the steps, thinking. “I don’t know, but maybe now that I’ve told the story once, telling it again doesn’t seem so insurmountable.”

  Chapter 3

  The next morning, I’m finishing up laundry and tidying my bedroom when my phone rings.

  I answer it, propping the phone between shoulder and ear. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Nova. It’s Imogen.”

  “Hey, Im. How are you?”

  “Fine. So, um, I had some thoughts about the centerpieces. Do you have a minute for me to run them by you?”

  I stifle a sigh. “I…um…actually, I wanted to talk to you too. Are you home? I could pop over.”

  “Yeah, I’m home. Come on over.”

  Imogen’s house is an adorable little place, sided with white vinyl, a dark roof, a red front door and red shutters, all recently redone, thanks to Jesse and the guys. I park in the driveway behind Imogen’s car and head for the front door. Imogen welcomes me with a hug, and leads me inside. Her house smells like new paint and sawdust. There’re power tools everywhere, sheets of drywall stacked near the back door, and a tarp over the kitchen table.

  “Wow, more construction, huh?” I say. “Didn’t the guys just redo your roof and siding?”

  Imogen laughs. “Yeah, but the roof was thirty years old and starting to leak into the attic, and the siding was warped in places, so that had to be done.” She gestures at the work being done inside. “This is a different prospect. My kitchen used to be separate from my dining room and living room, and I guess it bugged Jesse. So he decided to knock down the walls and put up a giant beam across the ceiling so I don’t need posts to support the roof, and voila, open concept house.”

  She gestures at a thick, dark wooden beam running the length of the room, with another equally large beam running crossways. The house is now open-concept, and it seems like Jesse isn’t just knocking down some interior walls, but pushing the back wall of the kitchen outward to create a few extra feet of space for the kitchen.

  I admire the job being done here. I know that Jesse and the guys are builders, but I’ve never actually seen any of their work. At least, not work in progress. I know they did James’s house, and that’s beautiful, as well as Ryder’s, which is also gorgeous…but seeing Imogen’s house in the process of being torn apart and rebuilt makes it more…real, I guess. The remodel opens the home and makes it feel more breathable and airy.

  I’m kind of jealous, actually. I bought a little ranch on a huge lot a few miles from here, and I’ve been wanting to open it up a little, pretty much exactly like this. I have quite a tidy sum saved for the remodel, but I’ve just never got around to doing anything about it.

  “Can I get you anything—coffee or tea?” Imogen asks.

  I shake my head. “No, thanks. I’m good.”

  Imogen has a folder out and open on her coffee table, and the folder is stuffed to overflowing with magazine pages, printouts from online articles, and Pinterest boards…her vision for the wedding. My gut churns as she excitedly spreads out Pinterest board printouts of various centerpiece ideas.

  “So, I know we’d talked about white roses, but I think I like this look better,” she says, tapping a printout showing bursts of white lilies with a single brightly colored accent flower in the middle.

  I let out a breath. “Imogen, I…”

  Her face falls. “You’re quitting.”

  “I thought I could do this, Imogen. I really did. I’m sorry.”

  She shrugs. “I wondered.” Her eyes go to mine. “Can I at least know why?”

  I hesitate over how much to say but then, once I start, I end up relating the story in full again, and this time it’s easier. Still painful, but not quite as hard to talk about as it was with Laurel last night.

  When I’m done, Imogen is quiet for a while. “And planning my wedding just reminds you of Craig.”

  I nod. “Yeah. I didn’t think it would be this hard.”

  “Did you have wedding plans when he passed away?”

  I shrug. “I mean, yeah. Of course. You’ve known you and Jesse are going to get married for a while now…and I bet you were planning it in your head for months before he ever proposed.”