Harper refocuses and goes back to her computer. “Uhm, Millennium Bridal, that place downtown? I’m really sorry to spring it on you like this, but it’s been such a busy week. I meant to call you already to ask . . . Will you be a bridesmaid?”

  “Like I’d turn that job down!” I scoff, taking a brush to Ace’s next ‘model’. “That means I get to plan the bachelorette party, right?”

  Ace groans while Harper giggles. “Just promise me nothing major. I’m more of a low-key kinda girl,” she says. “And a lot of the guests will be other teachers, and not the Cameron Diaz Bad Teacher kind, either.”

  “Fine, fine,” I joke, as if teachers can’t get down. “I promise to only get conservative strippers. Priests, maybe? Or cowboys?” Harper gives me a horrified look, and I laugh. “Okay, no strippers. What about a sex toy party?”

  Harper is past pink and turning shades of maroon as if the only thing worse than strippers gyrating in her face is being confronted with vibrating butt plugs in front of her mother and future mother-in-law.

  But Ace is looking thoughtful, so I shoot him a wink to let him know I’ll take care of things. Things might not get habanero hot on the honeymoon, but I bet I can convince Harper to at least think of something a little . . . chipotle.

  Of course, I won’t give it to her publicly. It’ll be on the sly . . . maybe her ‘something blue’?

  “Oh, and I need to get to work with Kevin,” Ace says, saving Harper as he changes the subject for his love. “He’s going to be the ring bearer.”

  I give Kevin a look, where he’s currently lying on the floor with his tongue lolling out and his feet in the air, running as though chasing a bunny in his sleep. He might make a good dust mop, but no way is he ready to be in a wedding.

  “Good luck with that.”

  “Hi!” the perky blonde greets me, her face friendly and her smile wide. “I’m Cassie!”

  “Ah, the maid of honor,” I greet her, offering my hand, but she’s not having that. Instead, she excitedly wraps me up in a warm hug. Still in her embrace, I say, “I’m Tiffany, Ace’s sister. Harper said we’d be carpooling today.”

  It’s a hell of a carpool. In addition to Cassie, who’s a teacher friend of Harper’s, there’s my mom Renee, Harper’s mom Hillary, myself, and of course, Harper. It’s the first time some of us have met, so Harper made . . . well, I guess you’d call them name tags, but only Harper would create ‘name tags’ like this.

  They’re crowns. Made of thin posterboard, they’re adorned with sparkles, glitter, and little plastic rhinestones that spell out our names. As if that’s not enough, there are curled ribbons hanging down the back, flower girl style. They’re totally something a kindergarten teacher like Harper would create, that’s for sure. Though I think they’d typically be better for actual kids, I put mine on because I wouldn’t dream of telling Harper no.

  We pile into Harper’s mom’s car, of course a minivan, and we go to Millennium Bridal. It’s not the fanciest bridal shop in town, but it’s not budget basement either, and as we enter, Harper squeals. “It’s happening! It’s really happening.”

  The consultant greets us and then swoops Harper away to slip into the first dress. We sit where instructed and gratefully accept the sparkling champagne we’re offered.

  “Harper is such a lovely girl,” my mom tells Hillary. “We’re so thrilled about her and Ace.”

  “Us too,” Hillary replies. “Ace seems like a fine young man.”

  The pleasantries as the two ‘in-laws’ get to know each other are polite but something to build on.

  “Harper’s wanted to be a teacher her whole life, right?” my mom asks.

  Hillary laughs lightly. “Since she was a kid. I remember her coming to me one day—she must’ve been around seven—upset that her friends didn’t want to play with her. I asked her what they didn’t want to play, expecting her to say ponies or hide and seek, and she showed me how she’d set up the entire basement as a classroom for her dolls and her friends. Apparently, it was spelling test day and her friends were not having it.” She smiles at the memory but then dabs at her eyes, musing, “How’d time go by so fast?”

  My mom pats Hillary’s hand, and then the two women grasp hands, looking into each other’s eyes. I can only imagine what they’re feeling at seeing their babies grow up.

  Cassie and I look at each other too, both of us with matching expressions of discomfort.

  We’re rescued by a throat clearing. We look over to Harper, who’s come out with her first attempt. “Well?”

  “Uh . . . hell no,” I exclaim reflexively. I cover my mouth, embarrassed at my outburst, but everyone else is shaking their heads with me.

  “You sort of look like . . . a cupcake,” Cassie says, sounding nicer than me. To me, the big ballgown bottom makes Harper look like white cotton candy, the skirt as the sugary goodness and Harper as the thinner paper cone. “Maybe something . . . you know, more . . . I mean, less . . . voluminous?”

  “No pouf parade. Got it,” Harper says, still cheerful.

  But for the next two hours, things dissolve into agony. Well, we’re having a good time, but there is a time crunch to consider, and Harper has declared that she’s not leaving the store until she finds The One, no matter how long it takes.

  Maybe the next one will be it? A girl can hope.

  “Oh, honey! You are a breath away from introducing Thelma and Louise to the light of day!” Hillary exclaims about one with a deep plunging V neckline.

  “Are you trying to do a throwback theme? That dress looks old-fashioned for 1921, let alone today. It’s more tablecloth on parade than wedding dress,” Cassie says about a full lace gown with a high neckline, the answer to the too-low one.

  “Are those shoulder straps supposed to clip into your parachute or something? They’re long enough that someone could play you like a puppet from the rafters.” I wave my hands like a puppeteer controlling a marionette while Harper flaps the lengths of sheer fabric that hang down her back like a cape.

  Luckily, Harper’s not taking anything to heart. She seems to be having a blast roasting the dresses along with us. I think she knows most of these are ridiculous and is having fun playing dress up, like she’s a real-life paper doll sticking astronaut pants and a flight attendant top on at the same time.

  “What about this one?” she asks after about the tenth dress. “This one’s kind of cute.”

  I nearly drop my untouched champagne as I see what she’s wearing. “Uhm, babe.” I look at the dress she’s swaying back and forth in. “I’m not sure if that’s more feather duster or full-on chicken. Bcawk!”

  “Really?” Harper says, touching one of the feathers that fall from the waist down the skirt in rows. “I thought it was better.”

  Cassie can see the tiny glimmer of hope in Harper’s eyes and isn’t letting her friend go out like that. She cuts a little deeper, in kindness despite how it sounds. “Harp, it kinda makes it look like you’ve got a full Grandma bush and desperately need a Brazilian. With hedge clippers.”

  Hillary chokes on the champagne she was drinking in an effort to not squash her daughter’s dress dreams.

  But the consultant jumps in to save the day. “Ladies, despite the—ahem—issues with the ones we’ve tried, I think we’re narrowing things down. We’ve got an idea on silhouette, modesty, and details. I think I know just the thing.”

  Harper claps in delight. “One more, okay?” she pleads.

  We all nod easily because that’s what we’re here for. And the clock is ticking for Harper to be ready for the wedding, so we shouldn’t leave until we’ve exhausted all the options, including anything without feathers.

  Ten minutes later, Harper comes out, and my jaw drops.

  It’s perfect. Elegant and sexy, interesting in a way that lets Harper shine, and best of all, Harper is beaming through tears. “Guys?” she says, her voice shaky.

  Hillary gasps. “I . . . dammit,” she says, dabbing at her eyes. “My mascara’s running. Remember, everyone, waterproof for the ceremony!”

  She’s right. As beautiful as Harper looks today, she’s going to be a vision with full hair, makeup, and a veil, and we’re all going to end up looking like raccoons if we’re not careful.

  The consultant can read the room and feel the sale closing on its own. “Should I ask the question?”

  Harper looks to her mom, who nods. One by one, we all give her our stamp of approval, but I don’t think she needs them. She knows. It’s all over her face.

  “Harper, are you saying yes to the dress?”

  Harper runs her hands down her sides, feeling the material, and over her hips. She swishes a little, thoughtfully. “Yes!” she shouts, holding her hands up wide in a V for victory.

  We clap and stand, surrounding her in a huddle of a group hug. The consultant, who has been incredibly patient with our antics, smiles and refills our champagne flutes.

  We share a toast, though I barely sip mine because even the smell of alcohol is still too much after the Donut Bliss Buzz incident. Harper is feeling her own bliss, though, and downs the whole flute in one drink.

  “I’m getting married!” she squeals.

  Chapter 13

  Daniel

  Going for a run with Ricky has become a keystone of our Saturday routines. I know he hates it, being forced out of bed and out of the arms of the woman he loves. But I also know that he and Billy had this conversation, and after Billy’s single bachelor lifestyle more or less shot his help in the ass a few times, Ricky picked up the ball himself.

  Why? He does it for me because he knows if he doesn’t pull me out of the house, I would spend all weekend cooped up and working.

  Oh, I wouldn’t couch potato, or I guess chair potato, the whole weekend. But I probably wouldn’t see the outside world until I went to work on Monday. I’d go from my bedroom to my living room to my home office, with the occasional trip to the bathroom for the necessary relief.

  So, Ricky drags me out of the house for a run. For a long time, at least until I knew how serious he was getting with Miranda, I never considered that it’s probably hard for him to get away too.

  It’s just always been our routine. But I realized a few months ago that I was being an asshole, so I try and make sure in subtle ways to tell Ricky I appreciate his Saturday sacrifice.

  “What are the kids and Miranda doing today?” I ask as we jog along.

  He huffs and puffs a few times before answering, “Volleyball tournament.”

  “You didn’t want to go?” I ask, surprised. “We could’ve skipped our run.”

  Ricky looks at me sideways, confusion written on his face. He slows to a jog, and I match his new pace as he lifts his hands to rest on his head. He catches his breath enough to explain,

  “Isabella used to play volleyball with her dad before he passed. It was one of their things. I’ll help her train, sure. But play? Not something I want to intrude on. It means a lot to her and Miranda to do that together, just the two of them. I told Bella good luck this morning and will gladly listen to her play-by-play later. That’s what she needs from me.”

  “That’s insightful.” I mean it as a compliment, but a quick flash of pain crosses his face.

  “Yeah, I’ve been reading a bunch of books on stepparenting kids after the loss of a parent,” Ricky admits after a few moments. “I don’t know if Miranda ever would want to let me put a ring on her, but I’m in her kids’ lives and I want to do right by them.”

  “I’m sure they appreciate that, Miranda especially.”

  We’re walking now, slow enough that people are passing us on the wide sidewalk of downtown, and I realize that while I’ve always considered myself to have two priorities—work and Elle—I might’ve missed out on some other things I should’ve been paying closer attention to. Especially since Elle moved away and I buried myself deeper and deeper into the one thing I had left—work.

  Maybe in focusing on Fox Industries, I’ve become detached from the other things that matter, like my nephews.

  I stop completely, facing Ricky. “I don’t tell you this enough, but you’re a good man, Ricky. I’m proud of you, for what you’re doing for your family and for who you are. I know my situation isn’t the same, but I was a single parent like Miranda, so if there’s ever anything I can do or something you want to talk about, I’m here for you.”

  Ricky gives me a grateful nod, about the most expression he’s used to showing with ‘guys’. “Thanks, Uncle Daniel.”

  We walk a few more steps, lost in our own thoughts before Ricky speaks again. “If you really meant that, there is something I’d like to do.”

  “Anything. Name it.”

  “Can we stop fucking running for the day and just get coffee or something? I get enough cardio. I don’t need to get more dragging your ass out of the house. Shit, I’ll even drink one of those gross smoothies you like so much if I can sit down.”

  “You tired already?” I laugh. “Thought you said you got enough cardio.”

  “Fucking cardio’s fine,” Ricky says, “it’s the knees that are killin’ me. I’m moving at least twice as much weight as you are. I’m gonna have to get that glucosamine shit the way things are going.”

  He’s got a point. “Yeah, we can do that.”

  We look around and spy a coffee shop up ahead. Best of all, it’s got outdoor seating, so we’re able to snag a table without offending any of the other customers. A minute later, a waitress comes over. “Coffee. Black.”

  “Come on, Uncle Daniel,” Ricky says. “Live a little, unclench some.”

  “Fine,” I reply, glancing at the menu on the wall. “And a cranberry bran muffin.”

  “A bran muffin is not living,” Ricky argues. He looks at the waitress. “Iced spiced latte, double shots of whey in that, with two breakfast sandwiches, whole wheat, please.”

  After our waitress leaves, he gives me a look, and I return it. “Do you know how much sugar is in a muffin?” I counter. “And you could muscle down some.”

  “No thanks,” he says, rubbing his flat, and apparently empty, stomach. “Besides, I need some extra protein after this run.”

  I laugh, I can still see my building in the distance behind us. “The run we didn’t do, you mean?”

  He shrugs and laughs too. “The best one we’ve ever done.” He looks around the coffee shop patio in emphasis. “Seriously, I’ve got to get you doing something else for cardio. You know leanness is like, ninety percent diet, right?”

  “Coffee’s good for that.”

  “True, true . . . especially green coffee,” Ricky says, and I realize that shooting the shit over coffee with Ricky and over a beer with Billy are both things I should do more frequently. Mental health and emotional health are as important as my physical health, after all.

  “So, what are you thinking after our conversation yesterday?” Ricky broaches carefully after our food arrives, shoveling half a sandwich into his mouth in one bite. Somehow, he doesn’t miss a single crumb. He’s just got a maw like a great white shark.

  I pick at my muffin, which is just as sweet as I expected but surprisingly tasty. “I don’t know yet.”

  “That’s bullshit,” he declares, rolling his eyes dramatically. “I didn’t ask what conclusion you’ve come to. I asked what you’re thinking, which you are absolutely doing. You’re an over-analyzer by nature, so I know you’ve had at least two dozen streams of thought. And you play shit close to your vest, do it at work too. Fine when it’s Fox, but this time you need to open up a little maybe. That’ll help me” —he puts his palm to his chest— “to help you.”

  He points at me, and I have to admit he’s right. At work, keeping my thoughts private except to very certain, very trusted individuals is how I grew successful. Even the people I trust with some of my thoughts don’t get them all.

  But this isn’t about budgets. This is about something I’m not sure I’m prepared for.

  “When did you get so damn smart?” I ask, trying to delay answering while I figure out what started this change in me, in Tiffany, in us.

  But Ricky takes another bite and chews patiently, waiting me out.

  This is a lot harder than I thought it’d be. When it comes to business, I take input from my teams, but I’m decisive and sure. On this, though, there are too many questions, too much risk, and I realize I would like Ricky’s opinion.

  “She kissed me.”

  Ricky coughs suddenly, his eyes going wide as he chokes on his too-big bite. I guess I finally found something that’s too much for that great white’s jaw of his. I laugh, but when I see the flush moving up his face, I realize something’s seriously wrong. “You okay, man?”

  He shakes his head, knocking on his chest with his fist.

  I reach over, slapping his back. But it doesn’t help, so I do it again, harder and louder, which gets the waitress’s attention.

  Instead of being helpful, she screams. “Oh, my God! Is he gonna die?”

  That gets everyone’s attention. Thankfully, a lady comes over from the table next to us. “Heimlich him!”

  “Look at the size of him!” her companion scoffs. “No one can reach around him.” She holds her arms out, visually measuring the size of the circle she’s created versus Ricky’s chest.

  I know what I have to do. I slam my palm on Ricky’s back again, as hard as I can this time. Even in his compromised state, he glares at me. I take that as a sign that it’s working and do it again.

  That one seems to do the trick. A bit of egg flies out of his mouth, a remarkably small chunk to have caused so much trouble, but I’m glad to see it. He coughs, moving air, thankfully, and then swallows heavily a few times.

  Swiping at the tears leaking from his reddened eyes, he looks around at the gathered crowd.

  “I’m good. Thanks, everybody,” he croaks out hoarsely. He winces, rolling his shoulders. “Fuck, Uncle Daniel.”

  Slowly, they all go back to their seats, eyes still glancing over at Ricky curiously. He waves at them, smiling kindly, before turning his attention back to me. “I’m sorry. Did you say she kissed you?”