Three Grumpy Groomsmen

1. Ford

CHAPTER 1

Ford

“No. Goddammit, no . This motherfucker.” I’m staring at my phone and reading the message from one of my best friends for the third time. But I still don’t believe it.

Hey, I’m not going to be there today. It’s all wrong. I’m sorry you made the trip. Tell Harrison for me.

That’s not funny. Get your ass over here. We’re all dressed and ready.

I’m not kidding. I’m at the airport. I’m not doing it.

What the FUCK are you talking about? You are getting married today. Stop being a dick.

I’m not. I can’t.

You’re in love, you asshole. It’s Ivy. Get your ass over here. You have ten minutes.

I’m getting on the plane. I have to turn my phone off soon. Sorry.

You’re a cowardly cocksucking chickenshit! Get off the plane.

I’m serious. Get. Off. The. Plane.

I am going to kick your ass when I see you. And you can’t avoid me forever.

What did you say to Ivy?

“Hey. What’s going on? We’re supposed to be out in the garden in a couple of minutes.”

I look up as Harrison—yes, I know how our names sound together, ridiculous coincidence—pokes his head around the door to the room where we changed into our tuxes. He’s now my only best friend. Because the son of a bitch who is texting me right now is dead to me.

“Yeah, well, I don’t think they’re going to need us out there at all,” I say.

He frowns. “What are you talking about?”

I hold up my phone. “Brad just texted me.”

Harrison’s frown deepens and he steps into the room. “He texted you? Where is he? I haven’t seen him all morning. When I texted to ask if he wanted breakfast he never got back to me.”

I scowl at my phone. Then hand it over. I can’t read it out loud.

Harrison takes it, and his eyes scan the screen.

His gaze bounces back to mine. “He’s not here? He’s not coming? What the hell does he mean he can’t do this?”

I sigh heavily. This is an absolute clusterfuck and I’m so pissed at Brad I almost can’t see straight.

My phone pings, and Harrison looks down.

“What does it say?” I ask, somehow knowing it’s Brad again.

Harrison looks a little sick when he meets my gaze again. “You have to tell Ivy.”

I frown, then start shaking my head. “No. No fucking way.”

“I’m just reading the message to you,” Harrison says, handing my phone back. “Maybe you shouldn’t have called him a cowardly cocksucking chickenshit.”

“He is a cowardly cocksucking chickenshit. And he wouldn’t have told her himself even if I hadn’t called him that,” I say.

Harrison nods. “Cowardly and chickenshit are kind of the same thing, aren’t they?”

“Shut up.” I grip my phone and look at the screen.

You have to tell her. I can’t.

That last message from Brad was four minutes after I’d texted him.

I type quickly.

I am NOT telling her. YOU have to tell her. At least call her. Please be that much of a man.

I suck in a deep breath as I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

“Son of a bitch!” I shout.

Harrison looks grim. “He’s really not coming.”

“He’s really not coming,” I repeat. “ Fuck .”

“And now we have to tell Ivy? Seriously?”

“I…guess.” I feel my stomach knot. I can’t do that.

God, anything but that.

Harrison Reed and I grew up with Brad Richardson. I’ve known these guys all my life. And yes, I’m stunned that Brad is leaving his fiancee at the altar.

But it’s sinking in. Quickly. Ever since Brad moved from Honeysuckle Harbor, South Carolina, to Los Angeles and became a famous chef on his very own television show, he’s turned into a prick. We’ve tried to ignore it—thought once the luster of fame wore off, he would remember who he really is, but this…damn, this is bad.

So fucking bad.

Have I had questions about his relationship with Ivy in the past? Yes. I’ve always been surprised she agreed to go out with him, not to mention marry him. But I wasn’t sure if that was reality or just me being jealous because I’d had eyes on her too.

If Brad had broken up with Ivy six months ago, or even a month ago, or even last week, I would have agreed it was a great idea.

In fact, full disclosure, I would have been thrilled.

Not only is Ivy Scott way too good for the new-undisputed-champion-prick Brad, but Ivy is gorgeous, sweet, funny, intelligent, talented, and…the star of several of my dirtiest fantasies.

I’m not proud of that. But it’s still true.

And if my fucking friend had done the right thing, realized he wasn’t in love with her, and pulled out of their engagement any time before today, I would have made a move without a single hesitation.

Yes, I’ve known Brad since kindergarten, but that doesn’t matter. If he let Ivy go, I wouldn’t have hesitated to let her know that I was interested. Before the dozen or so other guys who would absolutely be waiting in the wings did.

But do I want to be the one to tell her that her wedding isn’t going to happen?

When she’s literally five minutes from walking down the aisle?

When the chairs outside in the gorgeous flower garden they’ve chosen for the ceremony are full to the brim with her family and friends?

When she’s spent the morning getting her hair and makeup done and is now wearing what I assume is her dream dress?

Fuck. No.

“I’m not telling Ivy,” Harrison says, taking a big step back toward the door. “That’s Brad’s job.”

I scowl at him. “No shit. But Brad isn’t here because he’s clearly a cowardly cocksucking chickenshit. So if I’m doing it, you’re doing it.” Then I add, “Please.”

I met Harrison playing at the park the summer before kindergarten, so he’s been my friend longer than Brad has. He was also my college roommate and is now my business partner. We’re Harrison Ford together, for fuck’s sake. We’ve been dealing with those jokes—and a reluctant but undeniable love for Indiana Jones (but not Star Wars)—for twenty-six years together. We’re basically inseparable.

If he dumped a woman minutes before walking down the aisle, I would…

No. Harrison would never do that. If he had doubts, he would have pulled the plug before the save the date cards went out. Hell, he never would have proposed unless he was absolutely one hundred percent sure, because he doesn’t fall in love easily. He’s still very much playing the field, not settling down and committing to one person.

He’d never bail on someone last minute like this. He’s a good guy. Though some might characterize him as a playboy, he’d never hurt a woman or a man if he committed to walking down the aisle with them.

“I’m not good at this sort of thing,” Harrison says, his face stricken. He looks like he wants to dive under the rolling rack our tuxes had been hung on. “You know that.”

He’s actually great with people, charming and sociable. But, I have to admit, he’s not the best with bad news. He likes happy occasions, parties, celebrations, and wining and dining—be it clients, employees, or dates. He absolutely doesn’t want to do this.

Fuck, neither do I. The thought of seeing Ivy’s face crumple when she realizes she’s been stood up ten minutes before her wedding makes my gut clench miserably.

My shoulders slump. “Don’t make me do this alone. Not with Ivy.”

Harrison knows I have a thing for our friend’s fiancee. I’ve kept it under wraps with Brad and Ivy, for obvious reasons. But Harrison knows me too well to keep it from him.

He tips his head back and groans. “Fine. I’ll go with you. But God, I’m going to kill Brad for this.”

“Why would you want to kill Brad?”

We both straighten quickly and spin toward the door that Harrison didn’t shut fully behind him.

Ivy.

Ivy is standing in the doorway.

In her wedding dress.

Dammit.

“Have you guys seen him? I haven’t talked to him all day and I can’t find him.”

And Jesus fucking Christ I have never seen a more beautiful woman in my life.

The dress leaves her shoulders bare and nips in slightly at the waist, but falls straight to the floor with a short train fanning out behind her. Her light blonde hair is styled in loose curls that frame her gorgeous, sweet face and fall just past her shoulders. All of that skin is gorgeous and golden, but worry has flushed her cheeks and made her big blue eyes bright.

Ivy looks worried. Gorgeous. But worried.

Harrison clears his throat and then elbows me.

I cough and then nod. “Uh, yeah. I’ve…heard from him.”

Her eyes widen, and she visibly relaxes. “Oh, thank God. Where is he?” She frowns. “And why do you want to kill him?”

Fuck.

Harrison looks at me. I look at him.

I don’t technically know where he is. He didn’t tell me what plane he was getting on or where he was going.

But he’s not here and I can’t believe I’m the one who has to break Ivy’s heart.

“What’s going on?” Liam Tate, Ivy’s best friend, steps into the room behind Ivy. He eyes Harrison, then me.

Liam is both shorter than me and has a slighter build, and yet when he arches an eyebrow like that—with such utter disdain—I feel about two feet tall.

He dislikes me. Because I’m Harrison’s best friend. And Liam hates Harrison.

It’s fair. About a year ago, when Liam and Harrison first met, Harrison was…well, being Harrison with Liam. Charming and flirtatious and…noncommittal.

And now the two of them can’t be in the same room without snarking at each other.

“Guys? Where’s Brad?” Liam asks, saying it slowly, as if we’re not very bright.

“Well. He isn’t here with us,” Harrison says, clearly stalling.

Liam rolls his eyes. “Thank you for that brilliant observation.” He gestures to the small room that couldn’t hide a Leprechaun. “So where is he?”

“Where are any of us, really?” Harrison murmurs. “In the grand scheme of things, that is.”

Oh, God. Harrison is known as the ‘people person’ in our company. He’s charming, smooth, fantastic on his feet. He can talk even the surliest chef into trying new dishes and even the prickliest food critic into giving second, even third, chances.

But he’s terrible with Liam.

How he ever got the broody younger man into bed in the first place is beyond me. They couldn’t be more different, and Liam clearly thinks Harrison is an idiot.

Which he certainly seems to be whenever Liam is around.

But Harrison still wants Liam. Oh, he denies it but it’s obvious to me. I have no idea how Liam feels about Harrison beyond chronically perturbed. I just know that they bicker and bitch whenever they’re together, and right now I don’t have time for any of their usual shit.

My concern is Ivy.

Ivy’s relief has turned to agitation again. She’s swiping frantically through her phone and biting her lower lip.

“Just answer the damned question,” Liam snaps at Harrison. “The officiant wants to talk to Brad before the ceremony.”

Harrison stares him down. “Hey, where’s your tie?”

“What?” Liam’s hand goes to his throat, and he frowns, even as he clears his throat. “With my jacket.”

Harrison and I are in tuxes. Liam is supposed to be too, but he hasn’t even tucked his shirt in yet. Liam is one of those guys who always looks like he’s just rolled out of bed and simply run his hand through his hair—a fact that Harrison has pointed out to me more than once.

Liam is standing up as Ivy’s best man, while Harrison and I share the title on Brad’s side.

Or that’s how it was going to be.

Liam suddenly looks a little flustered, and I think it has more to do with Harrison than the missing groom. But he glances over at Ivy and clears his throat again. “Seriously, where is Brad? This isn’t cool.”

“It’s all fine, William,” Harrison says, calling Liam the stupid-assed nickname he’d come up with for the grumpy writer.

He’d had to explain to me that William is the English version of Liam. It doesn’t matter. It annoys Liam, which is really Harrison’s whole purpose for it.

“Don’t worry. We’re handling it,” Harrison says.

His voice is a touch condescending and his expression is…stupid.

I give my friend a look. A look that says stop being an evasive asshole for no reason, I know you want to bang him but we absolutely do not have this all at once.

Liam is now glowering at Harrison. “You’ve got it? No problem? Everything is fine?”

Harrison gives him a nod. “Of course.”

“Then where’s the groom? And why isn’t he answering Ivy?”

Before Harrison can make some other dumbass comment, I decide to just spill it.

I take a deep breath, blow it out, then look at Ivy. “He’s…not here. At the venue.”

Her brows arch. “Where is he? Stuck in traffic?”

“No. And I’m not sure exactly where he is. Well, I know where he is but not where he’s going.”

Her eyes narrow now, and she props a hand on her hips. “What the hell is going on, Ford?”

I wince. Her words are angry, and there’s no getting out of this. It’s time to just be honest. And deal with the fall-out.

“He texted me. From the airport. He’s not coming. He…” Fuck, fuck, fuck. “...doesn’t want to get married. I’m so sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

Please don’t cry. Jesus, please don’t cry.

But then you could hold her. Comfort her. Stroke her hair.

No! You do not want her to cry! This woman is sweet and doesn’t deserve this.

Just… please don’t cry.

Ivy is staring at me. “What?”

Then she looks at Harrison. “Is this a joke?”

He just grimaces and shakes his head.

Then she looks at Liam.

“Jesus,” he breathes, running a hand over his face. “That fucking asshole.”

Then Ivy takes a deep breath, swallows, nods, and says. “Okay. So…someone needs to find me some tequila. Right now.”

Fuck. This is going to be so bad.

Thanks a lot, Brad.