Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Ledger
It seems like the Timberbridge name carries weight in Birchwood Springs. My brother Malerick—Sheriff Malerick Timberbridge, as he insists on reminding people when he’s on the phone—knows exactly how to use that weight to get things done. Or maybe he’s reminding everyone that Therese Smith was our mother and how much she loved us—even when we were a bunch of ungrateful pricks. Either way things are getting done.
I’m slouched in one of the armchairs in his apartment, watching as he types out an email with military precision. His laptop is open, and his phone’s been ringing incessantly for the past hour. He has some emergency, but honestly the only emergency is me trying to figure out why he called me—again.
It’s like my upcoming nuptials are his new job.
“How the hell did you pull this together in a day?” I ask, rubbing at the tension building in my neck. “You’re the sheriff of a small town. You’re not supposed to have these many connections.”
He doesn’t look up from the screen as he answers. “You’re not supposed to get married for business reasons either, but here we are.”
“You suggested I do it and she asked,” I say defensively.
“Which I appreciate, but as I explained yesterday, you could’ve eloped. A courthouse thing wouldn’t have worked,” he states. “We want the town to love the Timberbridge boys, not to say fuck them for being assholes—again.”
I grunt in response, but he’s not wrong.
Things are moving fast. Too fast. Teddy St. James and Fitz Everhart might’ve been the first strike. Deliveries are scheduled to start arriving on Thursday: flowers, decorations, and even security—because apparently, if I’m flying in half a professional hockey team, the Timberbridge wedding needs an exclusive guest list.
“I still don’t understand why I let you talk me into inviting my former teammates,” I grumble, sinking deeper into the chair. “This is too much for an inconvenient marriage. And you’re lucky they’re off season or no one would’ve agreed to it.”
Mal finally looks up, a smug grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Like Keir said, this is a chance to make the Timberbridge boys look good.”
“Fuck looking good,” I mutter under my breath, but I know when to pick my battles.
Keir—our middle brother and the suit—isn’t technically wrong. Inviting my former teammates to the wedding adds polish, charm, and maybe a little distraction from the very real, very messy reason this wedding is happening in the first place.
Still, the thought of coordinating a damn charter flight to get a bunch of rowdy athletes here—renting out the only inn in town for two days so they have a place to crash—feels completely insane. It’s a good thing that the wedding will take place at the Doherty Mansion.
“This is going to be a circus,” I say, dragging a hand through my hair.
Mal shrugs, looking annoyingly pleased with himself. “Maybe, but it’ll be a classy circus. The inn’s handled, the security team is in place, and Teddy St. James is an absolute godsend. You’ll look like the picture-perfect groom.”
“Picture-perfect, huh?” I let out a dry laugh. “The question is how did you get all these people to work for you so fast?”
He shrugs. “When you work for important people, you make connections and try to collect favors for the future.”
Somehow that sounds like a lie, but I don’t push him. Hopefully, he’s not some dirty cop who’s been working for the wrong people and now my wedding is tainted with blood money. The less I know and all that shit.
He closes his laptop and levels me with a look. “What’s the alternative, Ledger? You botch this wedding, people start asking questions. Galeana loses the inheritance, Maple Haven collapses, and suddenly everyone’s blaming the Timberbridge name for killing a family legacy. You might not care about looking good, but we can’t afford to look bad.”
I want to argue, but I don’t have a good rebuttal. He’s right. I hate that he’s right, but I’ve been around long enough to know how small-town whispers can spiral into full-blown scandals.
“What now?” I ask, eyeing his phone as it buzzes again.
“Now,” he says, standing and stretching, “we get you the rings.”
I blink at him. “Rings?”
“What part of ‘this needs to look fucking real’ did you miss?”
Before I can argue, he opens the door and a man I don’t recognize walks in, carrying a black velvet case in one hand and a leather satchel in the other. He’s older, silver-haired but sharp-eyed, dressed in a crisp navy suit that looks custom.
“Ledger, meet Mr. Gallagher,” Mal says, gesturing to the man. “He’s one of the best custom jewelers in the country.”
Mr. Gallagher nods politely, setting his case on the coffee table and clicking it open with a soft snap. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Timberbridge. I’ve brought a selection of unique pieces, but we can also discuss custom designs if you’d prefer something specific.”
I stare at Mal. “You brought a jeweler here?”
“You’re welcome,” he replies, unbothered. “Now pick something before you ruin this whole wedding. Obviously, you’ll be paying for it.”
“Obviously,” I mumble, looking down at the case, my irritation fading as the rings come into view.
Each one is unique, nothing like the cookie-cutter designs you’d find in a chain store. Some are delicate, with intricate filigree, while others are bold and modern. A few feature small, unexpected stones—sapphires, emeralds, even one with a deep, crimson garnet.
“These are . . . impressive,” I admit grudgingly.
“Only the best for Mr. Timberbridge,” Mr. Gallagher says smoothly, folding his hands in front of him.
I ignore the flattery toward my brother, my eyes catching on one particular ring. It’s simple but striking: a band of platinum, curved in a way that makes it look almost organic, like it was shaped by hand. Nestled in the center is a small, oval sapphire, the color deep and rich, like the midnight sky.
“That one,” I say, pointing to it.
Mr. Gallagher lifts it carefully, holding it up so the light catches the sapphire’s facets. “A beautiful choice. Understated, but full of character.”
I nod, a strange tightness settling in my chest. “She’ll like it.”
Will she? I don’t know. But it feels right—like something that belongs to her.
Then I pick up what will be our wedding bands. Platinum, simple. As Mr. Gallagher packs up the rest of his pieces, Mal watches me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“You do know this is fake, right?” he asks.
I shrug, slipping my hands into my pockets. “Yeah. You’re the one who told me to make it look real. I’m just playing the part.”
“Yeah,” he says, his gaze sharp. “But I’m starting to think you’re forgetting this is temporary .”
I don’t say anything, because what the hell am I supposed to say? That I added a second year to the prenup because I couldn’t bring myself to settle for just one? That I don’t even know why I did it?
That I’m not sure what I want, except for more time?
More time with her.
What does that say about me?
“I’ll handle the rest,” Mal says, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Just don’t screw this up, Ledger.”
He says it like something very important depends on this and I want to learn his angle, but it doesn’t matter. I want what Galeana is giving me . . . two years of her. After that I’ll figure out what to do with my life.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I mutter, grabbing my jacket as I head for the door.
As I step outside, the cool air hits me, clearing my head. I stare down at the driveway for a moment, rolling my shoulders and letting out a slow breath.
This is happening.
In four days, I’ll be standing at an altar with Galeana Monroe, sliding a ring onto her finger, and pretending that this marriage is anything other than a business deal.
But as I climb into my SUV and pull out of the parking spot, I can’t stop picturing her face when she sees that ring.
And I can’t stop wondering what the hell I’m doing and trying not to think how fucked up my life is. I have no career and no future. This pretending buys me two years. I should at least be honest with myself. It has nothing to do with how beautiful Galeana Monroe is and everything with how fucked up my life became when I lost everything.