Prologue
Dixie
The bride rocked ivory silk that cost more than my rent.
Dusty rose for the bridesmaids, and somehow it made us look dewy and romantic instead of washed out and desperate.
The groomsmen sported charcoal suits and self-satisfied smirks—because nothing inflates a man's ego like being trusted with a ring and a speech.
There was something old: Her mother's wedding band—the one Roman had been holding onto for his own bride someday.
But he said it always felt as though it was meant for Sierra, so he waited for the right moment.
Turns out the right moment was pressing it into Everett's palm three hours before the ceremony with a gruff, "Don't fuck this up. "
Something new: A lace garter courtesy of Charlie’s sexy side hustle that made Sierra turn redder than her darkroom when Everett found it with his teeth.
Something borrowed: My emergency Advil stash, passed down the bridal party like contraband at a church picnic.
Something blue: The language I used when Roman Barrett's best man toast hit the twelve-minute mark and the open bar was right there.
There were happy tears, expensive champagne, sparklers, and “meant to be” send-off sentiments that made my throat tight for reasons I refused to examine.
There was a bouquet I didn't catch—on purpose—and a slow dance I ducked out of.
And there was Roman.
Broad shoulders straining his jacket. That slow, irritating smile. Whiskey on his breath and a challenge in his eyes when he found me hiding behind the ice sculpture.
"Dodging the bouquet, Dix?" He smirked around the obnoxious abbreviation of my name. The smug prick.
"Dodging you, actually.” I lifted my champagne as a salute. A solid stand-in for the middle finger I wanted to give him. “How's that working out for me?"
It wasn't.
It really, really wasn't.
Because two hours later, I had my palm wrapped around his dick in a dark hallway, his forehead dropped against mine, his breath ragged and desperate while I whispered, "What's the matter, Roman? Am I jingling your bells?"
He didn't laugh.
He growled.
And then he lifted me onto the console table he'd handcrafted for the bride and groom and fucked me so hard one of the legs snapped off.
How he explained that to Sierra and Everett? Not my circus.
Jedediah and Eleanor watched the whole thing from their gilded frame above us. Judgmental even in oil paint, those two.
One night, I told myself. One stupid, reckless, inconvenient night with my best friend's brother. The oldest Barrett. The responsible one. The one who looks at me like I'm a problem he wants to solve and a fire he's trying not to start.
One night, and then we'd go back to our mutual hostility and ignore each other.
That was two months ago.
Now there's something old: The same porcelain toilet I've been hugging every morning for two weeks.
Something new: A growing suspicion that won't stay quiet no matter how hard I ignore it.
Something borrowed: Time. Because I'm running out of it.
Something blue: Me. As I stare at five sets of double pink lines and my sixth pregnancy test—digital this time—because I need the word PREGNANT to mock me in actual letters.
Roman Barrett.
The man who color-codes his calendar and has a five-year plan and definitely, absolutely, under no circumstances planned for this.
I jingled his bells, alright.