Magnolia Ridge Box Set Books #4-6

Chapter 1

ONE

Willow

Airports. Is there any place on earth more chaotic?

I’m standing in the security line, balancing on one foot like a flamingo as I wrestle with my stubborn left sneaker.

My bag slides off my shoulder and hits the floor with a dull thud, but I ignore it.

I’m on a mission. Get shoe off. Get shoe off now.

“Ma’am, you need to keep the line moving,” the TSA agent says, sounding like he’s one more dropped sneaker away from a meltdown.

“I’m trying,” I reply, maybe a little too loudly. The man behind me coughs, and I feel his eyes drilling holes into the back of my head. I finally manage to yank the shoe off, sending it flying onto the conveyor belt with the grace of a professional bowler. Nailed it.

As I shuffle through the metal detector in mismatched socks—one pink, one green—I remind myself why I’m here. Vegas. Hartford’s wedding. My friend is getting hitched to a man who looks like he stepped out of a romance novel. And I’m her bridesmaid. No pressure, right?

With the security ordeal over, I make my way to Gate 17, clutching my boarding pass like a lifeline. My heart is doing this weird fluttery thing, which I tell myself is excitement and not a premonition of impending disaster. After all, what could possibly go wrong?

I find a seat in the crowded waiting area and plop down, grateful for a moment to breathe. I fish my phone out of my bag and shoot Hartford a text.

Me: Just made it through security. Can’t wait to see you!

A reply pings back almost immediately.

Hartford: Yay! Can’t wait to see you too! Remember, you’re the one holding my dress when I pee.

I laugh, earning a curious glance from the elderly woman beside me. I try to explain, but she just nods knowingly. I guess some things don’t change no matter how old you get. Weddings are one of those things.

The loudspeaker crackles to life, announcing that my flight to Las Vegas is now boarding.

I grab my bag and join the queue, which, of course, is already a jumbled mess.

I end up behind a tall guy in a black t-shirt and Chucks who’s shouting into his Bluetooth headset about beer making. I still. I know that voice.

Brock Atwood. Brother of the groom, and somebody I do not get along with.

It’s already bad enough my ex-boyfriend, Lake Spriggs, will be at this wedding, now I get to fly on a plane with Brock.

He hasn’t noticed me yet, so I make a mental note to remain invisible. He doesn’t have to know I was ever on this flight.

Simple.

As I step onto the plane, the familiar scent of stale coffee and recycled air hits me. I find my seat—13A, a window seat, thank goodness—and stow my bag in the overhead bin. I’m just settling in when I hear that familiar voice I’m trying desperately to avoid.

“Excuse me, I think that’s my seat.”

I look up and see him. Brock Atwood. Incredibly handsome in every sense of the word.

It’s a shame really. Too bad he has to be so gorgeous, because he’s a complete pain in my ass.

Has been since we were kids. Perfect. I glance at my boarding pass again, hoping I’ve made a mistake.

Nope. 13A. I gesture to the empty middle seat beside me.

“That’s yours,” I say, trying to keep my tone polite. He looks down at his ticket, then back at me, and shrugs.

“Well, looks like we’re neighbors,” he says with a grin that’s probably meant to be charming but just makes me want to throttle him. And not in a good way. Throttle, not straddle.

I nod, forcing a smile. “Lucky us.”

He sits down, still yammering away on his headset. I lean against the window, closing my eyes and imagining Hartford’s face when she walks down the aisle. I can’t help but smile. This wedding is going to be perfect.

Minus my ex-boyfriend, Lake.

The plane taxis to the runway, and as we take off, I feel a surge of excitement. This is it. A week in Vegas, celebrating love, laughter, and maybe a little bit of chaos. What could possibly go wrong?

As if in answer, the fasten seatbelt sign dings, and I hear a voice over the intercom.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We’re expecting a bit of turbulence on our way to Las Vegas, so please keep your seatbelts fastened and enjoy the flight.”

I sigh, tightening my seatbelt. Turbulence. Of course. I glance at Brock, who’s finally hung up his call and is now scrolling through emails. He catches my eye and gives me that grin again.

Great.

The plane jumps through the sky, and I cling onto my seat. Oh no, this is it. And I get to sit next to Brock as I go down in a flame of fire and twisted metal. I squeeze my eyes shut.

“Are you okay?” Brock asks beside me. I detect a smile in his voice, but am too afraid to confirm it by opening my eyes. “Planes are really safe. You heard the captain, just a little turbulence, nothing to worry about.”

I open my eyes, glaring at him. “Well, the captain isn’t very well going to come over the loudspeaker and tell us we’re all going to die, now is he?”

Brock smiles, wider this time, and he really does have the nicest smile. “I guess not.”

I sit up straighter, not really expecting him to agree with me. I’m even more nervous now. “Seriously?” I ask him. “You’re not going to tell me to calm down, or try to tell me everything will be okay?”

He leans his head back and closes his eyes. “No, you’re right about the captain. He wouldn’t tell us, and you’ve already made up your mind. I guess we’re goners.”

“Are you kidding me right now?”

His eyes open just a crack, enough to see the mischievous glint. “I’m just saying, if you want to be scared, be scared. I’m here to make sure you enjoy it.”

I stare at him, half-expecting him to laugh and tell me he’s joking. But he just closes his eyes again, looking entirely too relaxed for someone who just accepted our fiery doom.

I cross my arms, trying to ignore the swooping feeling in my stomach as the plane dips again. This week is supposed to be about love and laughter, not fear and flying. I sneak another glance at Brock, who’s now pretending to snore softly.

“I hate this week,” I say to myself, breathing in deeply. “I am zen,” I repeat a few times.

Brock opens his eyes, leaning forward. “What are you doing?”

“I’m meditating,” I say, holding my hands out and trying to focus on my breathing.

He laughs. “Whatever,” he says, leaning back into his seat. As if he just remembered something, he leans forward, looking right at me. “Why did you say you hate this week? We’re going to Vegas for my brother’s wedding. It’s gonna be a great time.”

I drop my hands with a heavy sigh. “Lake is going to be there. He’s in the wedding party, and our break up is still fresh. I don’t really want to see him.” Or talk to him. Or interact in any way with him.

“Oh, right.” For the first time since I’ve known Brock, he actually appears sad for me. Like he pities me a little. “I heard the two of you broke up. What happened?”

I glare at Brock for a second, wondering if he’s being genuine. I thought everyone knew why Lake and I broke up. “You didn’t hear?” I ask him when he doesn’t budge.

He shakes his head. “Guess gossip doesn’t travel that fast in a small town.”

I smile lightly, and then my shoulders slump slightly. “He cheated on me. With Destiny Harper.”

“What a scumbag.” His brown eyes hold mine. “I’m really sorry, Willow. You’re better off without him.”

I shrug. “Tell him that.”

When I found out Lake had cheated on me I was devastated at first, but then the more I thought about it the more I felt like I dodged a bullet. Lake and I never really clicked. We never really meshed well. And the sex was only lackluster at best.

Doesn’t mean I want to see him.

Brock sits up a little taller. “I will tell him that. I’ll tell him he doesn’t deserve you.”

I laugh as the flight attendant asks us if we want anything to drink. “Um,” I say.

Brock cuts in, “Two tequilas, please.”

“And orange juice,” I add on.

After Brock pays for the beverages, I thank him. He gets to work making two very strong tequilas and oj’s. He hands my tiny cup to me, and smiles.

“Cheers,” he says, and we clink our glasses together.

“Thank you,” I say after taking a sip. “You’re actually cheering me up.”

It’s hard to believe my nemesis, Brock Atwood, would be the one to cheer me up before Vegas.

We chug two more tequila drinks before Brock bumps his broad shoulder into mine.

“I have an idea,” he half-whispers, half-screams.

I giggle. “What?”

“We should pretend to date.”

I sober up immediately. “Um, what?”

His brown eyes fixate on mine. “You heard me. We should pretend to be dating. That way my mother won’t feel the need to hook me up with every single woman at the wedding, and Lake won’t bother you.”

His idea takes root, sprouting, blossoming into a full-fledged great idea.

“This might work.” Am I really this drunk? Am I really agreeing to fake date Brock Atwood?

I must be drunk, because I agree a little too quickly.