The Wedding Plus One

Chapter 1

ONE

“My father always told me that most things could be forgiven with a smile.

So, I learned to smile early and often.”

—excerpt from the unpublished memoir,

Darling, I Must Say by Gloria Hayes

Hiding in a supply closet, clutching an economy-sized jar of pickles to my chest, was not how I’d envisioned spending my twenty-third birthday. But here we were.

“Iris, where are you?” my sister, Mae, asked loudly from the hallway.

“Be quiet,” I whispered. To the pickles.

There have been moments in my life when I’ve felt a sense of pride in my accomplishments. Holding two part-time jobs while going to school full time. I did that. Graduating from college with honors? Absolutely.

Hiding in a supply closet at my own birthday party?

No, this was not a proud moment. Worse, it was the supply closet at the Sit-n-Eat Café.

I’d never even opened this door… and I worked here.

This inconspicuous space was situated between the two restrooms down the same hallway that ended in a back exit. That’s where I’d been headed.

The exit. Freedom.

“Iris Sampson, where are you?” I held my breath as my sister yelled, impatience laced in her voice.

“Go away,” I whispered. Again, to the pickles.

I wasn’t even sure how the pickles had ended up in my arms, but we were in this together now. Like soldiers on a battlefield, linked for life. This little supply closet, too. It had now become a character in the trau-medy of my birthday.

I hated parties. I hated my birthday. Combine the two?

This was like my version of Hell. And it was all Mae’s idea.

The whole town of Two Harts seemed to be crowded in the diner.

I despised crowds. Even crowds of people I knew.

Especially crowds of people I knew. But I’d chatted with a few, had a cup of punch, and eyed the birthday cake longingly.

Then he walked in—Aidan Bustos, ex-boyfriend, current friend (or something), and possibly the love of my life. On his arm, his fiancée, Missy, a woman who had the personality of a Hallmark card. Sickly sweet and, for the most part, insincere. I was pretty sure she hated my guts.

My panic had been real. I needed prep time before I saw Aidan.

I had to look my best but also look like I wasn’t trying to look my best. That effort would require several hours of thought and preparation.

And that was just my outfit and hair. I won’t even get into the mental gymnastics I’d need to perform to get in the right headspace.

Why were they there? This dumb birthday party Mae had organized for me, that’s why. Because nothing that happened in Two Harts stayed in Two Harts. Aidan’s aunt, who lived in town, had told Aidan all about the party. And Aidan had driven the three hours from Austin to surprise me.

That would have been great. Amazing, even. Except that he’d brought Missy with him. Okay, so I didn’t like Missy either. There the two of them were, holding hands and staring at each other with hearts in their eyes. The best-case scenario, he wouldn’t see me through the crowd.

But, like most things in my life, things didn’t go my way.

Aidan had rushed over and wrapped his arms around me in a hug.

One that was a little too intimate and lasted a little too long for someone who was just my friend.

I didn’t stop it. I tucked my head into his neck and breathed him in.

My whole body melted, because a hug from Aidan felt safe and comfortable like an old sweater.

Now, from the hallway, Mae spoke again in a sugary-sweet voice. “We’re about to cut the cake. It’s your favorite. Chocolate buttercream frosting with strawberry filling.”

I bit back a groan. My chocolate-loving sweet tooth begged me to open the door and reveal my hiding spot.

“Fight the urge,” I whispered. No amount of cake was worth going back out there.

“Fine,” Mae snapped. “Have it your way. All I wanted to do was celebrate your birthday…” Her voice trailed off and I imagined her stomping off.

I held my breath a few beats before feeling confident she wasn’t returning and groped for the light switch.

A dim fluorescent light flickered on and revealed a tiny space crammed with cleaning supplies that looked older than me, a sad, droopy mop propped against one of three floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed full of economy-sized jars of peanut butter, cans of beans, enormous bags of ketchup, industrial-sized containers of mayonnaise, and boxes of sugar packets.

Hanging haphazardly on the wall to the left of the door was a calendar from 1983. It was for a meat suppler, and they had really leaned into the whole “hot chicks can sell anything” marketing technique based on the scantily clad woman posing with a side of beef.

“Classy,” I muttered.

Not a peep from the pickles. I set the jar down gently on the floor, feeling a little sentimental. Those pickles were part of my story now. Maybe I’d take them home with me.

A stepladder was propped against the wall.

I brushed off the cobwebs and unfolded it, biting back a screech when a spider popped out and scurried away.

I wedged myself onto the top step—definitely not made with curves in mind.

Resting my elbows on my knees, I pulled out my phone and indulged in one of my biggest, and most shameful, hobbies—torturing myself with photos of things I shouldn’t be looking at.

The first showed Aidan and Missy posing in a field of bluebonnets, the sun at just the right angle so that a ring of light surrounded Missy’s blonde hair.

Like a halo. I hated this photo. So, of course, I’d saved it on my phone to gaze upon when my confused feelings for Aidan reared their ugly head. Which was pretty much daily.

With a sigh, I slid to the next photo. This was a favorite of mine.

That Christmas four years ago when Aidan had slid a promise ring onto my finger.

Photo Me had her hand held out to the camera to show it off, platinum-blonde hair messy from the early morning wake-up.

Aidan wasn’t looking at the camera. He was looking at me with such love that it made my breath catch even now.

Someone knocked. I froze. Maybe they’d bumped into it on the way to the bathroom.

But no, another knock, this one stronger.

I shoved my phone in my pocket, my heart racing.

I plucked the jar of pickles from the ground and clutched it to my chest like the emotional support pickles they were. Also, a good weapon.

“I know you’re in there,” a voice said. A man’s voice, quiet and deep. It sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it. “I brought you a piece of cake.”

I didn’t answer.

“I thought you might want some.” A pause. Then, “No one is paying any attention. The karaoke is starting.”

I ripped the door open in outrage. “There is not karaoke at my—”

I snapped my mouth closed mid-sentence. I wasn’t sure who I expected to find on the other side of the door, but it wasn’t Abraham Ramos.

The wayward son who’d left home at nineteen and stayed gone for eleven years, cutting off all ties with his parents.

A few years ago, when the oldest Ramos brother was getting married, Abe and his parents made up, or, in the case of him and his father, they were at least learning to talk to each other without it breaking into an argument.

Just two months ago, he moved to Two Harts permanently.

We’d met before, of course. No one could sneeze in this town without everyone knowing it by lunchtime.

Plus, we had a connection—my sister, Mae, and his sister, Ali, had been best friends since elementary school.

Despite that, I’d never had a real conversation with the guy.

He had to be at least ten years older than me.

“Nice pickles.” He smiled, revealing a set of white teeth that weren’t quite perfect. One of his incisors had grown in a little crooked, and it made his smile boyish.

That was the only boyish thing about him.

Tattoos covered his arms, the backs of his hands, and one or two climbed like inky vines up his neck.

My eye caught on a colorful bouquet of flowers that looked like they’d been drawn by a child.

There was a stylized compass on one forearm.

On the inside of one wrist, there were words I couldn’t make out and a large tree that looked weirdly familiar.

Besides the tattoos, he had dime-sized ear gauges, the concept of which befuddled most of the town, and a small silver hoop in one of his eyebrows.

His dark wavy hair fell almost to his shoulders in a messy way that practically invited a woman to run her hands through it.

Dark scruff covered his face but didn’t hide the square jaw.

But it was his light brown eyes that caught my attention. They radiated mischief and kindness in equal parts. Like a man who would bring a woman cake while she was hiding in a supply closet but make her work a little before he gave it to her.

Objectively, Abe was hot. If you were into that bad boy sort of look.

I was not. I was into guys like Aidan with his preppy glasses and yacht-music-meets-frat-boy fashion sense, the golf lesson he’d taken because they were “good for business,” and the membership to Costco because shopping in bulk was so “economical.”

“Why are you here?” I asked, confused.

“Weird way to say thank you for the cake.” His eyes darted to the end of the hallway. He rushed into the closet, forcing me to shuffle back. The door closed, and he leaned against it. It all happened so fast, I didn’t have time to react, let alone protest.

“Sorry,” he said, a little sheepishly. “Someone was coming.”

I eyed the plate with that little slice of heaven on it. “Did someone send you in here to come get me? I don’t know why they think that would work. Do you even know my name?”

One corner of his mouth ticked up in a half-smirk which should have made him look like a jerk. Instead, his hotness seemed to grow exponentially. He might not be my type, but I wasn’t dead.