CHAPTER FOUR
Leanne
Craig
Can we talk?
I nearly trip over my boots when I read the notification. The damn gravel beneath my feet makes me unsteady enough without Craig throwing me off-balance.
Of all the days to reach out, he had to pick today?
Six months of silence. Not a single word. Like the six years we were together meant absolutely nothing to him, and now he texts me?
Fucking Craig.
I push my phone into my back pocket and shake off the instant hit to my confidence. I don’t have time to respond—or to linger on what he could possibly want after everything he said to me the last time we spoke—because I have a rehearsal to get to.
The grass compresses under my boots as I make my way to a field where the rest of the wedding party is congregated. The peaks of the Bridger Mountains turn a hazy purple as the sun grows ever closer to them, but we still have ample time before it fully sets.
It’s beautiful here, the high summits looming up around us like rocky green giants.
A well-suited backdrop for such a momentous occasion, but I still can’t appreciate it.
No matter how hard I try to dispel my feelings about my breakup, they’re still there, as raw as they were all those months ago.
Especially with Craig’s message burning a hole in my pocket.
It’s not that I still love him, because I don’t.
I’ve more than realized how shitty a person he is, but still, the pain lingers.
Probably because you haven’t allowed yourself to fucking deal with it.
And there goes my subconscious being irritating as usual.
I patiently remind it of my plan to deal with it after this wedding is good and over.
Until then, I’ll grin and bear the weight of it like I have every day since he left.
It doesn’t help matters when I stand beside my sister as she practices exchanging vows with the man of her dreams, and I want to scream at the injustice of it all. The unfairness. Because nothing about any of this is fair.
But I don’t do that. Instead, I smile and move through the motions required of me.
Hold the fake bouquet of “flowers” made from the ribbons off the gifts Jenna received at her bridal shower.
Pretend to fluff her train for her when she walks back down the aisle.
Ensure everyone is where they’re meant to be and knows what role they will play in tomorrow’s ceremony.
At least the venue is ready—no more worrying about seating charts or table locations.
Catching sight of Bryce out of the corner of my eye, I inwardly groan at how bitchy I was earlier.
Why am I like this with him? Everything had been in the correct place, but for whatever reason, watching him bend over the gift table in those fucking jeans short-circuited my brain and I had to find a way to get the upper hand again. I’m not sure it worked. Not at all.
As the rehearsal wraps up, Bryce moves in tandem with the caterers who are putting the finishing touches on our meal.
This was one thing I conceded without a fight.
He had a specific caterer he recommended and was adamant they’d be the right fit.
Finding a decent caterer is something I’ve struggled with for many of the corporate events I’ve planned, so if he was vouching for them, I’d take him at his word.
Of course, I thought it was her word all that time.
I still can’t believe Bryce is Bryce… I mean, I can because it only takes one look at him to know he is all man.
And look I do—as discreetly as possible, of course. He’s put his hair back to rights, the strands that were loosened earlier styled back into a trendy swoop… One that causes an equally annoying swoop in the pit of my stomach.
He’s chatting animatedly with the groomsmen, who are pointing toward the firepit and a stack of firewood beside it. That’s the final thing on the itinerary for this evening: drinking and roasting s’mores around the fire until everyone stumbles to bed.
When Bryce picks up an ax and a larger piece of wood, placing it on the chopping block, I turn away and head toward one of the beautifully set tables.
I do not need a visual of Bryce as a literal lumberjack in my brain—especially since that’s how I classified him when I saw him from the car this morning… before I knew who he was.
The last thing I need is another man taking up space in my head. This man in particular. A hefty dose of attraction doesn’t change the fact that we don’t like each other.
Everyone is engrossed in their meals, or with the blazing campfire beside the pavilion we’re eating in, and I’m thrilled to see Jenna sitting in Eric’s lap with a glass of wine in one hand, the other twined in his hair.
This is what I wanted for her—to be able to sit back and enjoy this weekend with zero stress, zero worries.
If I gave her that, then I’ve done something right at least.
I swipe my finger through the huckleberry sauce on my plate and surreptitiously lick it off. I’m reaching for more when my phone vibrates in my pocket.
Pulling it out, I see it’s Craig—actually calling me.
For fuck’s sake.
I look around and for once am glad to feel invisible. Maybe it will allow me to escape for just a minute to finish this once and for all.
With a murmured excuse that falls on Mr. Blaise’s unhearing ears, I slip away and answer the call.