While You Were Trending (Accidentally Infamous #2)

Chapter 1

THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT GINNY

Declan Fox, aka a guy who’s never been over her

Ginny Rhodes is hell on my heart.

You’d think watching a woman try to stop my best friend’s wedding would’ve broken the spell she had on me the entire time he dated her, but no.

It didn’t.

She sprinted into that brightly lit, flower-strewn church four years ago, yelling that Alex was making a mistake, that she loved him, that she wanted to marry him, that his high school sweetheart wasn’t right for him, and my heart stopped.

It seized up in my chest with the raw, soul-deep, secondhand shame that blossomed inside me on her behalf.

And then she fell.

Her face crashing into the side of the pew.

The crack of bone against wood.

More gasps from the wedding guests as she went down. A few laughs.

Fury erupting out of my best friend that she was there at all.

I should’ve been mad too.

Mad on Alex’s behalf. Horrified that Ginny was making a scene on his big day.

Instead, I desperately wanted to run up the aisle to her and gather her in my arms and hold her and tend to her injuries, no matter what they were.

But I didn’t, because you don’t help your best friend’s ex-girlfriend when she’s trying to stop his wedding.

Even when his wedding happens three months after their steady relationship of four years ended.

Even when you privately agreed that his wedding was a mistake.

And especially when you didn’t know how to handle how much you liked her, so you were a dick to her out of self-preservation the whole time he dated her.

And now?

Now, here we are.

Another day, another wedding.

This one is outdoors in a field beside a stone banquet hall at a Sonoma winery, with rows of white folding chairs instead of pews, natural sunlight unfiltered by stained glass windows, no guests who knew Ginny better than they knew the bride.

No one objecting to her sister’s marriage to one of the world’s most well-known actors.

Ceremony’s over, and now the high-profile guests are mingling and eating and dancing while the happy couple makes the rounds accepting congratulations at this private vineyard.

Gorgeous setting. Bright, sunny September day. Fluffy white clouds in the blue sky. Green still covering the rolling hills leading up into the mountains separating Sonoma from Napa. A hint of warm grape juice lingering in the air as harvest approaches.

Rain passed through this morning, but the weather cleared up well before the ceremony started.

What hasn’t cleared up?

All of my feelings at being close to Ginny again.

I’d hoped—hoped—that I could get through today with minimal interaction with her.

Maybe not see her at all.

That I’d take one look at her and know that the I have a crush on Ginny Rhodes stage of my life is over.

Instead, after wishing the couple a lifetime of happiness, I’ve been wandering the grape fields and checking out the open winery buildings, avoiding her.

Very unsuccessfully, since I’m now lingering in a barn doorway across the fields from the main festivities, having accidentally stumbled upon Ginny and her mother and an older lady.

Ginny’s upright, but the other two—the other two are clearly having their own separate kind of party here.

“It’s Caro’s wedding day,” Ginny’s hissing. “What are you doing?”

Her mom, Freida, a taller, more slender version of Ginny, in a form-fitting shimmery green gown and some kind of magic makeup that makes her skin look like it’s made of porcelain, is sprawled on the barn floor.

She passes a joint to the older lady, who’s sprawled next to her between the plank wood wall lined with work benches and a large green tractor, then grins at Ginny.

“Caro’s so pretty,” Freida says in the loopy way that suggests this isn’t her first joint of the night.

“Caro will be pretty pissed if she finds you like this,” Ginny says.

“Lighten up, my dude,” Pip Makepeace says. She’s eighty-five, owns this place, and despite having all day to figure out exactly what she’s wearing, I still don’t know how I’d describe it to a friend in a way that would be believable.

It’s like a miniskirt and a chipmunk mated and created some kind of new dress that covers all of the critical parts—but not much more—with brown-and-black striped fur. And there’s an ornamental urn on her other side that doesn’t fit with the working-farm-equipment décor of the barn.

Or the wedding theme around the rest of the vineyard.

Freida giggles. “Yeah, duuude. Lighten uuuup. We’re enjoying the day.”

“Weddings are shit,” Pip says. “We’re enjoying the weed.”

“Noo, they’re boooti—buka—betterful.” Freida giggles.

“They’re dumb,” Pip replies.

“What do you know?”

Pip pats the urn. “Best you can hope for is that they kick the bucket young enough for you to enjoy the rest of your life without them.”

“Mike and Caro will be sooo happy, you old crank.”

“Happy if they like shit.”

“Who has shit?”

“They do. Marriage is shit.”

“It is not! It’s becka—boota—betterful.”

“I know you didn’t just call me a boobful.”

“Caro has a boobful.” Freida takes another hit off the joint. “Soooo many boobs. And she has a third nipple. Shhhhhh. I’m not ’apposed to talk ’bout it. It’s here.” Ginny’s mom points to her belly button. “And it’s so cute and small, but it’s a real nipple.”

Ginny puts her palm to her forehead. “Can you please not talk about Caro’s boobs today? At all? Especially today, and especially at all.”

She’s in a soft pink bridesmaid dress, with her own breasts hugged by satin and fluffy ballerina fabric flowing out of her waist.

Her hair’s wild and free, all brown curls spilling over her shoulders, and whatever she’s done with her makeup has her blue eyes popping in a way that I hate.

Mostly because of how much I want to stare into them.

Swear she caught me looking at her during the wedding.

“One day, Caro will have a baby, and her third nipple might leak milk,” Freida says.

“Do you know what kind of milk is good?” Ginny says. “Whole milk is good. It’s great in tea. Or hot chocolate. Or for dipping cookies. Which we can have when you sober up.”

“Eh? Who’s stripping bookies?” Pip says. “I dated a bookie once. Or was that a rookie? What are words?”

“I always have hot chocolate with Caro,” Freida says. “My first hot chocolate of the year. But now Caro and her boobful are gooooooone.”

Ginny sucks an audible breath through her nose. “Caro’s not gone, Mom.”

Freida stares up at her, then bursts into a wail. “My only daughter is leaving me.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Ginny mutters.

“You know what I mean,” she cries. “The pretty one.”

I bristle and twitch, but I stay half hidden behind a support beam.

Fuck. When did I get deeper in the barn?

Ginny’s a bug zapper light and I’m the moth, drawing closer and closer without conscious thought or the will to resist.

“Again, thanks, Mom,” Ginny says.

“Who’s a gritty one?” the older woman asks.

“Undoubtedly me,” Ginny replies.

Pip flops her head to one side and squints at Ginny. “Ted Leemee? Who’s that? Is he cute? Can he get it up like my bookie?”

“I’m all aloooooone,” Freida wails.

She pushes herself to sitting, bends her knees, then pitches forward as she tries to stand.

Ginny grabs her while I go tense.

“How about you sit back down?” Ginny murmurs while her mother continues to try to climb her.

“Noooooo. I have to go see my baaaabbbyyyyyy.”

“I’m your baby, Mom.”

“No, you’re the other one. I want my baby.”

“Who’s having gravy?” Pip says. “I covered my bookie in gravy. My rookie. My nookie? Haha. My nookie has gravy.”

She cackles.

Freida makes it to her feet, but instantly sways into Ginny.

Ginny urps as she catches her mom.

I tense, wanting to shove Ginny out of the way and let Freida fall to the floor.

Who calls their daughter the other one?

Fought guys for a lot less in my pro hockey days.

“Mom, you need to sit down,” Ginny says.

“What’s a shit town?” Pip says. “Let’s go there. I want to scatter this bastard all over a shit town.”

“We are not scattering ashes at my sister’s wedding.”

“Have to—make sure—my baby—loves me,” Freida sobs as she pushes Ginny away.

Dammit.

Dammit.

I look behind me, hoping someone else has wandered in here and can help, but I’m it.

Helping is on me.

“Mom, stop,” Ginny says.

“Have to go—go hug my baaaabbyyyy,” Freida replies, staggering into Ginny again.

While Ginny’s in heels.

Ginny sprained her ankle not long after Alex started dating her.

Do it once, you’ll do it again.

Shit.

Fuck.

Time to do my good deed of the day.

I step out from behind the post and stride to the women.

“Oh, thought this place was empty,” I say like I haven’t been watching for the past few minutes.

Ginny looks at me.

Her lip curls.

Her eye twitches.

It twitches more when I grip her mom’s arm and pull her off Ginny.

“Let goooo,” Freida says.

“Just helping you stand up straight,” I reply.

Freida’s makeup is still in place despite the tears rolling down her cheeks. “You’re cuuuute. You can be my cute. Caro got a cute. I deserve a cute too.”

“Declan’s not interested, Mom,” Ginny says.

“Who has a deck can?” Pip asks. “What’s a deck can? I have an ashes can. Is that the same? I’m gonna dump my ashes can. Dump it in the river. He always hated being wet. Says a lot about our sex life, doesn’t it?”

“I want a sex life,” Freida sobs. She leans into me. “Will you be my sex life?”

I grimace. “No.”

“But you’re stroooong. I deserve stroooong.”

I ignore her as much as I can ignore a woman who’s leaning more heavily on me by the second.

“Everything okay in here?” I ask Ginny.

It’s clearly not.

Ginny looks at her mom, then at Pip, then back to me, expression guarded. “Would you please go get my brother?”

No. No, let me help you.

I move Freida’s hand off my ass and try to manipulate her into sitting down. Key word being try. “Your brother?” I repeat to Ginny.

“Ten? Tennessee? About this tall, curly brown hair, likely trying to talk half the guests into doing kegstands and the other half into an orgy?”

I don’t want you, Declan. I want my brother. He’s a useless ass, but he’s still better than you.

It’s the right thing for her to say.

She shouldn’t want anything to do with me.