Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Biker (Wrong Number, Right Grump #9)

1. Hannah

HANNAH

I should have known better than to pack so much for a three-day wedding. The trunk of my car looked like I'd robbed a craft store on the way out of Dallas.

I’d picked up an emergency sewing kit, three types of fashion tape, and enough tulle to outfit a small ballet company. Lyra had sent me a list of what she needed. I'd brought everything on it, plus anything else I could think of that she might need.

That's what a good maid of honor did. I was supposed to anticipate potential problems before they had a chance to become disasters.

I hauled the first box out of the trunk and bumped the car door shut with my hip.

The August heat slapped me across the face, reminding me why I'd left Broken Bend for a city with functional air conditioning.

Lyra's house sat at the end of a gravel drive lined with live oaks, and the shade made the temperature almost bearable.

The front door opened before I reached the porch.

"You brought the whole store, didn't you?" Lyra stood in the doorway, her blonde hair pulled into a messy bun, wearing cutoff shorts and one of her fiancé’s old rodeo shirts.

"Just the essentials."

"Hannah." She jogged down the steps and grabbed the box from my arms. "I asked for a sewing kit and some bobby pins."

“They’re in there somewhere, along with everything else we could ever need.”

She laughed and pulled me into a one-armed hug that made the drive from Dallas worth it. We'd been best friends since middle school, when she'd moved to Broken Bend and I'd claimed her at lunch on her first day. Fourteen years later, she still smelled like vanilla and trouble.

"I couldn't survive this weekend without you," she said.

"You won't have to. I've got contingency plans for everything except a runaway groom."

"Carson's not going anywhere." She set the box on the porch and helped me carry the rest of the supplies inside.

Her living room had been transformed into wedding central.

Seating charts covered the coffee table.

Bridesmaid dresses hung from the door frame.

A half-assembled centerpiece sat next to a glue gun that looked like it had been through a war.

I surveyed the chaos with the calm of someone who'd been planning her dream wedding since she was twelve.

"Okay. First priority. Do you have the final guest count?"

"Somewhere." Lyra gestured at a stack of papers.

I found the list wedged between two bridal magazines and scanned the names. Halfway down the second page, I stopped.

"You've got Mr. and Mrs. Patterson assigned to room twelve."

"Yeah?"

"So are the Hendersons."

Lyra's face went pale. "Oh my gosh.”

“Don’t worry. I'll call the inn and take care of it.” I pulled out my phone and added the task to my to-do list. "What else do we need to tackle?”

"The florist confirmed the wrong bouquet color."

“We can fix that. What else?"

"Carson's mother changed the rehearsal dinner seating chart without asking."

That one made me pause. I'd dealt with mother-of-the-groom interference before, but Carson's mom had seemed reasonable when I'd met her at Easter.

"Do you want the original chart or a diplomatic revision?"

"Can you make it look like her idea was actually mine?"

"Please. I've been managing difficult people since I learned to talk."

Lyra's shoulders dropped two inches. She sank onto the couch and watched me sort through the welcome bags with an expression of relief.

Carson appeared in the kitchen doorway, his phone pressed to his ear. He waved at me, mouthed "catering crisis," and disappeared back into the other room.

"Is he okay?" I asked.

"He will be once this weekend is over." Lyra twisted her engagement ring, a nervous habit I'd noticed during our video calls. "I keep thinking I’m forgetting something.”

"You aren’t. But even if you are, that’s why you’ve got me."

I pulled out the printed schedules and spread them across the table.

They were color-coded, laminated, and organized by day.

Friday's rehearsal and dinner. Saturday's welcome events at the ranch.

Sunday's ceremony and reception. Every event was timed down to the fifteen-minute buffer I'd built in for inevitable delays.

As I got to work, I pushed an empty bottle of sparkling water out of my way. Ugh. My ex used to order the same brand when we went out to dinner. He always said plain water was cheap.

I drew in a deep breath through my nose. James Keller had been gone from my life for eighteen months. I wouldn’t let an empty bottle drag me down.

My phone buzzed. The bridesmaids' group chat had come alive with the sort of last-minute panic that made me glad I'd overpacked.

Jen: Are we seriously putting Hannah next to James at the rehearsal dinner?

A knot formed behind my breast bone. What the heck was she talking about?

Marissa: Lyra hasn't told her yet.

Jen: Oh shit

Marissa: DELETE THAT

My fingers moved before my brain caught up.

Me: Told me what?

The chat went silent.

I looked up at Lyra. She froze, her face the same pale shade as the wedding dress hanging behind her.

"Hannah—"

"James is coming to the wedding."

"Yes."

"As a guest."

She didn't answer.

My phone buzzed again.

Jen: I'm so sorry. I thought Lyra already told you James stepped in as best man.

The piece of paper in my hands suddenly felt like it weighed forty pounds. I set it down carefully like it might spontaneously explode.

“He's the best man,” I said, still hoping it wasn’t true.

"Carson's cousin had a family emergency.” Lyra’s words came out too fast, defensive and apologetic at once. "James and Carson have been friends since college, so he offered to step in."

I ran through the implications of this new development with the mechanical efficiency of someone who'd spent too many years managing other people's problems. The color-coded schedule now felt like a personal assault. I’d have to hold his arm as we walked down the aisle.

Stand next to him. Sit at the head table together.

Probably pose for five-hundred pictures by his side.

Maybe even have to fake a smile while we danced with the whole wedding party.

“How long have you known?"

Lyra's silence was an answer.

"How long, Lyra?"

“Two weeks."

Two weeks. She'd called me twelve times in the past two weeks. We'd discussed flower arrangements, bridesmaid drama, and whether the DJ should play the Cupid Shuffle. She'd sent me photos of cake samples and asked my opinion on votive candles versus tea lights.

In all that time, she hadn't mentioned that my ex-boyfriend would be standing next to me for the entire weekend.

"I was going to tell you."

"When? After I showed up?"

"I didn't know how."

"You could have started with ‘Hey, Hannah, James is the best man.'" My voice rose an octave and I forced it back down. Lyra's neighbors didn't need a show. "That would've been a good place to start.”

"I was afraid you wouldn't come."

Her honesty hurt worse than the lie. "You thought I'd bail on you."

"I thought you'd want to protect yourself."

"So you made sure I didn't have the option?"

Lyra's face crumpled. "I'm sorry. I handled this really bad.”

I wanted to yell. I wanted to throw something soft and unsatisfying, like one of the decorative pillows currently mocking me from the couch. Instead, I calculated how fast I could fake a communicable disease and drive back to Dallas.

"If you need to leave, I'll understand," Lyra said, her voice quiet.

That was even worse. Because she would understand. She'd cry, and she'd scramble to promote another bridesmaid to maid of honor, and she'd get married without me. And I'd spend the rest of my life knowing I'd let James Keller steal something else from me.

"I'm staying."

Lyra's exhale could've powered a windmill.

"But I'm still angry with you."

"I know."

"And I need space right now."

"Okay."

I gathered my things with movements that felt too controlled, like I was carefully picking my way through a minefield instead of leaving my best friend's house. Lyra followed me to the door but didn't try to hug me goodbye.

"Do you have a plus-one?" she asked. "It might help."

"I didn't invite anyone. I figured I'd be too busy with maid-of-honor stuff."

"What about Everett?"

"My brother has his own life. He can't drop everything because James decided to show up."

Lyra didn't argue, but the suggestion wedged itself into my brain like a splinter. Maybe my older brother didn’t have plans this weekend.

But first, I needed to escape. The cabin I'd rented sat ten minutes outside town, far enough from Broken Bend's Main Street to avoid running into anyone I'd gone to high school with. I dumped my bags inside and pulled out the emergency wine I'd packed for a post-wedding celebration.

One glass turned into two.

I'd spent eighteen months learning to take up space again. One weekend with James shouldn't undo that. But I needed backup anyway.

I scrolled through my contacts, my vision slightly blurred from the wine. Everett would come if I asked. He'd position himself between me and James at every event, run interference during uncomfortable conversations, and know how to handle things while I was pretending to be fine.

I found his name and tapped. Voice-to-text seemed easier than typing.

"I need you to come to Lyra's wedding as my plus-one.

This is a genuine family emergency because James is the best man and apparently everyone decided I didn't need to know.

Your responsibilities will include keeping him away from me, stopping me from drunk-crying in public, dancing with me at least once, and reminding me that having the maid of honor murder the best man would ruin Lyra's wedding. Please say yes."

I sent it before I could second-guess myself.

Then I added… Wear the black suit. You look good in that one.

His response came within thirty seconds.

Everett: What time do you need me?

Relief crashed through my chest. I typed out the address and the rehearsal start time, my fingers feeling fat and clumsy on the screen.

Everett: I’ll be there.

I set the phone down and finished my wine, already feeling better.

With my older brother by my side, I’d definitely be able to survive a wedding weekend with James Keller.