Page 4 of The Way We Collide

“No.” I growl, impatiently shoving my overnight bag into the back of my car. “Why would I tell Larry?”

“I don’t know. Aren’t y’all supposed to be sort-of getting engaged or something?”

Lawrence Calder O'Halloran is the son of my Dad’s business partner Therman. Since we were born, our parents shared the dream of us one day getting married and uniting their jewelry empire.

Larry shared my mother’s dream of marrying a Miss Georgia World, and he was on her side when I dropped out of that madness. To them it was the worst mistake of my life. To me, it was freedom.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate pageant girls. I’m just not one of them.

It was Larry who coined the nickname “Biscuit.” Once when we were in high school, I made my signature drop biscuits for him. They’re delicious and fluffy, and with cream and honey, they’re like little bites of heaven. Larry decided I ate too many of them, and a nickname was born. I wanted to kick him in the biscuit.

Lately, he’s been making offhand remarks about how these new compounding pharmacies make off-brand Ozempic at affordable prices.

“I wouldn’t marry Lawrence O’Halloran if he were the last man on the planet.” Anger heats my throat. “He’s a dick.”

“But you’re going to unite the families.” She holds out herhand, doing a pretty decent imitation of Don Corleone from the classic movieThe Godfather. “You’ll let down your father.”

“That ship sailed before I left for college.” My throat burns. “I only wish I wasn’t so financially dependent.”

“Aw, Dad loves you.” Amelia blinks up at me with the eyes of a youngest child. “He says a lot of stuff, but in the end, he really just wants you to be happy.”

Wrapping my arm around her waist, I pull her in for a hug. Ameila is a little taller than me, and has never had an overweight day in her life. She has no idea what it’s like to be the “failure” oldest daughter of someone like our mom.

“I’m sure you’re right, Sis.”

What makes meveryhappy is knowing that in four short hours, I’ll be down at the beach watching one of my dearest friends get married, going to a rocking after party, and having a weekend to be free of condescension and pressure.

“See you later alligator.” I give her a little squeeze.

“After while, crocodile!” She calls back, using our standard farewell.

Scooting behind the wheel of my car, I wave out the window as the gates slowly open for me to leave my family’s estate.

I can’t wait to see Dylan Bradford again. We share a love of cooking and eating and enjoying life, and we’re both a little fluffy.

We’ve kept in touch ever since the cruise, almost four years ago, when we discovered our love of hot peppers and margaritas and Mexico. We text, swap recipes, and she keeps inviting me to come for a visit.

Every Thursday at her family’s restaurant, they have a “Dare Night,” where she whips up a super-hot pepper recipe fordaringcustomers to try. She said it’s a fun party, and I’ve been promising to make time to see it.

I couldn’t believe it when she asked me to be one of her bridesmaids. Then she said I’d be walking down the aisle with her brother Hendrix, who I happen to know is the star tight end for the Los Angeles Tigers.

I looked him up, and he ranks two million on the Scoville heat scale. That’s hotter than a Carolina Reaper, in case you didn’t know.

It’s going to be the best weekend, like a mini-spring break, and as my father’s mansion grows smaller in the rearview mirror, my hopes grow bigger.

I’m going to have fun, and who knows? Maybe I’ll figure out a way to make a place for myself on the coast and get one step closer to my dream.

“What doyou like to do for fun, Raven?” Hendrix Bradford wraps both of my hands in his large ones and smiles down at me.

His sapphire blue eyes sparkle like the deep ocean, and I’m momentarily hypnotized.

We’re standing in the large dining room at Cooters & Shooters, and the Thursday Dare Night is winding to a close. I’m sorry I missed all the crazy fun, but my sadness is short-lived when Dylan introduces me to her six-foot-two, muscle-bound groomsman-older brother.

Let me just say for the record, Hendrix Bradford is 300 times hotter in person than he is in the pictures on Google, which makes him 300 times hotter than a Carolina Reaper.

I’m doing my best to be sassy-cool and toss my hair behind my shoulders as I laugh. I’m feisty and fun, and maybe he’ll want to give me a kiss after the wedding.

That’s the whole point of being a bridesmaid, right? Getting to make out with an insanely hot groomsman?

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