Page 9 of Bridesmaid to Bride

Yup. Definitely high.

After I whiz up the path and stop next to the green, I can’t help but overhear Neil’s proud chatter about Eva from the stopped golf cart ahead. Foster nods with a practiced interest that had to take years to perfect.

“Speaking of Eva,” Neil says to me, each word measured, “Foster here was just sharing his thoughts on her working for my firm remotely.”

“Ah, yeah, she can pull it off. She’s a great lawyer.” I shrug. “She’s an amazing cook and a gifted baker too. That woman is seriously talented.”

“Indeed,” Neil chimes in, though his tone suggests he doesn’t want to discuss baking—her real passion. “I can’t get her to agree to come back to the New York office.”

“Atlanta’s treating her well,” I say, keeping my voice light despite the tightness in my chest. After all, if anyone knows about Eva’s happiness, it’s me—the guy who’s been cheering her on from the sidelines for two years as she gave her food business everything she had. “Plus, she’s happy there.” A casual fact, heavy with subtext.

Neil frowns, the wrinkle in his brow deep. “Yes, well. Happiness is important,” he says, but his voice makes it sound like an afterthought.

Foster looks at Neil while adjusting the collar of his pink polo. “Your daughter’s an impressive lawyer. What she did with Thompson vs. Monroe was brilliant.”

“Can’t say I’m not proud. She’s always been determined, ever since she was a little girl.”

A pang of something twinges in my chest. That’s Eva, all right. Miss Determination. And she’s a great lawyer, but there’s nothing like watching her, sleeves rolled up, dark hair tied back, commanding the kitchen. It’s where she glows.

Once Zach and his ball join us on the green, Foster wags his eyebrows at us before taking a practice swing. “Watch and learn.” But Foster’s perfect chip shot takes an unlucky dive into a sand trap.

“Preach from the beach.” Zach snorts. I signal him to tone it down with a wide-eyed look, but he clearly doesn’t give a shit.

After Foster blasts the ball out of the sandy grave, dropping it inches from the hole. Neil finally speaks. “Nice recovery.”

“Good save,” I say, but Foster’s face clouds.

Neil steps up, business-like. A smooth stroke, and his ball obediently sinks into the cup for par. Neil tips an imaginary hat to us, and I can’t help but grin.

“The man’s got game,” Zach continues with his side commentary.

The putter feels like a sledgehammer in my hands, but I tap the ball gently. It dances around the lip of the hole before dropping in with a satisfying plunk. Bogey! I glance up, searching for some sort of acknowledgment.

“And that’s how it’s done,” Zach says to Neil, who merely nods, his eyes skimming me like I’m part of the landscape. No “good job” or “nice bogey” coming my way. I stifle a sigh. I always hoped Eva’s father would like me, but I remind myself that she and I are never happening.

“Your buddy got lucky,” Foster mutters to Zach, his New York accent coming out. He jerks his chin in my direction. “Or maybe he’s got skill,” Zach says, his tone light, but his eyes sharp. Well, as sharp as they can be when they’re bloodshot and stoner red.

“Skill?” Foster scoffs. “Let’s see if it holds.”

Luck, skill—call it what you want. But if life’s taught me anything, it’s that sometimes the underdog gets his day.

“Let’s get moving, shall we? Wouldn’t want to hold up the game.” Neil heads toward the cart. Foster and Zach follow.

I shrug off Foster’s words, watching the others move on, their backs a big F-U to any aspirations I might’ve had of fitting into Eva’s world. Her dad’s world. But really, who wants to be a piece of this uptight puzzle? Maybe this guy will make Eva happy. And me? I’m even more determined to step onto the set of Groomsman to Groom to date thirty women—where the chaos of tiaras, champagne, and eliminations might be just what I need. I’m more than ready to find my person and start a family. I just have to hope the show’s not looking for a polo-shirt-wearing, old boy club, clean-shaven type like Foster.

5

Slinging Mud

EVA

I’m naked in this swanky mud bath, and I’m wincing at the squish between my toes—and everywhere else. Paige, conversely, is lounging like a mud-smeared queen.

“Isn’t this divine?” she coos, stretching her arms out as if she’s about to take flight from her dirt cocoon.

“Sure.” I try to scoop mud from my unmentionables. The things you do for family—especially when your younger-by-two-minutes sister is the bride-to-be and it’s your job to make sure her TV wedding is picture perfect.

She wiggles her toes above the surface like she’s conducting an orchestra. “Relax. You may find this liberating.”

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