Page 138 of Altered

Seriously, her brain worked on a different frequency to the rest of the world.

"Relax," I coaxed, placing my hands on her shoulders. "Everything's gonna be fine. The wedding – that's not technically a fucking wedding because they're already married – will go smoothly."

"Hunter," she chuckled. "Don’t mock them."

"I'm not," I shot back, grinning. "I'm stating a fact."

"Well, facts or not, Bridezilla has called me three times today," Hope laughed. "She wants to know if we're coming over to help her with some last-minute wedding favors she scoped out on Pinterest."

I cocked a brow. "She wanted to know if we'd come over?"

Hope flushed. "Okay, she demanded we get our asses over to the house to help with setting up."

"And?"

She flushed a deeper shade of red. "And she said we were the worst maid of honor and best man that ever walked the planet."

I grinned. "Sounds more like it."

****

Hope

"Well if it isn’t Bonnie and Clyde 2.o," Teagan snarled when Hunter and I finally arrived at their place a little after eight-thirty that evening. "Thanks for the support, guys," she continued to rant. "Expect the same kind of support from me when you get married."

"Don’t listen to her," Noah called out from beneath a mountain of paper swans. "She hasn’t been fed."

Teagan turned her death glare on her husband. "Hey, Noah," she growled. "Guess who else won't befedif he doesn’t start supporting his wife?"

"Thorn…"

"And I meant that in a sexual way," she added. "Think about that."

"Jesus Christ," Hunter groaned. "You two are batshit crazy." Shaking his head, he stepped over piles of boxes of handmade paper swans that were scattered around the living room floor, and sank down on the couch beside Noah.

"Don’t sit on my swans!" Teagan screamed, looking horrified.

"Swans?" Hunter reached beneath himself and retrieved a discombobulated looking paper swan. "These areducks, Teagan," he told her. "And fucked up ducks at that."

Looking comically wounded, I watched as Teagan pressed her fingers to her temples and attempted some deep breathing exercises.

"Ignore him," I told her, casting a warning glare in the direction of the two men who were snickering on the couch. "They are definitelyswans."

"Really?" she asked, looking up at me with those big brown eyes of hers – that puppy dog expression that got her out of trouble on more than one occasion.

"I promise," I coaxed, wrapping my arm around her slim shoulders.

"I made a batch of doves, too," she announced, sounding much brighter now. "They're in the kitchen. Hang on, I'll go get them."

With that, she whizzed past me, a flurry of movement, moving faster than any woman at her late stage of pregnancy should have been able to.

Hunter's phone began to ring then, distracting me from paper animals, and I turned and watched him answer it.

"Yeah."

Pause.

"Tonight?"

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