Page 13 of The Love Wager

I dig out of the surprisingly soft white sheets and stumble from the king-size bed to the door. Pulling it open, I find Taylor waiting, two coffees in hand.

I snatch one from her like an untrained monkey at the zoo.

“Jesus, babe. You look rough.”

“The real question is, why don’t you? And why are you here so early?” I groan, plopping onto the bed and tucking my legs underneath me. I suck down the delicious vanilla latte and sigh as the warm liquid coats my scratchy throat.

“Final dress fitting ring a bell?”

“Oh shit, that’s right.” I jerk to the left and look over my shoulder at the alarm clock on the side table. The red numbersread nine o’ six. “Your appointment isn’t until noon; why wake me up so early? You know I don’t do hungover well.”

“We haven’t spent time together in person in over two years. I love our weekly Facetime calls, but I have you for an entire week. I’m going to take advantage,” Tay sings.

“Pancakes. If you want me to leave this hotel room before eleven thirty, you owe me pancakes.”

“Deal! Now, go fix your hair and brush your teeth. You look and smell like the roadkill I passed off Route 16.”

I reach over and snag a pillow to chuck at her head. She’s way too perky for the amount we drank last night, and she easily misses the flying object.

I trudge from the bed with my magic cup of life and disappear behind the bathroom door, praying a shower will make me feel human again.

Asteaming stack of pancakes slides in front of me, alongside my third cup of coffee. The caffeine is slowly chipping away at my hangover headache. I double-fist the heavenly liquid with water, working all avenues for a quick reprieve.

I drizzle enough syrup to drown a fish over my stack and dig in. An embarrassing moan rips from my throat when the buttery-sweet goodness hits my tongue.

Taylor’s eyes widen, and she hides her growing smile behind a freshly pressed glass of orange juice. “Good?” she asks, laughing as I shovel more bites down.

“Why is the food so much better here than in LA? The pizza last night, now these?”

“Because there’s nothing like southern cooking, Indie. Wait? What pizza? Please tell me you didn’t search for food after I left last night?” Alarm fills those bright blue orbs staring at me.

“Uhm, no. Not exactly. So, are you excited about your last fitting?” I try to change the subject, hopeful she’ll be excited to get on the topic of the wedding.

Her eyes narrow into slits. “Indie Renee Monroe.”

My shoulders jerk to my ears at the sound of my full name. It brings back visions of my mother scolding me through the kitchen window in the middle of summer as I ran around the backyard.

“Don’t full name me.” I poke my fork in her direction.

“When did you have pizza? Where?”

I let out an obnoxiously long sigh, my silverware clattering against the table. “After you left, I realized no other cabs were waiting. When I went to grab my phone, it was missing. I barged back into the bar and Brooks wassuperhappy about it. He workedreally hardto help me find my phone. Then, as I was leaving, his incredibly sweet and funny brother walked in with a giant pizza box. He offered a slice, and I couldn’t turn away greasy, cheesy carbs at two in the morning with a stomach sloshing full of toxic liquid, so I stayed. Afterward, Brooks drove me back to the hotel. It was no biggie.” I speed through the bullet points and shove another forkful of pancakes into my mouth to shut up my rambling.

“Wait, you met Nick?” she asks, a tone of disbelief coating her question.

“Uhm, yeah. He was super nice. There are, like, zero similarities between them. Why do you look like I saw some town ghost?”

“It’s not my place to tell you his story, but Nick tends to keep to himself. Well, except for his brother.”

I wonder what she means by that. Even through my inebriated haze, the man I met last night seemed like he’d be the life of the party.

Then again, I intruded on their brotherly time; maybe I only saw a façade of what he’s typically like.

The last bite of my food was a mistake. I’m stuffed full and bursting at the seams—the perfect way to be right before my final dress fitting. Tay, on the other hand, pushes away her half-eaten plate of an egg white scramble and a bowl of fruit. The girl has nothing to be worried about going into her appointment, but she’s still on some ridiculous pre-wedding diet.

The waitress comes by with the check, and I reach forward to take care of it, but Tay steals it from me, throwing down her platinum card. The move reminds me of our parting conversation last night. The nagging feeling to bring back up the topic pokes at my mind until I’m physically stressing my fingers under the table.

“So, Tay?” Her eyes pull free from her phone, meeting mine. “Do you remember what we talked about last night before you left in your cab?”

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