The longer Mom talks, the more my anxiety over my lie lessens. When she arrives for the wedding, I’ll tell her Carter and I broke up. My lie won’t matter, because it’ll be like nothing ever happened.

Then Mom drops the bomb. “Of course, I’ll have to reconsider sleeping arrangements now that Carter will be there.”

“Carter doesn’t need to stay with us.”

“Don’t be silly. He’s family now. But the only available bed is in the room with Rich, so—”

“Rich is coming?” I practically shout into the phone.

“Of course he is. He’s family too, regardless of whether or not you two get back together.”

I haven’t seen Rich since he showed up at Jackson Brews a year ago. That night, the sight of him freaked me out so much that I made Carter act like he was my boyfriend—the favor I was returning when he called me up on stage last night. Why didn’t anyone tell me he was coming to the wedding?

“I’m afraid asking Rich to share a room with Carter will make them both uncomfortable,” Mom says.

I shake my head, still trying to wrap my mind around the news that Rich will be under the same roof as me and my whole family. I open my mouth to repeat that Carter won’t be staying at the mansion, then close it. Suddenly, I want him there. How much would it hurt to extend our deceit for one more week?

Carter

Unknown Number: Guess what? I’m going to be in town again soon. I went shopping yesterday and was hoping you could check out my purchases. I can’t decide if I like the black lace or the red satin more. ;)

I frown at the text as I finish wiping down the dining room table. I’m not sure who it’s from. The number isn’t saved in my phone, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s a misdial either.

Even if I’ve changed my standards, I’m not completely indiscriminate with my bedroom partners. With rare exception, I keep my activities limited to a few local friends I can trust to be discreet and who know our nights together are casual fun and nothing more. Friends who know not to talk to me about that hero shit. But I talk to those women regularly, and they’re saved in my phone. This must be one of the exceptions.

I scrub a hand over my face. When did I become an ass who categorizes his bedroom partners into regulars and exceptions? And what would Teagan think of me getting a text like this from a number I don’t recognize?

Before I can figure out how to reply to the mystery number, another text comes through. This one’s from Bethany, a former firefighter I worked with for five years before she started a new career as a nurse.

Bethany: I saw the paper. I didn’t know you were seeing Teagan. Please tell me she knows about me. I don’t have the energy for drama in my life, but especially not at work.