At least that’s how Sloane was feeling. It didn’t matter to her that the chirping birds outside her window had woken her up at six, the sun was mostly tucked behind a big honker of a storm cloud, and instead of music she’d been listening to a House Hunters marathon on HGTV that had been comprised of a lot of couples who sounded one fight away from the end.

They all wanted space to entertain but never really synced up on things like open concept, the budget, who got the crappy commute, and renovation projects. Sloane had stopped trying on her outfits for all the festival activities a few times to talk to the TV when the couple fought over things like paint colors and popcorn ceilings and when they obviously chose the wrong house. It wasn’t until she was watching an episode with a young newlywed couple who were trying to put down roots in North Carolina that Sloane found herself wondering about what she would do in their shoes.

Correction: What she and Brady would do.

Well, look at that.

Sloane felt the heat of a blush rise. It was quickly replaced by a more pleasant warmth.

Cassidy’s fashion show had been a whole heap of fun. From planning it—which included him, Emma, and her going back to the city to spend way too much money on costumes—to setting up the bar, to watching Brady let down his hair, so to speak, every moment had been a good time.

Brady had already been slaying the surprise game with the Rapunzel he’d helped her pull from The Drinking Spot’s window, but him sashaying down a runway, covered in glitter, while men and women yelled at him about his nipples, all while actually enjoying it? That had been a top-tier surprise for Sloane. She couldn’t picture the bartender who had kissed her more than a week ago even agreeing to the show.

And then it had happened.

Derrick Kennerly had shown up in the middle of the crowd and point-blank said he’d read the blog post about him. It had caught Sloane majorly off guard. She’d done her best to apologize, blaming a younger version of herself for feeling the need to write it in the first place, but that obviously had only made things worse.

Watching him onstage, listening to him drunkenly summarize one of the most embarrassing, cringe-worthy experiences of her life, had made every happy little cell in Sloane’s body freeze up and die. It was bad enough for strangers to hear the unfortunate tale, but somehow Brady hearing the grisly detail she’d left out felt worse. Sure, it was an old story of a seventeen-year-old who was still having a few bouts of distress and nerves around her first time, but that didn’t mean it was an easy pill to swallow. Even more than a decade later.