“Thatcher,” I cut her off, petrified with how she was going to finish that sentence. “This is my Mother, Patricia, and my sister, Amy.”

“Ladies. Congratulations to you on such a happy event.”

Both of them practically preened at his words.

“I see Astrid’s beauty runs in the family,” he added.

They frowned, as if he’d totally stumped them.

Mother pulled herself together first. “The party is tonight, here in the bar, then there’s softball tomorrow after lunch, then the rehearsal dinner and the wedding Sunday,” Amy added.

Softball? I hadn’t heard of that one, especially since the only sport Amy ever played growing up was competitive clothes shopping. Fortunately, I always packed casual clothes and a sports bra whenever I traveled so I’d be able to play without getting two black eyes—and making a fool of myself in the process.

As for the rest of the weekend’s wardrobe, I had yet to see the dress for Sunday. Perhaps “being late” saved me from that tonight.

“I’ll park the van if you ladies want to go inside,” Thatcher offered.

I nodded and he gave my shoulder a squeeze before closing the van’s back doors. Amy hooked her arm through mine and led me up the front entry steps of the country club as she glanced over her shoulder as Thatcher drove off.

“I want to know everything about him,” she said. “Everything.”

“He’s just a guy, Amy,” I countered.

“Have you seen him? I mean, he wears a cowboy hat.”

“Um, yeah, I’ve seen him,” I replied. I couldn’t miss the cowboy hat because it had a serious effect on me. It seemed to have one on Amy, too.

“Don’t be petty,” she snapped. “Share. He’s big. Is he big… everywhere?” She waggled her eyebrows and gave me a sly grin.

I tried so hard not to blush, which was easily tempered by anger.

“Aren’t you getting married this weekend?” I countered. “To Michael? The guy whose everywhere you should be thinking about?”

She huffed, but said nothing more.

We cut through the fancy central hallway to the bar that overlooked the eighteenth hole. It was clear today and the top of Cutthroat Mountain was visible, snow still capping the tall peak. The club had a look of the Wild Wild West crossed with stodgy boarding school. There were elk and moose heads on the walls along with marble floors and gaudy red carpet. Cutthroat was known for its ski resort that catered to the wealthy and bored. Golf clubs replaced skis in the summer. My parents had been members my whole life and I recognized some faces we passed, including those who worked here.

Thatcher caught up to me at the bar. The server was handing over my glass of wine.

“Sorry,” I said.

He set his hand on the small of my back and ordered a glass of ice water. “For what?”