“Not me. I have a trust, which you probably didn’t even need to know about, but I don’t touch it. I went to college on a scholarship. I live off what the bakery brings in.”

“Because you don’t want to be like them?”

I nodded and looked at the snap on his shirt.

“Sweets, I’ve only just met them, but I feel confident in saying you couldn’t be like them if you tried. Are you sure you weren’t born in a cabbage patch?”

I snorted, then laughed so loud that heads turned our way.

“Stork,” I countered. “Anyway, I think my parents’ love, or lack of it, is why I’m still single. Amy and Michael are on their way to being just like them, and they haven’t even said ‘I do’ yet.”

What could he say to that? I redirected the conversation, realizing I was sharing things that Thatcher probably didn’t care about.

Fake boyfriend. Even if he were a real date, no guy wanted to hear about how fucked up my family was. He didn’t need the words. He could see it for himself.

I directed him to a cluster of younger guys by the bar. “The one in the pants with anchors embroidered on them is Michael, my future brother-in-law. Besides his odd taste in fashion, he’s a nice guy.”

“Dad’s name?”

“Charles.”

“Michael and Charles. Got it. Which one’s the former president?”

I grinned. “Franklin Pierce is the blond guy to Michael’s left.”

“The guy beside him is Thomas Bunker,” he said, which had me looking from the group of guys, to him, surprised.

His jaw was clenched.

“That’s right,” I agreed. “You know him?”

“He’s from The Bend. My brothers and I grew up with Bunky. His wife’s sister is Huck’s woman.”

“From the tone of your voice, you don’t like him,” I said.

“He’s an asshole,” he muttered.

“He’s in Amy’s circle of friends. They went to college together. I think his grandparents invented something and he’s loaded, which is most likely why they’re still close.”

“And why he fits in here.”

“Astrid! Jello shots!” We turned at Amy’s shout. She waved me—with her other hand holding up an orange filled shot glass—over to a cluster of women who surrounded her and were all eyeing Thatcher. A waiter stood by with more shots on a tray.

I gave her a little wave and leaned toward Thatcher. “You know Amy. With her are the bridesmaids, plus a few other friends. A cousin from Seattle. I can give you all their names if you—”

“Astrid.”

This time the voice calling me was male. And much closer.

Thatcher and I turned as one.