Dance…? Darcy loved to dance and was a phenomenal dancer. I’d seen her in action. I never danced with her because her husband was always around. I guess I would get my chance this weekend. I was no slouch, but I didn’t think she would let me push her around the dance floor. But the thought of Darcy’s body pressed against mine while dancing a slow bachata or a banda with my thigh wedged up against her pussy...

“Yeah, sure. I can do all that.” I squirmed in my seat. I might die, but I can do it.

“Thanks, man. I just want to make sure she’s okay and has a good time this weekend.”

The driver took us down Rainbow Row, one of the most photographed streets in the Holy City, and turned into what appeared to be an alley, albeit a cleaner, wider alley than I had ever found in Chicago. The driver pulled into a space next to a big, black Range Rover. The garage was open, and inside I could see an AMG Benz, low-slung and bright red. That had to be Darcy’s. Alongside the garage was a brick pathway that led to the back entrance of the MacFarland townhome. All the nervous energy that I’d barely kept at bay bubbled up inside of me as we grabbed our suitcases out of the trunk and made our way toward the house. Zinnias crowded the walkway. The strong floral scent was overwhelming, and I felt like that twenty-two-year-old kid, dying for his crush to throw a smile his way.

Just beyond the red brick entryway, the residence buzzed with activity. The courtyard and porches were getting decorated with white and pink peonies. In the yard was a huge archway of the same flowers on a raised platform that would be the altar.

“Holy shit,” Jared cursed in a soft voice as he stood on the porch, looking out over the yard.

“What?” I asked, concerned that something was amiss.

“I’m really getting married.”

I laughed and clapped my friend on the shoulder. “Yep, it’s really happening. You’re not getting cold feet, are you?”

Jared shook his head and smiled. “Absolutely not. Brandi is it for me, but seeing all these decorations and shit does make me feel nervous.”

Through the kitchen, another door led to another narrow brick walkway that opened onto a wide side garden. Just ahead was a sparkling pool where someone was swimming laps.

“Mr. MacFarland, and Mr. Martinez,” a clipped Southern voice greeted, and we both looked up to see the MacFarland family butler — a stern woman named Minerva Griffiths.

“Minerva! You’re still alive! I had no idea,” Jared joked.

And even though I knew that they had always shared this antagonistic humor, it still made me cringe. I felt uncomfortable in the presence of obvious wealth, even though I had some of my own now.

“Still insufferable, I see,” Minerva said drolly.