“Jesus Fucking Christ,” I groan as my phone blares out “Highway to Hell.” Must be Brody’s fiancée calling about something or other. I take a swig of water from the nightstand next to the bed of my hotel suite to make me sound less hungover. Scratch that—less drunk.

“Hello?” I try to sound pleasant for her.

“The wedding photographer is arriving in forty-five minutes. Brody’s phone is off. Where is he?” Claire snaps.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, sweetheart! Slow your roll. It’s not even…” I glance at the alarm clock, cursing under my breath at how late it is, “…three yet. Brody’s almost ready. We’re just putting some last minute touches on his suit. You know, something borrowed, something blue.”

“That’s for the bride, nitwit.” Claire doesn’t buy my poor excuse at all.

“That’s not true,” I grasp at straws. “Us Italian men have a long-standing wedding tradition of hiding thick handkerchiefs in our coat pockets so we can dab away tears in private.”

“Really?’’ There’s a definite swoon to the woman’s voice that lets me know I’ve tricked her into calming down.

“All right,” she relents, “but if he isn’t dressed and down by the garden in thirty minutes, there will be hell to pay. Capisce?”

“Aw, you see? You’re picking up our culture already.” Sealing the deal with a compliment should tie her over for now. “See you soon, sweetheart.”

“Just get his ass here.” She disconnects the call. Damn, too far on the pleasantries, I guess.

I sit up, wondering where the groom is this time. Brody’s been my best friend for nearly five years now, and I still can’t trust myself to go out partying with him. He’s a functional drunk and an enabler of stupid ideas. Scanning the room, I spot him reclining in a chair on the balcony. Most likely passed out only hours before his big day.

I reach for the minibar, grabbing two cans of beer, and walk around Brody’s unused bed. Normally, I’d be a little pissed about him leaving the back door open all night without at least closing the bug screen. Plus, the view of the Rockies is something I’ll never get tired of beholding. But this only makes it easier for me to vigorously shake the can in my left hand. I set down the unshaken can.