I never pick at my nails, but I’m gnawing on them now. This can’t be happening. No fucking way. I brace my neck and stomp through the unit as I try to make sense of what’s going on. Brandon once warned me that Solange was one bad relationship away from never dating again and marrying him instead. Is Solange really contemplating this? Is this why she said she’ll always have Brandon? “What should we do?”

“We?” Max barks out. “Oh no, buddy. The question is, what are you going to do about it? I’m here for moral support only. The two of you need to work this out amongst yourselves.”

“I need to stop this wedding,” I say, my heart pounding in my chest.

“Yes, you need to stop this wedding.”

“Because I want to be with Solange, and she needs to know that before she does something she can’t easily undo.”

“Holy shit,” Lina says in the background.

“Is Lina eavesdropping?” I ask Max.

“She’s wrapped around my body like a koala. It can’t be helped.”

I smile at the picture he’s painted. “Tell her Solange is upending my life in the worst way, and I’m loving every minute of it.”

“I assure you she heard that. My adorable curmudgeon is grinning so hard.”

“Okay,” I say, already running through the unit gathering what I’ll need for the trip. “I’m getting off the phone. I have a plane to catch—at the crack of dawn, probably.”

“Whoa. Now I know you’re in love.”

I stop short. “How’s that?”

“Because you’re voluntarily heading to DCA on the weekend. I can’t stand that airport; it’s going to be a nightmare.”

“She’s worth it.”

“Glad you think so. We’ll keep trying to reach Solange, and I’ll monitor their IG for any clues as to where they are. If you get to them first, let us know what’s going on, okay?”

“Will do.”

“Good luck, man.”

I’d intended to invite Solange to dinner and share my feelings then. Should have known that was entirely too ordinary for Ms. Pereira. Now I’ll be the one crashing Solange’s wedding. Assuming I can find her, and I’m not too late, that is.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Dean

Early Saturday morning, I make my bleary-eyed way through the plane’s cabin and let out a huge sigh of relief. Made it. Blessedly, the plane isn’t full. I’m in the aisle, and my seatmate, a broad-chested white guy with massive thighs, has the middle seat.

“This is promising,” I say to him, pointing to the crew members preparing for takeoff. “Looks like we’ll be able to spread out.”

He swings his gaze from the window seat to me. “Nah. I prefer the middle.” Then he tips his head back and places his red Nationals baseball cap on his face.

What a jackass.