Page 4 of 280 Days


Font Size:

Off I-5, finally on the eastward highway toward the mountains, he had to be creative to keep his pace up and combat the endless incline. The highway widened again at the pass, just as he turned onto the next narrow highway. Tucked into just this side of the Cascade Range, the sign for Foothills greeted him. Trees stood thicker and taller than anything in Phoenix.

He reached across and unzipped his garment bag, alternating hands on the wheel, and slipped his arms into his button-up shirt. His tie had slipped off the hanger and was bunched at the bottom of the bag, irreparably wrinkled. Fuck it.

Foothills was absurdly beautiful and was being actively appreciated by half the damn state. Instead of driving down the main drag through town, the eclectic shops, restaurants—including the pub owned by his soon-to-be brother-in-law and his family, the brewery his brother owned, and a lot of his former haunts, he turned onto the side streets and made his way to the long, winding road toward his mother and stepfather’s house.

Cedar and pine trees framed the driveway. A maple canopy dappled shade over the sunny spring day as he drove down the long driveway. Cars were parked along the sides of the drive and in the wide entrance, and he spotted the valet team waiting at the door. At least that was in his favor.

White pots, white flowers, pristine and virginal to match the uppity mansion his mother had moved into with his stepfather when Ryder was in college. He shoved the pumpkin car into park and grabbed his jacket from the bag. He tossed the keys to the valet and dashed into the house. Glazed black doors stood twice his height, and he pushed them open and stepped onto the marble floor. High ceilings, more white—everywhere.

Quiet as a mouse.

Fuck. Had he missed it? He checked the time. Safe. Five minutes to spare. Photo. Fucking. Finish.

With his shoes on, despite his mother’s rules for the white carpeted room that was largely decorative and vacant, he dashed into the parlor and looked out the massive windows. Guests were seated in neat rows, with colorful potted flowers outlining the edge of the central aisle. A few propane heaters were set up throughout the yard to combat the spring chill, with more set out throughout the gardens to warm outdoor seating areas. Clearly, his sister had let their mother do the entry, but Haley had warmed up everything else with her own style.

No wedding party up front, so he hadn’t missed it.

Ryder slipped into the navy jacket as he dashed down the hall and into the ballroom.

The wedding party was gathered inside, and the oversized French doors to the backyard were wide open while music played and the crowd settled.

Grady spotted him and didn’t move from his position, ready to walk. His brother shook his head and relaxed his shoulders with an odd combination of disbelief and relief, halfway between laughing and sighing.

Ryder dashed over and swung wide to stay out of sight of the guests.

The woman on Grady’s arm turned and immediately grinned widely as she spotted him.

He recognized everyone else, mostly. But her… he would definitely have remembered her. Dark hair cropped just above her shoulders with beachy waves that seemed to catch every wisp of breeze coming in the doors. Toned as fuck arms, everything, she was absolutely an athlete. Rich brown eyes that would win any argument, but make you not mind losing. Like a puppy, but not at all.

“Hey, Ryder,” she said with a playful tilt of her head.

What? Who the hell was she? The deep blue slip dress moved over her skin like water, the straps so narrow they might magically snap with the slightest breeze.

“Hi,” he said, squinting to get a focused look and figure out who the hell she was.

Before he could attempt to fail at flirting, so damn rusty at it, Grady opened his mouth to speak, then shook his head again.

“I’m here,” Ryder said, trying to slow his pulse down, but after the rush to get here, it was going to take a while. “I fucked up, but I’m here.”

Behind them, Trace Perry—wait, Trace Falk—stood with the next groomsman. Haley’s childhood best friend, and the groom’s ex-girlfriend, oddly enough, Trace had been over enough that she was practically a sister. She broke away from the others and wrapped him in a hug. “You made it,” she said with pride and relief and an ounce of judgment.

“I wouldn’t miss it for anything, seriously,” he said, squeezing her back. If he’d missed it, all those plans to be a better brother would have crumbled beyond repair.

“You had us worried,” she said as she pulled back. “You had Haley worried.”

Fuck. “I am so sorry,” he said, guilt compressing over his chest. A million excuses, but they were all bullshit. “It’s good to see you, Trace,” he said as she stepped back into formation.

The groomsman with her was obviously Finn’s little brother—little by all of, what, two or three years, as comfortably over six feet as Finn was, and equally an athlete by build, posture, attitude, all of it. “Hey, Evan,” he said.

Evan’s nose scrunched with the breadth of his smile, as if Ryder was the butt of some joke. At least Evan was laughing, instead of the emotionally confused jaw-clenching like Grady.

“Ryder.” One side of his mouth lifted in a devious sort of grin as he glanced up at the bridesmaid on Grady’s arm.

She fired a wicked glare back at Evan and smacked him in the chest.

Wait, Zoe Halseth? It couldn’t be. Had to be. Same chocolatey brown eyes as her brothers, although a foot shorter, but she had that same confidence, or prowess, really, an athletic grace. She’d… grown up… nicely. Ryder’s eyebrow lifted and his lips pursed with a puff of surprise.

The music changed to a modern, ethereal beat, and the wedding party started their march.