Definitely not going to look when they pull up.
“Just tell them where you want the boxes when they bring them in. I’ll be the job supervisor.”
“I am just so thankful you’re helping me right before the wedding. I know you have a million things you need to be doing.”
Hollis shrugs. “Nah, don’t think twice about it. My mom and sister and Madison have turned into wedding-planner-zillas—I haven’t had to do anything. Mostly because when I try, they get frantic and it screws up what they’ve already planned. This wedding is my mother’s dream and Fiona is so excited. You’d think it was Madison getting married the way she’s carrying on, and honestly?” She picks at one of the sprinkles covering the donut. “I’m happy to let them. Trace and I just want to be married—we weren’t going to do a big wedding, but my family wanted one. And his mother would have a heart attack if we went to Fiji and eloped.” Another shrug.
“You’re a better woman than I am. No way would I let my mother and sister and friend plan my entire wedding.”
“Seriously? It’s amazing. All I have to do is show up. It’s like having all these surprise parties—and you know how I love surprises.”
She always did.
“Still. I would kill my mom. She would drive me completely bonkers.” My mother has always controlled everything I’ve done. Putting me in the activities she wanted me to be in, signing me up for classes she felt were cultural—not necessarily ones I was interested in. Made me hang out with girls who were from good families, not girls who were fun to play with.
The only freedom I ever tasted was those four years at college—one I chose that was a plane ride away.
My moving back to the city where I grew up isn’t what I planned for myself. I wanted to be far away and stay far away. Problem is? No job offer could compare to the one my father, uncle, and grandfather made me.
The plan? Work the next five years, stash the cash, then search for my dream job.
My cousin’s voice interrupts. “You’re zoning out on me. Earth to Chandler.”
My head shakes. “Sorry. I was just…”
“If you married Tripp, we would be sisters.”
That is the sort of thing we daydreamed about as kids, marrying brothers and becoming sisters. Even though Hollis has a sister, they weren’t as close as she and I were. I don’t have any siblings, but have always wanted one.
It would be so perfect.
If the guy wasn’t a douchecanoe.
I scrunch up my face. “I love you, but…”
“So no to Tripp? You don’t want me to…” She gives her upper torso a shimmy. “Facilitate a union?” Her brows go up and down.
I laugh. It’s sweet that she thinks he’d even want to date me if she suggested it to him. “No, I’m good.”
Her eyes trail to the swag bag from her bachelorette party, and she gives an “Ooo” before pulling it toward her. Peers inside. Roots around. “The vibrator isn’t in here. Did you get one?”
“I did.”
Hollis glances up at me. “Where is it?”
I stare at her silently, unwilling to point toward the bedroom or admit that I may have tried using it last night before passing out in bed with exhaustion.
“Chandler Westbrooke, were you jerking off last night?” she shouts as the front door opens and Buzz sticks his head through, ears perking up at the tail end of Hollis’s statement.
“Babe, we’re back.” He has a shit-eating grin on his face.
Oh good, he didn’t hear her talking about—
“Who was jerking off last night?” he asks, coming all the way through, holding a box labeled Books. “Was it you?”
He’s looking straight at me and I go to the fridge, yanking it open solely to avoid his gaze. Stare down at the empty ice box, glowing light illuminating the zero foods I have stocked on the shelves.
“We were talking about sex toys.”
I want to groan when Hollis supplies Buzz with details.
No we weren’t talking about sex toys! She was, I want to say, but I don’t want to sound like a petulant child. One who’s embarrassed to discuss sex in front of practical strangers—even ones who are about to become family.
“I hate when you call it jerking off,” Buzz tells his fiancée, kissing her on the top of the head on his way to the living room. “It’s such a dude-like thing to say.”
She pops donut onto her tongue. “Is there a daintier way to say it?”
“Yes. Just say masturbate,” he says over his shoulder. “Or pleasuring yourself.”
“Ew.” In goes more donut. She chews.
In walks Tripp.
He doesn’t speak, just stands there holding a cardboard shipping box, brows raised expectantly.
“Living room.”
Off he goes.
What is his problem? I mouth to Hollis so he doesn’t hear me.
My cousin shrugs, and we follow him with our eyes as he passes by again, heading back out to the truck for more stuff.
“Probably sexual frustration. He doesn’t date much.”
“Dating and sex have nothing to do with each other,” Buzz remarks, passing by the kitchen and out the front door.
Does the man have supersonic hearing? Jesus, he was in the other room when Hollis said that.
“We should probably help them.” I worry my bottom lip, not wanting to appear lazy after the guys came to help me move.
“Pfft, let them do it. Have you seen them? They’re built like tanks.” She lifts her coffee mug and slurps. “Besides, I’m the bride.”
“I’m not.” I glance at the front entrance. “Are they going to think I’m a brat for not helping?”
My cousin scoffs. “Pfft, no—Buzz told Tripp it was your birthday so he wouldn’t make you feel bad for taking it easy.”
Why does that not surprise me? “Let me guess—he’s the type of guy who tells the servers at restaurants it’s someone’s birthday for the free dessert.”
She nods. “Free dessert, yes, but mostly the embarrassing singing part.”
Sounds about right.
The guys reappear, Buzz holding boxes, Tripp carrying two suitcases I remember packing clothes inside of.
He stares at me.
“Those can go in the bedroom,” I direct. “It’s down the hall and—”
“Is it the only bedroom?” Tone impatient.
“Yes.”
Rolls his eyes. “Then I think I can figure it out.”
Rude.
I stand, slack-jawed at the end of the hallway while he hefts the gold suitcases I stuffed to the gills, down the hall, each arm carrying one.
He returns from my bedroom and disappears outside, quickly reappearing with a side table clenched between his hands, blank expression on his face as he regards me for instruction.
He speaks. “Bedroom?”
“Yes please, on the right side of the bed.”
I trail behind him for lack of anything to do, not wanting to unpack with people here.
I find Tripp Wallace—all six foot something of him—standing next to my bed holding the side table. He’s staring down at my carpet, bending at the waist to scoop something off the floor.