CHAPTER ONE
“WEDDINGS SUCK,” Ryder Crowley grumbled under his breath as he took a long drink of his beer.
He obviously hadn’t said his complaint quietly enough, though, because the woman standing next to him, Allie Devlin, poked his arm with her elbow. “I have more reasons to say that than you do. Five yards of reasons.”
Allie fanned her hand over his “Texas tuxedo”—jeans, jacket, Stetson and boots. Then she fanned that same hand over the “five yards” of bridesmaid’s dress she was wearing. The color was what Ryder would call turtle-snot green, and it puffed out in all directions because of the thick gobs of netting that were everywhere, even on the sleeves.
Ryder drank more of his beer and made a sound to indicate she was right, but the dress only confirmed that weddings did indeed suck on several levels. He wasn’t a fan of the clashing odors of the too-rich food, the flowers and the sweat being generated in the barn by the wedding guests who were boot scootin’ on the makeshift dance floor.
His attitude about weddings was likely heavily influenced by the fact that he didn’t consider himself the marrying sort. Of course, he hadn’t considered the groom that, either, but there was Curt Mercer, part one of his best friend posse, working up a sweat dancing with his bride, Savannah O’Neil, who he had met on one of the online dating sites.
After the reception, Curt and Savannah would be moving to her family’s cattle ranch two hundred and forty-five miles away in Abilene. Then, in about six months, they’d be having a baby that they’d yet to tell their folks about.
Ryder was happy for them and had never seen two people more in love, but he figured he was still allowed to feel the...loss.
Silently feel it anyway.
There was no chance in hell he’d ever let Curt know, but Ryder would miss not being able to call him at any time, any day for any reason. He’d miss their spur-of-the-moment fishing trips. And just hanging out when it was Curt, Allie, him and part four of the “Crab Posse,” Ryder’s twin sister, Bree, who was on the dance floor, too, with a groomsman.
They’d come up with the word crab using the first initials of their names. They’d been kids, only seven or eight, and had thought it pretty darn clever. By the time they learned it wasn’t just a dish served at the seafood restaurant but also a nasty STD, the name had already stuck.
Still did.
It was selfish, yes, to feel that loss, but the four of them had been best friends since preschool, and it was hard to let go of nearly twenty-seven years. You couldn’t just replace a first-part best friend.
His second-part best friend, Allie, gave him another nudge with her elbow—which was suddenly a lot sharper and more poky than he remembered. “Your date’s flirting with Dylan Granger. Nothing can go wrong with that.”
Ryder automatically smiled at the line the posse often threw around. “Nothing can go wrong with that”—something doled out with both sarcasm and assurance. It was used just slightly more often than their other tossed-around line—“Easy Cheesy cures all.”
Easy Cheesy was the brand of canned string cheese they preferred, and the line, too, was often said with sarcasm and assurance. However, it had proved to be their comfort food of choice and gotten them through elementary school and the rough teen years. So, maybe it did cure all.
“Did you hear me?” Allie asked. “Your date. Dylan Granger.”
He’d heard her just fine, and Ryder followed Allie’s gaze to the cleared-out area by the tack room, where he did indeed see his date, Mindy Franklin, eyeballing Dylan as if he were on the dessert menu. A lot of women eyed Dylan that way, though, since he was rich, good-looking and a Granger.
In their hometown of Wrangler’s Creek, Texas, the Grangers were practically royalty, and until three days ago, Curt had worked for Dylan and his family as one of their top hands. Ryder worked at the ranch, too, and Allie was their large-animal vet. Bree was the horse trainer, so even when it came to work, the Crab Posse had been inseparable.
“Mindy’s trying hard, but Dylan won’t hook up with your date,” Allie commented. “It’d be violating one of those man rules. But it’ll cause some talk about you not being able to keep a handle on your sweet things.”
He didn’t want a handle on Mindy, but he supposed it should bother him to have his date openly flirt with someone else. Mindy had moved on from eyelash batting to making sure her right boob bumped against Dylan’s arm. However, Ryder couldn’t even muster up a grunt of disapproval.
“I wish Dylan would put the moves on her. I’m not in the right mood to take Mindy home. Or have sex with her,” Ryder added in a grumble.
He really did need to work on his grumbling skills because Allie heard that, too, and she cut him a glance, complete with a raised, questioning eyebrow. “Really? You don’t want sex?”
Like Mindy’s flirting with Dylan, Allie’s skepticism was a reasonable reaction. Ryder didn’t have Dylan’s name or money, but he didn’t have trouble getting female company when he wanted it. Most folks thought all he did was want it, though, and with mandatory short-term relationship limits to boot, and that was how both Dylan and he had earned the labels of cowboy heartbreakers.
“Really,” Ryder verified.
“Careful, you’ll ruin your reputation,” she drawled, “and folks will think my prudish influence finally rubbed off on you.”
Well, maybe it had. Allie certainly didn’t have his “quick to bed ’em, just as quick to leave ’em” reputation.
Just the opposite.
She might not know that her nickname was Dr. Good Girl, but it fit her to a T. It was one of the reasons she was so easy and comfortable to be around, despite the fact that she was damn attractive. The issues that could have sprung up with him being a man and her a woman had never surfaced. But Allie never expected, or wanted, more than friendship from him, and sometimes, like now, a friend was exactly what Ryder needed.
Allie grabbed him another bottle of beer from a waiter who was wearing cowboy clothes that had never been meant for a real cowboy. Good Lord. The guy had on skinny jeans. She also took a glass of white wine for herself and, still sighing, they sank down at the nearest table and watched Curt.
“Life as we know it will never be the same,” Allie said, obviously not good at mumbling, either, because he heard her just fine. It expressed exactly what he was feeling. “At least he’s happy. That’s what I keep telling myself. Curt is happy, and Savannah’s a great woman.”
That was true, but it didn’t ease the heavy weight around his heart or the guilt he was feeling because of that heaviness. Ryder immediately tried to change his expression when the Brooks and Dunn song finished and Bree strolled toward them. His twin also grabbed herself a beer and plopped down on the other side of Ryder. She was wearing the same ugly dress as Allie.
“Weddings suck,” Bree complained.
Allie and Ryder exchanged a glance, one of those quick silent conversations that often passed between them. When Bree got in on the shared glance, Ryder knew they were all pretty much feeling that same loss.
“I was going to see if I could coax Dylan out of here for some fooling around,” Bree went on. “You know, just to blow off some steam, but it appears your date is trying to give him an eye exam and see how many times she can brush her boobs against his chest.”
They were indeed doing some deep eyeball gazing and more boob brushing. Again, it was nothing that interested Ryder. However, the man coming toward them—Curt—was of interest, and Ryder immediately tried to put on a happier face. Ryder figured Allie and Bree were doing the same thing.
“Did somebody crap in that wine and beer?” Curt asked, the corner of his mouth hitching with a smile. He took hold of a chair, spun it around and sat, plopping his arms on the chair back.
“We were just talking about how happy you are,” Allie provided. As usual, it was the right thing to say. No use dwelling on that whole business of life changing as they knew it.
Curt’s smile wavered a bit. Yeah, he was happy, but Ryder knew for Curt to keep hold of that beautiful woman who was responsible for that happiness, he’d need to move and start the life together that both the bride and groom wanted.
“You’re the first of the Crab Posse to knock someone up or get knocked up,” Bree contributed. “My wedding gift to you is a year’s supply of condoms along with video instructions on how to use them.”
As usual, it was the wrong thing to say. Bree had a knack for that. But it made them chuckle anyway. For a few seconds. And then the sad faces returned.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake. Cheer up,” Curt said. “And if you need a visual to help, just take a look in the corner to your right.”
Both Allie and Ryder did look, and he spotted the current mayor, Fred Billings, and his secretary, a large breasted woman half his age. They weren’t touching, but the sparks were practically flying off them and would be flying even further if Fred’s wife, Lucy, spotted it.
“Nothing can go wrong with that,” Curt added with a laugh. Like the previous chuckle, his laugh quickly settled, and he turned back to them. He obviously still saw some of the gloominess in their expressions.
“I’ll be back for holidays,” Curt assured them. He paused. “Hey, remember that time we all got sick when we tried my uncle Buck’s moonshine that I’d pinched from his truck?”
It’d been nearly two decades since that’d happened, and Ryder still felt his stomach lurch from the godawful memory. Judging from the shudders and head shakes from Allie and Bree, they were having a similar reaction.
“We puked, puked and puked some more,” Curt added. He flicked the puffball sleeve of Allie’s dress. “That’s the same color as the puke.”
For such a sorry-ass memory, it made them all smile, and they were the Crab Posse again. Ryder had a boatload of memories that were a whole lot better than that one, but it was definitely in the top one hundred for most memorable.
“Green’s Savannah’s favorite color so please don’t mention that puke-dress reference,” Curt whispered, glancing over his shoulder to make sure his bride hadn’t heard. She hadn’t. Savannah was chatting with some wedding guests.
Curt gathered his breath. “I’m gonna miss you guys, but we’ll always be blood brothers and sister. Well, Ryder, Bree and I will be.” He winked at Allie. “You were too chicken to cut yourself, or you would have been our blood sister, too.”
“I wasn’t chicken,” Allie readily admitted. “I just didn’t want to be Ryder’s sister.”
She froze, the glass of wine stopping less than an inch from her mouth, and she got a “deer in the headlights” look before she chuckled. “All right, I was chicken. Call me overly cautious about sepsis and gangrene, but I didn’t like the idea of cutting myself with a pocketknife that you’d used to gut fish and clean your fingernails. Nothing could go wrong with that.”
Allie chuckled at that part, too, but Ryder didn’t. Allie hadn’t said that she didn’t want to be their sister, just not his. Curt noticed it, too, and he volleyed some long, confused glances between both of them.
“You two aren’t—” Curt started, then stopped “—crossing lines, are you?”
“No,” Allie and Ryder said in unison, but Allie dodged his gaze. She stared down into her wine as if it held the secrets of the universe.
What the devil was going on?
Ryder tried to look at her face, to see what was in her eyes, but before he could manage that, Savannah came to the table.
“There you are,” Savannah said. She slid her hand around the back of Curt’s neck and kissed him before she studied the three of them. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I interrupt something?”
“Nary a thing,” Curt said at the same time that Ryder said, “Nope,” and at the same time that Allie said, “No.” Bree added, “Does a chicken crap diamonds?”
The four variations of the quick denial—including Bree’s oddball one—all added up to making it sound like malarkey. Which it was. Ryder had been on the verge of finding out what Allie had meant and then giving Curt some grief over suggesting that line-crossing thing. He’d never crossed anything with Allie and had no plans to start.
Hell, he mentally repeated that.
Now the notion of crossing lines and starting stuff best not started was in his head. Not that he would do anything about it. Nope, no, nary a thing, and a chicken wouldn’t be crapping diamonds. Even if Ryder had been so inclined, he would have to nix the idea because Allie was still his best friend. He could always get a lover, but best friends were in short supply.
“Oh, okay,” Savannah said, sounding about as convincing as they had been with their denials.
The silence came, awkward and a little thick before Allie jumped back into the conversation. “Savannah, I want to thank you again for asking me to be your bridesmaid.”
“Same here,” Bree agreed without adding a smart-ass comment.
“Glad you both agreed. I know how close all of you are with Curt, and we wanted the three of you to be a part of this.”
That wasn’t lip service. Savannah had immediately agreed with Curt’s choice as Ryder for his best man, and the four of them had considered Allie and Bree as honorary best men, too. In the end, though, Savannah had asked Allie and Bree to be bridesmaids and to stand in when needed for Savannah’s sister, Linda, the maid of honor—who was seven months pregnant.
“And speaking of being a part of this,” Savannah went on, “I need to ask one more favor. Curt and I will be leaving for the honeymoon soon, and the photographer wants to get some shots of the wedding party dancing. Linda has to get off her feet—swollen ankles—but I was hoping Ryder and you would dance together.” She tipped her head to Ryder and Allie. “Bree, I was hoping you’d dance with my brother.”
Bree jumped right in to do that, probably because Savannah’s brother, Trace, was good-looking. Normally, Ryder would have jumped to dance with Allie, too, but that blasted thought hit him again.
I just didn’t want to be Ryder’s sister.
Now it felt a little off. Obviously, though, he was the only one who felt that way because Allie did some jumping. She got right to her feet, tugging him out of the chair, and they set their drinks on the table while they made their way to the dance floor to Alan Jackson’s “Chasin’ That Neon Rainbow.”
Ryder had never considered himself an especially good dancer, but this was where Allie shined. She’d given both Curt and him lessons before their junior prom, and they’d ended up holding their own with dates whose names Ryder couldn’t actually remember.
Allie held her own now, too, as he spun her into a twirl before pulling her back to him for a little Texas two-step. But the fates seemed to be working against him tonight because the DJ switched tempo and put on a slow tune. The kind of song that squashed couples together and aligned parts that he didn’t want aligned with Allie.
But an especially stupid part of him started to urge him on.
They were a good minute into the squashing/dancing when Allie pulled back and looked at him. “Please tell me you’re not this hard because of me.”
Ryder blinked. He didn’t have an erection, but the urging on by the brainless idiot behind his zipper had suggested it, what with all the brushing and rubbing Allie’s front was doing with his.
“Hard arm and back muscles,” she amended, and her mouth quivered a little as if she might smile.
Both the clarification and the smile helped until he remembered there was a question in there. Were his muscles knotted and tight because of what she’d said about the blood-brother thing?
No. That wasn’t it.
And Ryder hoped like hell that was true.
He didn’t have time to dwell on it, though, or on the groin-tightening dance because the music stopped, and Curt lifted his hand to get everyone’s attention.
“Savannah and I want to thank all of you for coming.” He kissed his bride during the applause and cheers that erupted, a kiss that lasted long enough to keep the applause and cheers going.
“Get a room,” someone called out.
“That’s the plan.” Curt kept his love-filled eyes on his bride. “Savannah and I are saying good-night and heading off on our honeymoon.” More cheers, peppered with some PG-13 suggestions. “Y’all feel free, though, to hang out, dance and have some fun.”
Curt stopped by Bree first to say goodbye and hug her before he made his way to Allie and Ryder. More bear hugs that were so tight that Allie looked as if she might puke when he finally pulled back, and just like that, Curt and Savannah were gone.
Ryder immediately felt the loss again, but he pushed it down fast and plastered on the happiest face he could manage. He was doing good. Until his eyes met Allie’s. She wasn’t crying—Allie wasn’t a crier—but there was a shimmer, and she was blinking hard.
“Shit,” Ryder grumbled, easing her back to him. Not for a body squash or dance this time but for a much-needed hug.
Between friends.
When he pulled back, her eyes were still shimmering, and she was still blinking hard, but she glanced around the room at Bree, who had obviously set her sights on Trace. His twin had found a Band-Aid fix for her blue mood.
Allie squared her shoulders and looked him straight in the eyes. “Since tomorrow’s Sunday and none of us will have to work, want to hand Mindy off to Dylan so we can all get drunk?” she asked.
That sounded like a fine idea...until he realized there could be a big-ass pitfall with it.
“Uh, maybe now isn’t a good time,” he threw out there, but at best his tone was that of a suggestion. Still, emotions were running high right now, and Bree wouldn’t be with them.
Allie being Allie knew just what to say to soothe his doubts. “It’ll be our farewell to the Crab Posse.” She hooked her arm through his. “Trust me.” And she said the words she’d said to him a hundred times. “Nothing can go wrong with that.”