We stare at each other for several seconds before he speaks. “Do you trust me?” My back stiffens and he notices, prompting him to grab my hips and pull me closer. “Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Then trust me when I say it’s important. I can’t talk to you about it; not yet, anyway. But I will. I promise I’ll tell you everything when it’s all said and done.”

I don’t understand how any part of Reese’s job can be secretive; he’s an accountant, not in the mob. But I do trust him. Completely. So I’m not going to question this. “Promise me something?”

He smiles cunningly. “Depends on what it is.”

I grab his face and lean in, brushing my lips against his. “Don’t do anything that would keep you from marrying me. I will be a very angry bride if you spend our wedding day in jail.”

He laughs against my mouth. “Nothing could keep me away, love.”

I drop my head back down and close my eyes.

Nothing could keep me away either.

11

I’m never drinking again.

My head is pounding, my stomach is rolling, and my face is plastered to the cold tile of the bathroom floor.

This is not a good look for me. Nor is it one I wear often.

I’ve puked most of the night, the wave of nausea hitting me hard sometime after I passed out on Reese’s chest and sending me barreling head-first toward the toilet. But miraculously, I’m a quiet puker, so my well-rested fiancé was kept blissfully unaware about my nightly vomit-fest. That is, until he caught me praying to the porcelain God this morning, which is where I’ve spent most of my time while he packs for both of us. I’m dressed now, so at least progress has been made.

I feel his hand on my hip as I stay in my permanent fetal position. “Here, love. I brought you some water and two Advils. Have you thrown up recently?”

I shake my head, keeping my eyes closed.

“Do you think you’re going to throw up any more?”

I shake my head again. I haven’t thrown up in a least an hour, but I also haven’t tried moving either. I hear the soft clink of a glass and then feel his arms wrap me up as he lifts me off the floor, effortlessly as usual. I lay my head against his chest until he shifts me in his arms. I feel the bathroom countertop underneath my thighs as he sets me down on it and settles between my legs.

He picks up the glass of water and holds it out to me with the two pills in his other hand. “Take these. It’ll help. And we’ll get you some ginger ale on the plane for your stomach.”

I swallow the pills and drink close to half the glass before setting it down next to me. My head drops forward and my shoulders slouch. “I hate having you see me like this.”

He laughs quietly. “Like what?

I tuck my hair behind my ear and groan, keeping my eyes on my legs. “Like a train wreck. This isn’t like me; I can usually hold my alcohol. I don’t think I’ve gotten sick since the singing-telegram tequila incident.” My stomach churns at the word tequila. That hateful bitch and I can’t be in the same room together. I bring my fingers up to my face and begin massaging my temples. “What time do we have to leave?”

“Soon. The cabs will be here in thirty minutes.” His hands run down my bare arms, gently applying pressure. “Can I do anything else? Do you need anything?”

I shake my head before dropping it against his chest. “Just you.”

He presses a kiss to my hair. “You got me.”

The sound of our bedroom door opening alerts us both, and Ian emerges in the bathroom doorway. He surveys my pathetic condition as he leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms and his ankles. “What the hell did you and Juls drink last night? She’s been throwing up since 3:00 a.m.”

I shrug, barely moving my shoulders an inch. All my strength seems to have left me. “Just champagne. We had some wine at the spa, but not enough to make us sick.” I grab onto Reese and slide off the countertop. “Let me go see her.”

I pull my hair into a messy bun as I walk through our bedroom and into the hallway. My head still feels like it’s in a vise, but my stomach seems to have settled. I see the suitcases lined up outside the rooms, ready to be taken out. Four suitcases. Reese, Ian, Juls, me. Where are the others? Joey’s door is still closed and I panic that he and Billy might oversleep and miss the flight. Without knocking, or thinking, I open his door and barge in like I own the damn place.

Three heads pop up in the bed. Three very startled heads. And one of those heads becomes very alarmed being sandwiched between the other two.

“Brooke! What in the fuck are you doing in here?” Joey grabs the covers and pulls them up into his lap, covering him and Billy.

“Relax, baby. You invited her,” Billy says, before lying back on his pillow.

Joey looms over him. “I sure as shit didn’t. Did you?”

Billy grimaces before rolling over, pulling the covers over his head.

Brooke rubs her eyes and smiles. “You invited me, Joey. You also called me fabulous, I think, and said I’m welcome to join you guys anytime you go out.” She slips out of bed, revealing herself in a man’s T-shirt that barely covers the line of her panties. She flattens her palm against her forehead, frowning. “Oh, hello, hangover.”

“I would never invite you to share a bed with us. And get the hell out of my T-shirt. That’s one of my favorites.”

“Calm down, JoJo. You most certainly did ask her to share your bed. Drunk Joey is a major fan of Brooke,” Juls’ voice comes from behind me. I spin around a bit too quickly and have to steady myself with a hand on the wall. And then I look at her. She’s dressed in skinny jeans and a blouse, her hair pulled back into a bun and her makeup looking fresh. Even if she has been throwing up since 3:00 a.m., she doesn’t look it. Julianna Thomas has never looked anything less than chic a day in her life. She grins at me. “Sweets, can I talk to you?”