Prologue

PROLOGUE

THE MARRIAGE PACT

Asher

Two Years Ago

“The thing about bad ideas is they usually seem like good ideas at the time.”

I take a planned pause from my best man speech to survey the sea of wedding guests. They’re relaxed here under the white tent, rumpled suit jackets and little purses slung over their chair backs as the sun dips below the Golden Gate Bridge behind us.

With a glass of award-winning champagne in hand, I stroll around the head table, flash a we knew better glance at the groom, then shoot a winning smile for the hundred-strong crowd. Time to bring this speech home for Beckett. He deserves the best toast ever, and I’m the one who can give it to him.

“Like, say, that final shot of tequila,” I say, with a curve in my lips. “Always seems like a good idea. But it’s pretty much the opposite. ”

A collective groan echoes through the room. Yup. We’ve all been there and done that.

“Or, for instance, a homemade zip line,” I add, shaking my head in disbelief at the antics of our younger selves. I stage whisper into the mic, “College. The genesis of nearly all bad ideas.”

At the head table, the maid of honor—also known as the sister of the groom—laughs, then lifts a manicured hand in solidarity, her sparkly silver nail polish glinting in the soft light. “Can confirm it was the worst idea.”

“We were lucky you were there.” I nod toward the sometimes blonde, sometimes brunette. Maeve’s hair color seems to change with her mood. Tonight at her brother’s wedding, it’s chestnut brown and twisted in, well, some kind of twist, with golden-streaked tendrils framing her face. “After all, she’s the one who took us to the ER the night Beckett and I made a backyard ride out of rope eight years ago.” A handful of guests laugh lightly, and I add, “But the shoulder injury—so worth it.”

“Better your shoulder than mine,” the groom shouts.

“My coach disagreed, but I digress,” I say, then turn back to the audience, which is made up mostly of friends, but some family. Beckett’s family primarily consists of him and his sister, and it’s been that way since we met. I clear my throat, heading into the home stretch. “But luckily, it goes the other way, too, with good ideas. Like when Maeve said she wanted to set up her brother with a gallery manager she knew.” I gesture toward the bride, Reina, who smiles dotingly at my friend. “I thought it was a terrible plan. Especially since there was that little matter of Beckett refusing to go on a setup.”

Maeve smiles faux demurely, maybe a little wickedly. Kind of her specialty. “But we knew better,” she says proudly.

I shoot her a pointed look. “ You knew better. Me? I told you setups never work.” I turn back to the guests. “But Maeve insisted, and I went along with her. She’s very clever. Very creative.”

“Very tricky,” Beckett says with a fake cough.

“You benefited from it,” Maeve says and gestures grandly to the evidence—the damn wedding.

“So we organized a game night. Invited… a bunch of friends .” I sketch air quotes since we invited exactly no one. “When Beckett arrived at my place, he looked around and asked where everyone else was. I said they were coming but we could get started, just the four of us. Spoiler alert: No one showed up but Reina, and during a vicious game of trivia where those two tried to one-up each other, Maeve and I slipped into the kitchen to refresh the snacks. And…” I gesture proudly to the newlyweds. “Here we are. Thanks to a fake-out from the maid of honor and the best man.”

“It was the best idea,” Beckett says genuinely, then drops a quick kiss to his bride’s cheek, before turning to his sister and giving her a grateful hug. “Can’t thank you enough, Maeve,” he says, his voice choked with obvious emotion. She hugs him back, holding on before letting go.

The emotional moment between the two of them makes me look away. It feels private, personal. But then, it’s not a secret they’re all each other has.

When Maeve blows out a clearing breath and adopts a smile, I take that as my cue to restore the levity.

I lift a glass. “But don’t worry about me, Beckett. I’ve still got a partner in crime the next time I want to make a homemade zip line.” I look to the new second-in- command in troublemaking, Maeve, then once more to the guy who’s been my best friend for almost a decade. “To finding the love of your life and keeping her close every day.”

The crowd toasts with a hear, hear , while Maeve’s big hazel eyes capture mine for a long beat, and then she mouths, “Good job.”

And I…blink.

Because wow…

Look at her lips.

They’re awfully pouty tonight. Terribly glossy. And strangely, incredibly tempting. They’re shiny and the color of a raspberry—a ripe, red raspberry I want to taste.

What. The. Hell?

I jerk my gaze away as I try to shake off the fog of lust that rolls in like unexpected weather. Maybe it’s the wedding makeup. Because something has to be messing with my head.

I clear my throat. Fucking raspberries.

“So,” I say to the crowd once more, “let’s get this party started!”

I set down the mic and try to dismiss these new thoughts about Maeve. I’ve known her for eight years. Met her in grief counseling. She’s not only my best friend’s sister—she’s my other best friend.

In all that time, I’ve never thought of her lips. I mean, not much. No more than the average number of lip-related thoughts a straight guy would have about a straight woman.

This is just a passing thought. And passing thoughts…pass.

Bet it goes away right now as the bride and groom hit the dance floor, urging everyone to join them while the upbeat pop song plays.

Maeve’s heading toward me in a black dress that hits right below her knees and hugs her hips. “Want to know what’s never a bad idea?” she asks when she reaches me.

“What’s that?”

“A dance,” she says, and yes, of course. That’s a perfect reminder of our long-standing friendship.

We dance to a few tunes, all fun and friendly. It’s enough to erase those errant thoughts from before. We roll into the cake-cutting and then the toasts from the bride’s relatives. Then another slow song begins, and Beckett grabs the mic and points to us. “And now it’s time for the traditional best-man and maid-of-honor dance.”

“That’s not a thing,” I say.

Maeve rolls her eyes at my retort. “I don’t bite,” she says as she nears me.

But does she bite? In bed? Does she like to be bitten?

Ah, fuck.

What is happening to me? I could blame Frank Sinatra, singing about foolish hearts. Or maybe it’s the wedding messing with my head. I’m a big fan of weddings—my dads took me to a million of them when I was growing up. In the years since, the dates were always plentiful, the times were always good. I’m simply a wedding kind of guy.

That’s all.

Relieved that I finally get what’s going on in my brain, I take Maeve into my arms, my hands curling around her soft waist.

That’s nice.

A friendly kind of nice though.

The way my palms fit around her figure is very, very friendly, I’m sure. I’m not distracted by her bare shoulders and the freckles dotting her fair skin. Besides, we’re a respectable distance away from each other. Several inches, probably. Studies have shown that several inches is a platonic amount of space.

“Question for you,” Maeve says, pulling me out of my thoughts and back to the speech.

“Hit me,” I say.

“Do you remember something else that seemed like a good idea? Like the morning you thought it’d be a good idea to do a Zoom interview with The Sports Network while not wearing pants?”

“The team publicist almost didn’t forgive me,” I say, laughing as I recall the are you kidding me shock on the publicity director’s face when I showed up at the arena later that day.

“But of course, you had to get the Pop-Tart out of the toaster in the middle of the interview.”

“It would have burned,” I say with zero sarcasm. No remorse either.

“Thank god you saved that Pop-Tart. If not, the whole world wouldn’t have seen your…wait for it… best hockey butt ever .”

I’m not even embarrassed that I’m known for having a great ass. “I had on compression shorts?—”

“Tight, nearly see-through, white compression shorts,” she corrects.

“That made my ass famous,” I counter. “And now I have a great underwear sponsor. So really, the ass paid off.”

It pays handsomely every day. The top three search results for me are Asher Callahan stats (they’re awesome), Asher Callahan girlfriend (the answer is none), and Asher Callahan ass (it’s even more awesome than my stats, and that’s saying something).

“I stand corrected,” Maeve admits. “In hindsight it was a good idea to get the Pop-Tart out in the middle of an on-air interview.”

“It was brown sugar cinnamon.”

“Ah, that makes perfect sense now,” she deadpans, but then her brow cinches like she’s considering something. “I was always curious what kind it was. I tried to figure it out from the video. I watched it so many times,” she muses.

“So it was you that drove up the view count. How many times? ’Fess up,” I say, but the second the taunt breaks free from my lips, my head spins. Why did she watch it so many times? Did she like it?

Why do I care?

But Maeve simply shrugs innocently. “A lady never tells. But maybe I’ll tell the story at your wedding someday when I give a toast,” she says as we sway, then she slows her pace, asking with a soft laugh, “wait, am I going to be your best woman when you get hitched?”

“Only if I’m your man of honor,” I fire back. My toasting her at her nuptials feels distinctly possible. More likely than my learning if she likes biting.

But Maeve simply scoffs. “You know my track record. No one wants to marry a broke artist who’s bad at romance.”

“You’re not bad at romance,” I say gently. You just pick dickheads who don’t appreciate you . She looks to her brother and Reina with a happy sigh, then turns back to me with a helpless little shrug—like she wants what they have but doesn’t think she’ll ever have it.

Something comes over me—maybe it’s the champagne, or maybe it’s just that weddings make you think about, well, weddings. Whatever it is, I say casually, “Don’t worry. If it comes down to it, I’ll marry you.”

She pauses, then arches a skeptical brow. “You’re suggesting a marriage pact, Callahan?”

Seems I am.

I don’t back down from a challenge—not one thrown at me or one I throw down. Besides, she seems to need certainty right now. “Sure,” I say. “If you ever need a husband, I’m your guy.”

A laugh bursts from her, but then she schools her expression. “Fine,” she says primly, adopting a regal air. “Since you made such a heartfelt proposal, I accept your marriage pact.”

“I’ll hold you to it,” I say.

“You do that.”

Then I dip the fuck out of her here on the dance floor. Her back bows and her foot pops up, but she holds on tight, laughing brightly. The sound of her laughter knocks something else loose inside my head as I tug her back to standing. Possibly a few brain cells that slept through the last eight years of friendship. Because…Maeve is pretty and charming and fucking adorable. How did I miss what’s been right in front of me?

Her laugh, like wind chimes, sounds prettier than it has before. Her perfume, like wildflowers on a sultry summer day, hits differently now. Her lush lips are suddenly impossible to look away from. How much champagne did I have tonight? A couple of glasses? But even so, I’m not a lightweight. I’m more than six feet tall, and I’m sturdy as fuck.

As I try to count my cocktails, I glimpse one of the bride’s uncles dancing near the band. He’s cutting the rug, twirling his wife, but when he pulls her back into his arms— bam .

He bumps right into Maeve’s back. She pitches forward in my arms, slamming against my chest, her chin tipped up, her eyes wide. “Oh!”

She’s breathless.

And she’s also suddenly a very dangerous four inches closer to me. I’m barely aware of anyone else on the dance floor, under the tent, in the whole damn city. I look down at my best friend’s sister, mesmerized without warning. It’s like I’ve never quite seen her clearly until tonight—from the hair to the lips to the laughter to the dance, to her this close to me. “I’ve got you,” I say softly, holding her hips tighter, keeping her near.

She glances down, too, but doesn’t pull away. “You…do have me, Asher.”

She sounds surprised. Maybe confused. That makes two of us. I swallow roughly and simply echo, “I do.”

I don’t move.

She doesn’t either.

Her body fits mine in a whole new way. Our hips flush, her breasts pressed to me—everything temptingly aligned. Her raspberry lips are so close that I can tell it’s not the makeup making her look so pretty tonight.

She is pretty.

Did it take me crossing these final four inches to notice Maeve like this ?

No idea, but I’m noticing Maeve like this now. Oh hell, am I noticing my friend. My chest is crackling. My skin, hot. My pulse, spiking. Everything inside me turns electric, and I know the meaning of the term insta-lust.

It’s my goddamn life right now .

For several seconds that go by too fast we sway together as the song inevitably ends.

When a fast song blasts brightly under the tent, we wrench apart. In a heartbeat, that shuddery sensation vanishes like it didn’t even happen. Like it was just a very vivid dream.

A passing thought doing what it does—passing.

My skin’s no longer hot. My chest isn’t tingly. Whatever dirty spell I was under is broken.

I can breathe again. I inhale and exhale a few quick times. And yup, order is restored to my universe.

What a close call. I can’t believe for a second there—okay, for several seconds—I thought I was into my best friend.

Good thing I’m not.

Because falling for your best friend would be a very bad idea. Especially if you just made a marriage pact with her.