The BFF Bride (2 page)

Tabby knew he wasn’t trying to get cozy with her. There was simply a finite amount of space available for chairs and bodies. She looked away from the jeans-clad thigh nudging against her. “All the more reason it’s time for a change, then, right, April?”

“I suppose. But I’ve always thought you had gorgeous hair. Such a dark brown and so glossy.”

Tabby couldn’t help but laugh a little at that. “Grass is always greener, my friend with the smooth red hair.” She leaned over the table a little, mostly so she could shift away from that damned masculine thigh. “So, how
is
the job hunt going out in Arizona? It’s advertising, right?”

“Dad wants me to work for him at Huffington,” she said, referring to the network of sports clinics he operated around the United States. “The Phoenix location is getting huge. But I want to make my mark on my own.”

“Makes sense.”

Justin jostled Tabby’s arm. “Remember when you wanted to go to Europe to make your mark on the great art world?”

“Lofty dreams of a teenaged girl,” she said dismissively. She wasn’t going to let him bait her. “
I
learned I was perfectly happy right here in Weaver,” she told April, though the words were aimed at Justin. “This is my home. I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”

“Ruby’s would have to shut right down,” someone interjected from the other table. “Weaver would never be the same.”

Tabby rolled her eyes. “Erik and Justin own the place.” She still didn’t look at the man beside her. “They’d hire someone else to manage it.”

“There’s a nasty thought,” Erik said. He was sitting at the main table next to his wife, Isabella, and didn’t look unduly concerned.

The same couldn’t be said of their son. “You’re
not
gonna leave, are you?” Murphy gave her a horrified look.

She lifted her hands peaceably. “I’m not going anywhere!”

Justin jostled her again. “Do you even still paint?”

If she’d have been five—or maybe even twenty-five—she would have just elbowed him right back. Preferably in the ribs, hard enough to leave a mark. Because the Justin she’d grown up with could take as well as he could give. “Yes, I still paint.” Her voice was even.

“Absolutely, she still paints!” Sydney, who was married to Derek—yet another one of Justin’s plentiful cousins—called from the far end of the other table. Their toddler son was sitting in a high chair between them. “An old friend of mine who owns a gallery in New York has sold a couple dozen of her pieces! He wants her to give up working at Ruby’s and focus only on painting.”

Tabby shifted, uncomfortable with the weight of everyone’s eyes turning toward her. “I’m not quitting Ruby’s,” she assured them, wondering how on earth the conversation had gotten so off track.

“We know that, Tab,” Erik assured her calmly. Of the two brothers, he was the active partner in the diner, though he pretty much left the day-to-day stuff to her.

Squire cleared his throat loudly. Tabby was quite sure if he’d had his walking stick handy, he’d have thumped it on the floor for emphasis the way he tended to do. “We gonna sit here and jabber all the livelong day, or get to eating?”

Tristan chuckled. “Eat.”

“Not before we say grace,” Gloria said mildly. And inflexibly. So they all bowed their heads while Gloria said the blessing.

Justin leaned close to her again. “Nothing changes,” he murmured almost soundlessly.

Tabby’s jaw tightened. She looked from her clasped hands to the insanely handsome, violet-eyed man sitting only inches away from her.

“You changed,” she whispered back.

Then she looked back at her hands and closed her eyes. Gloria was still saying grace.

Tabby just prayed that Justin would go away again, and the sooner the better.

He’d been her best friend.

But he was still her worst heartbreak.

Chapter Two

H
is mother might have put the meal on the table, but it was up to her husband and sons to cart everything back to the kitchen when the meal was done.

Not even the Thanksgiving holiday—or televised football games—got them out of that particular task.

So even though Justin generally would rather poke sharp sticks into his eyes than load a dishwasher, he did his fair share, carting stacks of plates and glasses from the dining room to the kitchen, following on Erik’s heels.

And while the rest of the women in the family had pitched in to help Hope, the three men were brutally left on their own by their fellows.

“Typical,” Justin muttered, dumping the plates on the counter next to the sink his dad was filling with soap and water. “Couldn’t even get Caleb to help.”

Erik chuckled. He was five years older than Justin and he good-naturedly threw a clean dish towel at him. “You ever help clean up when we have a meal at his folks’ place?” The question was rhetorical. “Be glad that half the crowd today used disposable plates.”

Justin had personally filled a big bag with the trash. He would have been happy to fill a half dozen of them if it meant not having to load a dishwasher.

“Stop grousing and get it done,” their father ordered. “Dessert’s waiting on us, and Squire never likes waiting for his dessert.”

“The old man looks good,” Justin said. He left the dish towel on the counter and pulled open the dishwasher. He began to load it methodically, mechanically transferring the items his dad rinsed into the racks.

“He’s gonna run for city council,” Tristan said, shaking his head as if he still couldn’t believe it. “There’s a special election coming up in February.”

“Squire?” Justin couldn’t help but laugh at the notion of his ninetysome-year-old grandfather sitting at a council meeting. “That ought to shake things up around Weaver. He’s always hated politicians.”

“Which is the reason why he figures an old rancher ought to try his hand at it.” Erik started filling containers with the leftover food. They heard a cheer from the great room and he groaned a little.

“Shouldn’t have bet against Casey on the game,” Justin said knowingly. Their cousin had an uncanny gift for picking winners. “What’re you gonna lose to him this time?”

“Week out at the fishing cabin. And I haven’t lost yet.”

“When’s the last time you won a bet against him?” Tristan stacked more rinsed plates on the counter. “What’s going on with that promotion of yours, Jus?”

Justin added the dishes to the rack with a little more force than necessary. “Not a damn thing.”

“You crack those plates, son, you’ll be the one to face up to your mother.”

Justin straightened again and met his father’s gaze. “It’s gotten...complicated.”

Erik blew out a soft whistle. “Probably happens when you’re dating the boss’s daughter. Warned you.”

“I didn’t get the job at CNJ Pharmaceuticals nine years ago because of Gillian. I won’t lose it because of her, either.” He was trusting that his relationship with Charles Jennings, her father and the owner of the company, was on firmer ground than that, at least. He swiped his damp hands down his jeans and retrieved a cold bottle of beer from the refrigerator. “And we stopped seeing each other almost half a year ago.”

“Thank God,” Erik muttered. “Woman was a nosebleed.”

Justin grimaced. “I don’t sneer at your choice of women.”

Erik grinned. “How could you? Izzy is the perfect girl.”

Justin couldn’t deny the truth of that, though he liked arguing with his brother merely for the sake of it. And he didn’t really want to think about Gillian, anyway. Because she
was
a nosebleed, even though his brother shouldn’t rub it in. And even though it had taken Justin several long years to face it.

He toyed with the beer cap but didn’t actually twist it open. “The complication isn’t because of Charles’s daughter. He’s put me on a special project we’ve had some problems with. If I can bring it in on time, the VP position should be mine.” Making him the youngest vice president in the company’s century-long history.

“Give me cows over pharmaceuticals,” Erik said, hanging his arm over Justin’s shoulder. “But I suppose if anyone can do it, it’s my genius little brother, Dr. Justin Clay.”

Justin shrugged off the arm. He had a PhD in microbiology and immunology, and dual master’s degrees in computer science and chemistry. But he rarely used the title that went with the PhD. The fact was, he’d often felt a little out of step among his extended ranching family, even though his computer-geek father had bucked that trend, too.

“I want to work on the project from Weaver,” he announced, and saw the look his brother and dad exchanged. “I’ll be able to concentrate on it better here. I figure Aunt Bec might clear the way for me to work at the hospital, since she runs the place.”

“Rebecca probably can, though that’s—”

“Rebecca probably can what?” Justin’s eldest uncle, Sawyer, entered the kitchen carrying several empty beer bottles.

“Approve space in the new lab they’re building for a project I’m working on for CNJ. The company will cover all the costs, of course.”

“Sell that to my wife,” Sawyer advised wryly. “Every day for the past two years I’ve been hearing about problems with that lab she’s trying to get built. Construction delays. Cost overruns. Losing the lab director didn’t help, and now it’s that fund-raiser event they’re having in a few weeks.” He dumped the bottles in the recycling basket and pulled open the refrigerator to retrieve several more beers. “You gonna be done in here soon? The old man’s getting impatient for dessert. He’s been debating pumpkin pie versus pecan versus chocolate cream for the past half hour.”

“We’d be done sooner if we had some help,” Tristan told his brother in a pointed tone.

Sawyer just laughed, snatched the unopened bottle out of Justin’s hands to add to his collection and left the kitchen again.

When Justin went to the refrigerator, he found the shelf empty of beer.

“Snooze you lose, son,” Tristan said. “Just because you choose to live in Boston doesn’t mean you’re excluded from that basic fact.” He pointed a thumb at the stack of rinsed dishes still waiting to be loaded.

Sawyer’s intrusion was followed almost immediately by the rest of his brothers—first Jefferson, ostensibly to make sure there was still hot coffee on the stove, then Matthew and Daniel together, who made no bones that they were wanting their dessert, too.

“Nothing changes,” Justin repeated when the kitchen eventually cleared.

“Ever consider that there are times that’s a comfort?” Tristan finally turned off the faucet and dried his hands on a towel.

“Never thought so before, particularly.”

His father’s gaze wasn’t unsympathetic. But then, back in his day, Tristan had left Weaver for a good long while, too. Until he’d married Hope Leoni and they’d settled in Weaver permanently. He’d established a little company called Cee-Vid that became a huge player in consumer electronics, and Hope had taught at the elementary school and then ended up the head of the school board.

“Someday—” Tristan’s voice was unusually reflective “—you might sit up and realize one of the most disturbing things in life is finding out that something you’d counted on never changing has already done so, without you ever having noticed.” Then he tossed the towel on the counter and left the kitchen, too.

Frowning, Justin turned toward Erik. “What’s with him?”

“Nothing that’s new. You’re just not usually around to see it.”

“What’s
that
supposed to mean?”

“Just a fact,” Erik said mildly. “You’re in Boston. You don’t see the day-to-day effects of the crap he deals with. And I’m not talking about Cee-Vid.”

No. Erik was talking about the real work their father did. The secretive, frequently dangerous world of Hollins-Winword’s black operations, where their father was second in command. Cee-Vid was the legitimate front that hid the covert work, which Justin and Erik knew about but rarely discussed.

“It’s been a hard year,” Erik said.

“Isn’t it always hard?”

“Harder than most,” his brother amended. “I think he’s getting tired of it.”

“Then he should quit.”

“Who should quit what?” Izzy entered the kitchen, her brownish-black gaze bouncing from her husband’s face to Justin’s and back again.

Erik just looped his hands around her waist and tugged her close. “Are you hungry again?”

She smiled impishly. “For pecan pie. I came to help with the dishes in order to get at dessert more quickly.”

“Too late.” Justin stuffed the last glass in the dishwasher and closed the door. He’d arrived barely an hour before they’d sat down for dinner, so he hadn’t had an opportunity to catch up very much with anyone, including his sister-in-law. “You’re looking better than ever, Iz.”

She turned in the circle of his brother’s arms and beamed at him.

It took a few seconds for Justin to notice the way their linked hands were clasped over her belly. But when he did, it took less than a second for him to realize why. “Holy—” He broke off. “You’re pregnant?”

Izzy glanced up into Erik’s eyes. “Looks like we’re announcing it today whether we planned to or not.”

Erik smiled slowly and Justin felt an unfamiliar—and unwanted—jolt of envy. His brother looked so damn happy. So content. And Justin felt so...not.

Still, his brother
was
happy. And Justin was genuinely glad for that. And Isabella...well, she’d always been a looker with her white-blond hair and dark eyes. And now she had an extra shine around her.

He blew out a breath because his throat actually felt tight. “Damn. Congratulations.” He wrapped them both in a big hug, which made Izzy laugh and complain, because she was a good foot shorter and couldn’t breathe while stuck between two big men. When Justin finally stepped back, envious or not, he knew he had a big, stupid grin on his face. Probably one that matched Erik’s. “So when’s he—”

“She,” Erik corrected.

“Due?”

“The
baby
,” Isabella said with a soft laugh, “is due the end of April. We’re not going to find out early what we’re having.”

“Murphy knows there’s a baby, though?”

Isabella nodded. “We told him yesterday.”

“He figures it’s his right to make the announcement today,” Erik said wryly. “Being the big brother and all.”

“Sounds like he’s got the Clay tendencies down, born into them or not.” He leaned over and kissed Isabella’s cheek. “You’re going to be a great mom, all over again.” The circumstances leading to her becoming Murphy’s mom had been tragic. But they’d ultimately prompted their move to Weaver, where they’d found Erik and become a family.

She blinked, looking teary through her smile. “Thanks.” She sniffed quickly. “We’ll all learn together, anyway.”

“So...pretty much status quo,” Erik said wryly.

Isabella chuckled and swiped her cheek. “Pretty much.” They all looked back at the sound of footsteps as Tabby entered the kitchen.

The easy smile on Tabby’s face faded a bit as she hesitated. She didn’t look at Justin. “Um... I just came to help get the pies—”

Isabella quickly moved out of Erik’s arms. “Squire’s probably getting testy,” she said with a knowing laugh. She picked up two of the pies sitting on one counter and handed them to Erik before she grabbed two more. “Bring the plates,” she said as she and Erik left the kitchen.

Tabby quickly snatched up a stack of pie plates and started to follow, but Justin grabbed her arm. “Wait a sec.”

“They can’t eat pie without plates.”

“My family? You’re kidding, right? They could eat without hands. You’ve been giving me the cold shoulder since I got here. Don’t you think it’s time we got past that?”

Her brown eyes—usually warm and shiny as melted chocolate—were unreadable. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Your lying’s on par with your French. You remember French, right? I had to help you pass it in high school.”

Her lips tightened. She pulled free and opened a drawer to extract a cake server. “If you want a slice of Gloria’s chocolate cream, you’d better get out there quick.”

He was tired of the chasm that had developed between them, even though he knew he was the cause of it in the first place. “Come on, Tabbers. We were friends long before—”

She lifted her eyebrows and gave him a look that stopped any further discussion. “Pie’s a big deal in this house at Thanksgiving. Or have you forgotten that, living the fancy life in Boston?”

She turned on her heel, and her glossy hair flipped around her shoulders as she left the kitchen.

He exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose.

There were a few things he’d always counted on. The love and support of his big, crazy family. His own ability to figure out a convoluted puzzle. And the easygoing friendship of one Tabitha Taggart.

Yeah, he knew he’d messed up with her pretty good, but that had been four years ago. Stacked up against the rest of their lifelong friendship, couldn’t one monumentally stupid move on his part be forgotten?

Or at least forgiven?

He blew out another breath and grabbed the last two pies that were sitting on the counter and carried them out to the dining room.

“Oh, good. Set them there, honey.” His mom pointed with the long knife she was using to cut the pies, and he set them on the table. She’d already divvied out two pumpkin pies onto plates. “There’s a gallon of homemade vanilla ice cream in the freezer. Would you mind getting that, too? Oh, and the glass bowl in the fridge with the whipped cream.”

He turned around and retrieved the items. When he got back to the dining room, she’d finished plating the chocolate cream. He grabbed a slice while the grabbing was good and went back into the living room. It was a huge space. Always had been, with three couches long enough that even his dad—nearly six and a half feet tall—could stretch out, and an eclectic collection of side chairs and recliners. With all the family around—or close to it, anyway—there still weren’t enough seats. So folding chairs had been dragged in. And cushions to lean against on the floor.