Bridesmaid Undercover: An incredibly steamy, hilarious, friends to lovers, love triangle romantic comedy

HARDY

What are the fucking chances of Maple and Everly showing up to be the two girls we needed on our team?

Slim. Very fucking slim.

Not sure how the universe planned it this way, but I’ll take it.

I was just planning on doing some bowling tonight, enjoying some company with the guys, eating some pizza…but now…now there’s an opportunity presented to me, and I’m going to snatch it up.

“Did everyone meet each other?” Timothy says as he approaches with a tray full of more drinks.

“We did,” Sven says. “The girls actually know Hardy.”

Timothy glances over at me. “Really?”

Sven leans in with a smile in his voice. “Hardy and Maple used to date.”

“Wait, seriously?” Timothy asks.

“Back in college,” I say. “Now we’re in a wedding together—our friends from college are getting married, and Everly is helping with the planning.”

“Wow.” Timothy smirks. “Shit, I had no idea. Is, uh…is everyone good?”

“We’re good,” Maple says as she places her hand on Timothy’s shoulder.

Don’t like that.

Keep your hands to yourself, Maple…or on me.

“Perfect,” Timothy says. “If anyone needs to go to the bathroom, maybe go now because once we start, the league likes to keep the games moving.”

“I should go,” Maple says. “Do you need to go, Everly?”

“I’m good,” she says.

“Okay.” Maple looks around. “Where are the bathrooms?”

“I’ll show you,” Timothy says, guiding her away from us.

Once they’re at a good enough distance, I turn to talk to Everly, but she’s right next to me before I can even look for her. “Henrietta,” she whispers while Sven and Mario are testing the balls they picked. “I’m sweating.”

I chuckle. Okay, not what I was expecting her to say. “Why?”

“Uh, because you’re here.”

“Do I make you nervous, Plum?”

Her brow creases. “No, but this is unexpected. This is outside of our plan. We were looking for a slow transition, not a full-on foray into hanging out.”

“Says the girl hanging out with my ex. When did you become friends?”

“Very quickly,” she says with her chin held high. “She’s pretty cool and promised a good time—and possibly the chance to meet some people. Also, I’m doing this for you, to talk you up if I get a chance.” She looks me up and down. “When have you ever thought about bowling? You don’t seem like the bowling type.”

“And you do?” I ask on a laugh. “I think this is the first time I’m ever seeing you in leggings. I didn’t even know that you owned them.”

“Of course I own leggings. My God, Hardy.”

I chuckle. “Sorry, but all I ever see you in are professional clothes with your hair tied back in a bun.”

She grips the low bun that rests at the nape of her neck. “It’s an easy hairdo.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” I say. “But if anyone is going to bowl between the two of us, it’s me.”

“Billionaires don’t bowl.”

“Yes, they do,” I counter. “They just usually bowl in their own bowling alleys in their homes.”

Her lips twist to the side, causing me to laugh. “Either way, how do you want to handle this? Are you going to talk to her? I think you should at least say something like…wow, what a great night.”

“Wow, what a great night?” I deadpan. “That’s the kind of conversation you want me to have with Maple? That’s awkward as shit.”

“Uh, yeah, and at least it’s better than falling into her cleavage as a greeting.”

My expression flattens as I stare down at her.

She smirks. “And remember she liked the awkward. She liked the goof. She thought it was endearing, so to warm her up we need another nose-to-boob situation without actually doing nose to boob.”

“You want me to be awkward?”

“Don’t you think that’s the best strategy? I’ve done some immense work on my end, building you up and trying to integrate you back in her life. She likes the awkward, so let’s give her the awkward.”

I scratch the side of my cheek. “You’re right.”

“I know I’m right, now, how is your underwear?” she asks. “Because bowling would be the perfect time to split your pants.”

I roll my eyes dramatically. “I told you, underwear is always good, but these are nice pants—I don’t want to split them.”

She glances down at my pants and then back up at me. “What makes them nice? They seem average at best.”

“They’re not average. Easily above-average pants.”

“How so?” She steps back and studies them. “They’re jeans. They look okay.”

“Okay?” I ask, feeling my jaw go slack in shock. “They’re more than okay. They’re my best jeans.”

“Best jeans? That’s a bit of a stretch because I just don’t see it. If I were you, I’d be ready and willing to rip the crotch on those.”

“I’m not ripping the crotch of these jeans,” I say. “Think of something else.”

“Something else to embarrass you?”

“I mean, if that’s the route you think we need to take?”

She taps her chin. “How do you feel about a fake fart? I’m good at making fart sounds with my mouth. Listen to this…pfffft.”

“Uh…no.”

“Shame,” she sighs. “Okay, what about losing your balance and smashing your head into the wall. She seems to like it when you put your head into things.”

I glance at the wall and then back at her. “No.”

“That was a good one, but okay. Uh, you babbled a lot last time, so maybe you can do the same thing this time. Ooo, or drop the bowling ball on your toe. Hilarious and awkward.”

“And painful,” I say.

She waves her hand in dismissal. “Oh, who really cares about pain?”

I point to my chest. “I do. I care about pain.”

“Seems like you should care less.”

“You’re slowly starting to lose the title of The Prof.”

“And you’re rapidly gaining the title ‘Henrietta with all the pain complaints,’” she counters with a hand on her hip.

“I don’t like how quick-witted you are,” I reply.

“And it’s a shame you’re so terrible at banter.” She lifts her chin.

“I’m not terrible, I’m just—” I start just as Timothy walks past me, Maple following him. He brings her to the balls where he shows her the different sized holes and weights.

I feel a jolt of jealousy and lean in close to Everly. “Are they a thing?”

Everly looks over at Timothy and Maple before shaking her head. “Just friends. He doesn’t want to date people in the same field as him. Apparently, Maple was thinking I could get to know him.”Content © NôvelDrama.Org 2024.

That causes my brows to raise. “Oh really?”

“Stop that,” she says with a swat to my arm.

“Stop what?” I ask with a smile.

“Do not take this as an opportunity to embarrass me. You’re the one who fumbles, and I’m the one with class.”

“I usually don’t fumble,” I say. “I’m usually chill and easygoing. I have no problem talking to people, so don’t compare me to the likes of Brody.”

She gasps and holds her hand to her heart. “Don’t you dare speak so terribly of the ill. He’s fresh out of the hospital.”

“And doing fine,” I say with an eye roll.

“Still, it’s terrible to pick on the less fortunate.”

I chuckle as Timothy says, “So, have either of you bowled before?”

Maple joins us as well, which causes me to break out in a sweat. Fuck, maybe Everly is right, maybe I am the awkward one. I attempt to keep my eyes off Maple but rather focus on the people actually talking in the group—I’m sure it would creep her out if I stood there, heavy breathing while staring at her.

Be cool, man.

Be cool.

“Not regularly,” Everly answers. “But I’ve chucked a few balls before.” Why did she say it like that? “But can’t say much for this guy. He was just squealing about how he can’t remember the last time he wasn’t plummeting balls into the gutter.”

Squealing? Come on, Everly.

Timothy glances my way. “I thought Mario said you were decent.”

“He was being kind,” Everly says. “You know how men can be, pumping each other up, but I’ll tell it like it is. We need to remind him where to roll the ball…toward the pins, right, Hardy?”

I feel my nostrils flare. “Yes, toward the pins.”

“Maple, on the other hand,” Everly continues. “I think we might have a ringer—we shall see.”

“I don’t know,” Timothy says with a smile. “She was confused about the different balls.”

“It’s called a fake-out, so you’re surprised when she does well, or not surprised when she sucks,” Everly says while tapping her temple. “She’s a smart one.”

“She is,” I add for good measure but get zero response from Maple.

“Well, help yourself to some pizza. I think we’re going to get started very soon.”

“Thanks,” Everly says and then grabs a plate. “I wonder if they have pineapple.”

“You like pineapple on your pizza?” Maple asks.

“Love it,” Everly says as she lifts one of the lids, revealing pepperoni.

Shyly, Maple looks up at me. “Do you still like pineapple on your pizza?”

“Can’t get enough of it,” I answer. “Do you still hate it?”

“It’s not great,” Maple answers.

“Looks like just pepperoni and cheese,” Everly says as she places a piece of pepperoni on her plate and cheese on mine. “Figured you would go for the cheese,” Everly says. “Didn’t you mention in the questionnaire I had you fill out as the best man that you can’t handle spicy foods? Didn’t want to give you pepperoni and risk the toots.”

Uhh…what?

Everly, what the fuck?

Maple glances between us, looking confused. “Are you guys friends?”

“No,” Everly says, shaking her head. “Just exchanged some emails, and as someone who needs to help plan things, it’s good to know who I’m working with. He said he didn’t want a lot of spicy food at the parties because it gives him the toots. But you’d know that, right, Maple?”

“Um, I can’t recall.” Maple looks up at me. “Did you toot a lot after eating spicy foods?”

I look between the two of them, loathing Everly in this moment. I get what she’s trying to do, but couldn’t we have gone with something other than flatulence?

“You know, I think it’s something that I’ve developed recently,” I answer, feeling that wave of sweat start to trickle down my back.

“That’s what happens when you get older,” Everly says before taking a bite of her pizza.

“Yeah, but I think it’s something I’m working on with my doctor, so hopefully it’s solved soon,” I say.

“Fingers crossed,” Everly says, holding up her fingers. And when Maple isn’t looking, she winks at me.

I know I want to get to know Maple again, but so far, her impression of me is that I like to greet people by motorboating them, I stumble, fumble, and bumble my way through every conversation, and apparently, I toot when I eat spicy foods.

I can see the attraction already.

She must be frothing at the mouth, ready to date me again.

“It hasto be beginner’s luck,” Everly says after her second strike in a row.

Yeah, in a fucking row.

I glance up at the scores and sigh at how terrible I’m doing. I know we prepped Timothy for me to be pretty good, but I think we can assume that was a lie. I’m terrible, but I didn’t think I’d be so terrible that I’d be thirty points behind the next person…the next person being Maple.

Jesus Christ, man. Keep it out of the gutter at least for one go-around.

Everly takes a seat next to me, looking loose and free. She’s been chatting it up with Timothy every so often, making him laugh. Maple has been sitting next to me as if we’re complete strangers. Stiffly.

Occasionally, Everly will turn toward us to engage, but for the most part, it’s been me and Maple, staring down the pins in front of us, not saying a goddamn word.

She wanted awkward? Well, I’m handing it out in droves right now. I still have no clue how this is happening. Sure, it’s been ten years since we’ve seen each other, but we used to talk all the time. Easily. Didn’t we? I mean, we spent so much time together when we weren’t studying, or out with our friends…surely, we used to talk. She hasn’t even asked me anything about myself. Hudson was her biggest fan, and yet, she hasn’t even mentioned him. Or Haisley. Nothing. No interest in my life. But have I asked her about hers?

Mario picks up his ball and gets into position. While he’s preparing to run his turn, I decide to take a chance and talk to Maple because something has got to give. I can’t do this silence anymore.

“So, this is fun, huh?” I ask.

Not quite a great opener, but it’s something.

“Uh…sure,” Maple says.

Great.

I clasp my hands in front of me as my lips press tightly against my teeth. “Bowling…huh? Crazy.”

I feel her eyes on me, but I don’t dare turn to look at her, because I know what she must be thinking…what the hell happened to Hardy?

Because bowling, huh? is not really the kind of conversation I used to have.

“Yeah, bowling,” she replies.

I clear my throat, trying to gain any semblance of intelligent conversation. “Balls hitting pins, who knew?”

“Probably the guy who invented bowling,” she replies.

I nervously laugh but it comes out more as a donkey bray than a laugh. A solid hee-haw, which draws her attention toward me again. I keep my eyes straight ahead, because I can’t possibly look her in the eye when I’m holding this kind of conversation. “Wonder if the inventor was any good.”

“Not sure,” she replies. “But you’re not doing very well.”

I smooth my hands over my thighs, exhibiting what is probably a deathly shade of red on my cheeks.

“Yes, well, in the years we haven’t spoken to each other, I unfortunately haven’t been working on my bowling game.”

“No?” she asks. “What have you been working on?”

Okay…okay. She’s talking, changing the subject, throwing me a freaking bone.

This is perfect.

Now it’s time to shake off the stink and show her the kind of man I’ve become over the last few years.

“Educating myself about almonds, working on sustainable farming, perfecting my chocolate lava cake recipe.”

“Chocolate lava cake?” she asks, a pinch to her brow. “You bake?”

No.

I don’t.

I don’t know why I said that last part.

I felt like I needed three things to dazzle her with and the chocolate cake thing just came flying out.

“Well, only chocolate lava cake,” I answer.

“And how is the recipe?”

I lift my beer to my lips and answer, “Not great.”

That makes her chuckle, which puts some ease in my chest because fuck, she’s been cold as ice every time we’re near each other.

And that’s not how it used to be.

We were so free with each other.

Conversation was easy.

Our time spent together was relaxed, simple.

It seems like she’s changed…or maybe I’ve changed. Who knows.

“Sounds like you might need a new recipe,” she says.

“Yeah, possibly. Maybe I’ll send a note to Martha Stewart, ask her if she has any tips.”

“You’re up, Maple,” Timothy says.

Oh. Thank God.

Gives me a second to regroup.

Maple stands and moves toward the balls where she picks up the pink one she’s been using all night. She studies the pins and then sheepishly walks up to the alley, brings her hand back, and shoots the ball forward. She doesn’t move; she just watches the ball race down toward the pins and when they collide, she turns and walks back to the ball return.

She doesn’t cheer.

She doesn’t look at her group.

She just waits.

And I think…I think my assessment about her is right.

Sure, I’ve changed since college—we all do. If you haven’t, you’re not growing as a human. But Maple has changed in a different way. She’s more withdrawn, isolated. Makes me wonder, did Peru change her?

Polly had made it seem like Maple was reluctant about coming back, but she doesn’t want to be here at all. Maybe she wishes she was still in Peru. I would have no idea. It feels like something I should ask, but not something right now, in the middle of the bowling league where we are sitting dead last. Seems like too deep of a conversation.

Since I’m after Maple, I stand as she picks up her ball to shoot for a spare. Not sure what pin is standing up, but she has one on the left she has to knock down.

“Think you’ll keep the ball straight this time?” Everly asks as she looks up at me from where she’s sitting. One of her legs is crossed over the other and she’s sporting a playful smirk.

“Why the hell would I want to break my gutter ball streak?” I ask. “Fuck no, I’m going to pitch it into the gutter twice this go-round.”

“I like your tenacity,” she replies.

“If I’m going to do something, I’m going to do it right,” I say with conviction, which only makes her smile even wider.

“You know, it would help us if you didn’t throw a gutter ball,” Timothy says. “I heard that there might be eliminations in the league.”

“What?” I ask. “How is that possible? Isn’t this for fun?” I look around the bowling alley, taking in all the participants in matching shirts. Some people have their own balls, their own shoes…their own wrist guards. Some are doing the fancy ball curving technique that I pretended to do one time—and nearly broke my wrist in half. Maybe this is more serious than I thought it was.

Timothy scratches his head. “You know, I might have signed up for the wrong league.”

“Which means…you need a strike,” Everly says as she stands and walks over to the ball return with me after Maple earns a spare. “I think it’s the ball you’re using.” She pokes at the blue ball I’ve been failing with all night. “It might be too heavy for you.”

“It’s definitely not too heavy for me,” I say.

She steps in close and whispers, “It’s okay if you’re not throwing the same ball as the other guys. There’s no shame in throwing a lighter ball.”

“It’s not too heavy,” I repeat.

“Why don’t you just try something lighter, maybe something lighter on your gentle wrist.”

I hold up my arm and show her my wrist. “There is nothing gentle about this. This is a man’s wrist.”

“Yes, of course,” she says in a mocking tone. “Very manly, Hardy. But your score doesn’t match the girth of your manly wrist, so maybe we try something different. We can’t screw this up for Tomothy.”

“Timothy,” I correct her.

Her eyes widen as her hand covers her mouth. “Oh shit, you’re right. Oh my God, have I called him Tomothy?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Have you?”

She winces. “I really hope not.” She recalls her conversation, her lip worrying to the side. “Did I?”

I chuckle. “How the fuck should I know, I’ve been on lonely island with Maple talking about the inventor of bowling and my terrible chocolate lava cake recipe.” I lean in close and whisper, “Spoiler, I’ve never made one in my life.”

“Then why the hell are you talking about it?” she asks.

“Hell if I know, Plum! Things are going sour over there. Like, the ship is sinking and there are no life vests in sight. It’s really uncomfortable.”

“For heaven’s sake, you dated for years. You can’t tell me there’s nothing to talk about. Maybe an old memory. Like…oh hey, Maple, remember the time I got my hand stuck in the cookie jar?”

“What am I? Twelve?”

“I don’t know, Henrietta. You tell me. You’re the one bowling with a current score of fifty.”

My eyes narrow, and a small smile appears at her lips.

“Uh, can we move this along,” Timothy shouts.

Everly picks up the pink ball and hands it to me. “Trust me, this is the cure to your gutter ball streak. Try it.”

“It feels like a feather,” I say.

“Which is great for the gentle wrist.” She winks and takes a step back, leaning against the wall and shooing me forward with her gesturing hand.

Rolling my eyes, I don’t bother to argue with her as I take the pink ball and stick my fingers in the tiny holes. Feeling like an absolute fool, I get into position, visualize the pins in front of me, and then take three steps forward as I bring the ball behind me. And all together, I swing my arm forward and shoot the ball toward the pins.

Right toward the…

Nope.

My fingers get stuck in the holes of the ball and instead of sending the ball down the oiled-up alley, I shoot it up into the air…straight into the low ceiling above me.

“Oh fuck,” I cry right before plaster rains all over our lane.

Everly covers her head.

I skitter back in fear.

And what feels like the entire bowling alley turns our way as the ball falls out of the ceiling and to my luck…straight into the gutter.

Silence falls over our group as we pathetically watch the pink ball, very slowly, and very dramatically, make its way down the gutter toward the pins.

Plaster in my hair, my nostrils flared, I turn toward Everly who has both hands over her mouth, eyes wide, mirth in her expression.

“Are you happy?” I ask her, arms wide.

Her shoulders shake.

A chuckle falls out of her mouth, and then she crumples to the floor in a fit of laughter.

Yup…she’s happy.

To: Everly Plum

From: Hardy Hopper

Subject: $157.89

Professor,

Do you see that number in the subject line? That’s how much I owe the bowling alley for the replacement ceiling tile and labor to fix it.

Is it a drop in the bucket compared to what’s in my bank account? Of course.

Is it a tidal wave of cost to my ego…yes, I shall never recover from this.

Not to mention, being eliminated from the league after one night…because of my poor performance. It’s a tough pill to swallow, and I’m afraid I’ll never show my face in public again.

Not to mention, after the chocolate lava cake convo with Maple, that’s where we left things. I don’t think she wanted to be seen with the man who crashed a bowling ball in the ceiling.

WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME?

Henrietta

To: Hardy Hopper

From: Everly Plum

Subject: RE: $157.89

In all honestly, I’m typing this email through teary eyes as I’m still laughing about the bowling ball smashing into the ceiling.

I don’t think I’ve stopped laughing.

Anytime I think about it, I buckle over and my eyes water.

Easily one of the top moments of my life. So if anything, we might have been kicked out of the league and you have to pay an invoice for damage, but my God, you’ve brought me a tremendous amount of joy.

If it makes you feel any better, I think I did call Timothy, “Tomothy” once, and every time I think about it, sweat erupts on the back of my neck.

Maybe we both should just duck our heads and never show our faces in public again.

The Prof

P.S. You still good for finishing up the bridal shower décor on Thursday?

To: Everly Plum

From: Hardy Hopper

Subject: RE: $157.89

I’m going to be straightforward with you—calling someone Tomothy instead of Timothy doesn’t even come close to rocketing a bowling ball up to the moon and then back down to Earth where it settled in the gutter once again.

Not comparable.

You may show your face in public.

I, on the other hand, am going to bury my head in a bag of almonds.

And yes, still on for Thursday. See you there, Plum.

Henrietta

To: Hardy Hopper

From: JP Cane

Subject: Be an ally

Dear friend,

Now is the time to be an ally for the flamingos. Now more than ever they need you. We appreciate your donation, but to truly be an advocate, we need you to be the voice as well. Help us spread the word that a simple donation of $5 can help our researchers provide a safe and healthy environment for these majestic creatures.

Join us this Saturday as we spread the word through social media about the loss of habitats and the nearing of endangerment for the flamingos.

Side with the pink!

Squawk.

JP Cane

“Why are we doing this?”I mutter to Hudson as he presses the elevator button that leads up to our father’s office.

“Because he called, and even though we don’t answer to him anymore, we still need to save face with the man. He’s our father, after all.”

“Well aware he’s our father, but there is nothing productive that will come from this meeting.”

“Maybe not,” Hudson says, “but I think we at least owe it to Haisley to go.”

And there’s the one thing that will make me do anything: the mention of my sister’s name.

After her wedding, things went downhill for our family. Hudson and I stepped out, not putting up with our dad’s manipulative ways. We took Haisley with us and teamed up with his competition. It’s been a smart plan, although stressful, given our dad’s very vocal disapproval. But we’ve watched how he runs his business for a while now, stepping on the toes of those who are smaller than him so he can gain an inch. Hudson and I would rather lift up the smaller businesses and invest in them than try to steal their ideas and create cheap knockoffs.

We want the best minds working for us…working with us.

We have the almond company leading the way with profits with a meeting with Maggie’s friend, Hattie, who lives in Almond Bay, and who sells the best almond extract on the West Coast.

Maggie just opened her storefront for Magical Moments by Maggie, and her schedule is becoming increasingly busy to the point that she’s starting interviews for another employee.

Brody and Jude are working on five multiuse event spaces like the one we’re using for the bridal shower, while our small marketing team is starting to create materials that will change the course of pop-up shops and meeting spaces in the Bay Area.

And Haisley is working on two more themed vacation rentals, one in San Francisco and one in Almond Bay.

We’re all connected, and Hudson is leading the charge.

We’re already successful. There’s no reason to be at our father’s beck and call anymore. But I understand needing to play the game even though I don’t like it.

The elevator dings and opens up to our father’s office floor. The dark paneled wood walls, gold fixtures, and black tiled floors feel stuffy now rather than what my father intended—an intimidating symbol of wealth and power. In all honesty, the façade of it all just feels ridiculous. To me, with wealth comes responsibility, the duty to help others around you, to promote and support them. My father treats wealth as if everyone around him should bow before him, beg him for eye contact, only to offer it to no one. A disgusting outlook on business.

We’re stronger in a group, stronger when working together. Stronger when endorsing rather than tearing down—a motto my dad would never adopt.

His assistant sits at her desk, her phone perched at her ear as we make our way toward our dad’s office.

Instead of bypassing her, something our father would do, we stop at her desk where she tells us that our dad is expecting us and to let ourselves in.

We offer her a nod and with Hudson leading the way, we push through the heavy door of my father’s office. He’s sitting on the couch, smoking a cigar, with one leg crossed over the other.

Even though he watches us walk through the door, he doesn’t bother to move, doesn’t even flinch. Instead, a billowing puff of white smoke leaks out of the corner of his mouth and right into the air, clouding his face and filling the room with a familiar sickly-sweet scent. “Take a seat, boys.”

Immediately, the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. Something doesn’t feel right.

Something screams revenge.

Pushing past the uneasiness, Hudson and I both take seats across from him and match his casual stance as we lean into our seats and wait for him to lead the conversation. He’s the one who called us into this meeting, after all.

Unsurprisingly, he goes for intimidation. He taps his cigar on his ash tray and then takes another puff.

Oldest trick in the book.

Too bad for him, we’ve learned all his tactics throughout the years.

Just get on with it, Dad.

After a few more seconds of silence, he clears his throat. “How is this pithy co-op you’ve created?”

Going with petty today, sounds about right for him.

“Interested in investing?” Hudson asks. “Because unfortunately, we have all the investment we need at the moment.”

I catch the flare of my father’s nostrils and mentally fist-bump Hudson, knowing that slight comment cut Dad.

“I don’t tend to invest in projects that I don’t believe will succeed.”

Jesus, what a moron.

I make a note to never be so full of myself that I can’t see a good idea when it’s sitting right in front of me. Arrogance can be the death of a good businessman, and right now, it has a chokehold on my dad.

“We’re not here to prove our worth to you, Dad,” Hudson says, ignoring my dad’s insult. “If you brought us into your office to degrade us, then we have no reason to stay. If you want to be a man, and speak to us in the way we deserve, then please, tell us why we’re here.”

Thank God Hudson is leading the charge because I don’t think I would be as well-mannered as him when speaking to our father.

Dad’s lips twist to the side, and he sets his cigar down on the ashtray, letting it burn in place. When he straightens up and looks us in the eyes, he says, “I’m suing you.”

Yup.

Saw that coming.

It’s something Hudson and I mentally prepared each other for, knowing damn well our dad would not go down without a fight. It’s the kind of man he is. Luckily for us, we not only have an amazing law firm working for us, but so do the Cane brothers. They’re unmatched for what my father surely has planned.

“Thought you would say something like that,” Hudson says as he reaches into his jacket pocket. The man is fully prepared. He tosses a business card on the coffee table between us. “There’s the contact information for our lawyers. Feel free to send your baseless, frivolous lawsuit their way.” Hudson taps my shoulder. “Let’s go.”

We stand just as our father does as well, rage behind those aging eyes of his. “You realize you have broken this family,” he says, taking a different tactic. “Your mother is beside herself. She won’t get out of bed. She’s so distraught over losing her children.”

“Really?” I say, stepping in. “Because every time I call her, she’s either busy or doesn’t answer. Seems to me if she was so broken, she’d pick up the phone.”

Dad’s eyes narrow. “She’s so disgusted with you she can’t even stomach the mention of your name.”

“And whose fault is that?” Hudson asks.

“Yours,” Dad says. “I never would have done something like this to my father. Abandon him and the empire he built.”

“We’re not going through this again,” Hudson says. “We’ve talked to you about our reasoning. From your impending lawsuit, the reasoning for parting ways with you is just.” Hudson shakes his head and gestures for me to leave, but for some reason, I stay put as I look my father in the eyes.

“You are disappointing,” I say to him. “This business, this need to succeed? It’s overshadowed what’s really important in life, and that’s the relationships you build and the people around you who you love.”

“And you haven’t done the same thing?” he asks. “I distinctively remember you making a decision out of college that made you choose business over relationships.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, clearly not as composed as Hudson.

“Maple,” Dad says, letting the sound of the p pop off his lips. “You had the chance to be with her, to go to Denver with her, but you chose business over her.”

“I chose family,” I say, my defenses rising.

He shakes his head. “You chose guaranteed success. Don’t try to fool me. You were lost in college. Everyone around you had a good head on their shoulders and a path for where they wanted to take their future. You were the one struggling. You were the one looking for a purpose. An opportunity was presented to you, a chance to succeed, something you hadn’t had a taste of yet, and you took it instead of following your girl. You broke her heart for your own self-satisfaction.”

“That’s not…that’s not how that went down,” I say, even though…fuck, it sort of feels like that’s how it happened. Is that why she cut off all contact and didn’t seem to want anything to do with me?

“Let’s go,” Hudson says, his hand on my shoulder now, pushing me toward the exit.

“Believe what you want,” Dad says, “but you’ve made decisions just like I have. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, Hardy, as much as you wish to believe it does.”

We’re out the door before I can respond. With his mouth close to my ear, Hudson whispers, “Say nothing.”

So in silence, we make our way past Dad’s assistant and press the button to the elevator. It dings immediately, and we get in. When we turn around to watch the doors close, Dad is standing outside his office, a smile on his face.

And the sight of him, so pleased with himself, feels like a knife twisting in my gut. This is how it’s always been with him. For as long as I can remember. His deliberate attempt to grate on my nerves, getting under my skin, trying to tear me down while lifting Hudson up. Luckily for me, Hudson has a good head on his shoulders and has never let our dad drive a wedge between us, even though he’s tried many, many times.

Hudson is smarter.

Hudson is more clever.

Hudson is top of his class.

Hudson knows what he wants with his life…what the hell do you plan on doing?

With every comment, every backhanded insult, Dad tried his damnedest to make it a competition between me and Hudson, but we didn’t let him. Hudson led the charge, always lifting me up, always being there for me, always making sure I’m part of the conversation, not the one taking the orders.

And even now, with the pressure of the new business, Hudson includes me. He helps me find my best assets of what I can offer and highlights those assets, letting me take the lead.

The doors to the elevator close, and Hudson turns to me. “Don’t,” he says. “Don’t let him play fucking mind games with you.”

I lean against the elevator wall. “I know.” I let out a deep breath, even though his words ring true— well, somewhat true.

“Do you? Because I can see the wheels in your head turning,” Hudson says. “Don’t spiral on me, Hardy. This is what he wanted—he wanted to get in your head.”

I push my hand through my hair. “Hard not to let him when…” I look up at Hudson. “Fuck, there’s truth to what he said.”

“There’s no truth in it,” Hudson says. “You knew you wanted to be a part of the family business. We spoke about it back when you were a senior. I talked to you about helping out, about Dad’s impossible standards and his wayward business practices. We had the conversation of what would happen if we joined forces, if we could help make a change. Do you remember that conversation?”

I nod. “I do.”

“That was the reason you stayed here in San Francisco. That was the reason you didn’t follow Maple. You didn’t choose success over her—you chose a relationship with your father, with your brother. You wanted to make a difference.”

“Yeah, look how well that went,” I say on a huff.

“I think we both know we can’t change him if he doesn’t want to change. We tried, Hardy. We attempted to reform him, to make him better, but as time went on, we realized he was stuck in his ways. Was the effort worth it? Yes, because we gave it a shot. We’ll know we tried.”

“And now what?” I ask. “I hurt someone else for nothing.”

“But did you?” he asks. “Is Maple hurting?”

“She can barely talk to me,” I say.

“Because of how you ended things? You’re assuming you hurt her, but maybe you had nothing in common in the first place, and maybe…maybe she’s realizing it.”

The elevator doors open, and Hudson leads the way, me following close behind him, my mind reeling.

We had things in common.

We did…

Right?