“I was hurt.” “Hurt,” I echo, and experience a flicker of guilt. I don’t like the idea that I hurt him. “I always pictured myself walking you down the aisle.” The admission grips my heart and squeezes it tight. Damn it. Now I know why my mom can never stay mad at him. It’s because he goes around saying things like that. “Let’s be real,” he continues. “Your brother’s never getting married—” “Fuckboy till the day he dies,” I agree. “But I thought I had a shot with you. You’ve never been super girly, but I heard you and your mom talking about wedding dresses before.
