A Groom of One's Own (Appies, #3)

by Emma St. Clair

As we ride back to the Summit, me in the backseat like a child and Grant and Malik arguing up front like two parents on the cusp of an ugly divorce, I stare out at the mountains.

“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” Eli says, finally. “And the kind words. But I still don’t think this is something you can help with.” He stops, then meets and holds my gaze with an intensity that freezes me in place. “That is,” he continues, those blue eyes blazing, “unless you want to marry me.”

“Yeah, Eli,” Van says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “You have Canadian birthday traditions I don’t know about, eh?”

I’ve found that the American understanding of Canada begins and ends with maple leaves, Mounties, and the apparent universal appeal of Justin Trudeau. Oh, and eh. Just add eh to unlock your Canadian achievement badge.

“I am of the opinion that if you really want something, you sometimes have to make your own luck, even if it’s risky.”

“Who’s taking care of you, Bailey?” Eli’s words settle over me, soft as snowfall, only warm not cold. “No one,” I murmur. “I could,” Eli says, and now I’m really not sure if I’m dreaming. Because this is the exact kind of thing I wish someone would tell me. “I would.”

I’ve found one of the hardest things about losing people you care about is the guilt of remembering the things they weren’t so great at. Thinking about their flaws and disappointments makes me feel like a traitor.

“Have you tried snorting cayenne pepper?” That’s Alec, walking in with a box in each arm,

Alec, honey, why are we snorting cayenne pepper?

“I’ve had my nose broken a few times,” I tell her. “It’s fine.” “Doesn’t sound fine when you’re sleeping, bro.”

I dipped her more than once tonight when we were dancing to the surprisingly appropriate playlist Van made.

What are on about? Van is the nicest guy there is.