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"I was seven."

"You seemed older."

"Yeah, because I was born an old lady."

Julissa laughed, as if that had been an inside joke they shared.

Mikayla smiled. Not the polite one she used when she wanted someone to stop talking. Not the sarcastic one she flashed at me when I was being particularly charming. This one reached her eyes. And in my world, the heavens opened and the angels sang.

"Listen to me," she said. "Tomorrow, you're going to walk down that aisle, and Rob is going to look at you like you're the only woman on the planet."

Rob, who'd been hovering a few feet away, nodded so hard I worried about his neck. "Yes, I am."

"And you're going to marry your best friend. You're going to dance, eat cake, and probably cry enough to ruin whatever very expensive mascara you're wearing."

Julissa recoiled in horror. "Waterproof, babe."

"Right. Good thinking." Mikayla nodded. "And in twenty years, you won't remember whether the roses were blush or pink or whatever other shade the floral industry invented to torture brides. You'll remember how you felt."

Julissa's lower lip trembled.

Mikayla brushed a tear from her cousin's cheek. "And if you still want the blush roses, I'll get you the blush roses."

"How?"

Mikayla pulled out her phone. "Money, threats, and an excellent contact list."

I laughed. Couldn't help it. Mikayla glanced over her shoulder and caught me watching.

For one brief second, something flickered across her face. Embarrassment? No. Not exactly. More like she'd been caught doing something she hadn't intended anyone to see.

Then her expression shuttered. "Don't you have something useful to do, Lockhart?"

I pushed away from the post. "I'm providing moral support."

"Try providing manual labor."

"Usually you have to buy me dinner first."

Julissa laughed again.

Mikayla’s face split into a wide, open smile as she rolled her eyes. And I decided right then and there that I was going to spend the rest of my natural life trying to make Mikayla Parsons smile like that again.

Which was a ridiculous thought. Obviously. I'd probably suffered heatstroke.

Twenty minutes later, the florist was no longer the biggest problem. Not even close. The rehearsal had officially become a three-ring circus.

Ring number one involved the seating chart.

Apparently, two of Rob’s aunts, Aunt Leslie and Aunt Patricia, hadn't spoken since a Thanksgiving incident involving a pecan pie, a missing serving platter, and an accusation of emotional sabotage.

I didn't know how a pie could emotionally sabotage someone. Frankly, I didn't want to know. But both women had been assigned seats at the same table for tomorrow's reception, and Leslie had just announced that she'd rather eat dinner with the goats. Which I was more than happy to accommodate.

Patricia responded by suggesting she’d be more comfortable with the pigs. Things deteriorated from there. Mikayla appeared between them before anyone could throw champagne flutes.

"Leslie, I need your help," she spoke softly, causing Leslie to stop mid-rant to hear what she was saying.

“What?"