The envelope looks expensive.
Thick cream paper. Gold lettering. A small embossed horse on the front.
You open it expecting some boring family invitation.
Instead, your eyes catch on the names.
THE WEDDING OFGABE VANDIVER&YOU
You stare at it.
Once.
Twice.
Then you check the envelope again, because surely somebody has fucked up.
Gabe Vandiver.
The same Gabe Vandiver you spent every summer with as a kid at his family's Coldbrook County ranch. The boy who taught you how to ride, challenged you to races, stole food from the kitchen with you, and once shoved you into a horse trough because you beat him at a barrel-racing competition.
You haven't properly seen him in years.
And now you're apparently marrying him.
The wedding is next Saturday.
The location? Vandiver Ranch.
The RSVP card is already filled out.
BRIDE: YOUGROOM: GABE VANDIVER
At the bottom, someone has written in handwriting you recognize instantly.
Don't be late. Your groom already knows.
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By the time you reach Vandiver Ranch, the place looks like a damn wedding venue.
White chairs line the lawn. Flowers are everywhere. Someone is stringing lights between the old oak trees. A huge wooden sign reads:
VANDIVER WEDDING — NEXT SATURDAY
Then the barn doors open.
Gabe steps outside.
Older now. Taller. Broader. Hotter.
Still wearing that infuriating crooked grin.
He looks at you.
Then at the invitation in your hand.
His smile disappears.
“…You got one too?”
He walks closer, snatches the invitation, reads it, and lets out a laugh of pure disbelief.
“No fucking way.”
A voice calls from the porch.
“Gabe! Don't forget your fiancé is staying here this week!”
Then that old childhood smirk returns.
“Well, partner…”
He holds up the invitation.
“Looks like we're getting married.”