The Bff Bride. Allison Leigh

the corner of his eye the way he had been for at least a year now. On her other side was April Reed—one of Squire’s grandchildren courtesy of his long-ago marriage to Gloria Day.

      “Haven’t seen you since last summer.” She greeted April with a smile, all the while painfully aware of Justin trading barbs with Caleb Buchanan behind her. “You cut your hair. I like it.”

      The young woman flushed and looked pleased that Tabby had noticed. She toyed with the shoulder-length auburn bob. “Job hunting,” she said. “Thought it looked more in keeping with a suit.”

      “Looks great.” Tabby tugged the ends of her own hair. It was riddled with wayward waves. “I’ve been thinking of cutting mine, too.”

      “Why?” Justin nudged Murphy’s shoulder. “Scoot your chair over, kid.”

      Murphy made a face, but he moved over enough to accommodate Justin, who pushed a backless stool into the space and straddled it. “Your hair’s been like that as long as I can remember.”

      Tabby knew he wasn’t trying to get cozy with her. There was simply a finite amount of space available for chairs and bodies. She looked away from the jeans-clad thigh nudging against her. “All the more reason it’s time for a change, then, right, April?”

      “I suppose. But I’ve always thought you had gorgeous hair. Such a dark brown and so glossy.”

      Tabby couldn’t help but laugh a little at that. “Grass is always greener, my friend with the smooth red hair.” She leaned over the table a little, mostly so she could shift away from that damned masculine thigh. “So, how is the job hunt going out in Arizona? It’s advertising, right?”

      “Dad wants me to work for him at Huffington,” she said, referring to the network of sports clinics he operated around the United States. “The Phoenix location is getting huge. But I want to make my mark on my own.”

      “Makes sense.”

      Justin jostled Tabby’s arm. “Remember when you wanted to go to Europe to make your mark on the great art world?”

      “Lofty dreams of a teenaged girl,” she said dismissively. She wasn’t going to let him bait her. “I learned I was perfectly happy right here in Weaver,” she told April, though the words were aimed at Justin. “This is my home. I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”

      “Ruby’s would have to shut right down,” someone interjected from the other table. “Weaver would never be the same.”

      Tabby rolled her eyes. “Erik and Justin own the place.” She still didn’t look at the man beside her. “They’d hire someone else to manage it.”

      “There’s a nasty thought,” Erik said. He was sitting at the main table next to his wife, Isabella, and didn’t look unduly concerned.

      The same couldn’t be said of their son. “You’re not gonna leave, are you?” Murphy gave her a horrified look.

      She lifted her hands peaceably. “I’m not going anywhere!”

      Justin jostled her again. “Do you even still paint?”

      If she’d have been five—or maybe even twenty-five—she would have just elbowed him right back. Preferably in the ribs, hard enough to leave a mark. Because the Justin she’d grown up with could take as well as he could give. “Yes, I still paint.” Her voice was even.

      “Absolutely, she still paints!” Sydney, who was married to Derek—yet another one of Justin’s plentiful cousins—called from the far end of the other table. Their toddler son was sitting in a high chair between them. “An old friend of mine who owns a gallery in New York has sold a couple dozen of her pieces! He wants her to give up working at Ruby’s and focus only on painting.”

      Tabby shifted, uncomfortable with the weight of everyone’s eyes turning toward her. “I’m not quitting Ruby’s,” she assured them, wondering how on earth the conversation had gotten so off track.

      “We know that, Tab,” Erik assured her calmly. Of the two brothers, he was the active partner in the diner, though he pretty much left the day-to-day stuff to her.

      Squire cleared his throat loudly. Tabby was quite sure if he’d had his walking stick handy, he’d have thumped it on the floor for emphasis the way he tended to do. “We gonna sit here and jabber all the livelong day, or get to eating?”

      Tristan chuckled. “Eat.”

      “Not before we say grace,” Gloria said mildly. And inflexibly. So they all bowed their heads while Gloria said the blessing.

      Justin leaned close to her again. “Nothing changes,” he murmured almost soundlessly.

      Tabby’s jaw tightened. She looked from her clasped hands to the insanely handsome, violet-eyed man sitting only inches away from her.

      “You changed,” she whispered back.

      Then she looked back at her hands and closed her eyes. Gloria was still saying grace.

      Tabby just prayed that Justin would go away again, and the sooner the better.

      He’d been her best friend.

      But he was still her worst heartbreak.

       Chapter Two

      His mother might have put the meal on the table, but it was up to her husband and sons to cart everything back to the kitchen when the meal was done.

      Not even the Thanksgiving holiday—or televised football games—got them out of that particular task.

      So even though Justin generally would rather poke sharp sticks into his eyes than load a dishwasher, he did his fair share, carting stacks of plates and glasses from the dining room to the kitchen, following on Erik’s heels.

      And while the rest of the women in the family had pitched in to help Hope, the three men were brutally left on their own by their fellows.

      “Typical,” Justin muttered, dumping the plates on the counter next to the sink his dad was filling with soap and water. “Couldn’t even get Caleb to help.”

      Erik chuckled. He was five years older than Justin and he good-naturedly threw a clean dish towel at him. “You ever help clean up when we have a meal at his folks’ place?” The question was rhetorical. “Be glad that half the crowd today used disposable plates.”

      Justin had personally filled a big bag with the trash. He would have been happy to fill a half dozen of them if it meant not having to load a dishwasher.

      “Stop grousing and get it done,” their father ordered. “Dessert’s waiting on us, and Squire never likes waiting for his dessert.”

      “The old man looks good,” Justin said. He left the dish towel on the counter and pulled open the dishwasher. He began to load it methodically, mechanically transferring the items his dad rinsed into the racks.

      “He’s gonna run for city council,” Tristan said, shaking his head as if he still couldn’t believe it. “There’s a special election coming up in February.”

      “Squire?” Justin couldn’t help but laugh at the notion of his ninetysome-year-old grandfather sitting at a council meeting. “That ought to shake things up around Weaver. He’s always hated politicians.”

      “Which is the reason why he figures an old rancher ought to try his hand at it.” Erik started filling containers with the leftover food. They heard a cheer from the great room and he groaned a little.

      “Shouldn’t have bet against Casey on the game,” Justin said knowingly. Their cousin had an uncanny gift for picking winners. “What’re you gonna lose to him this time?”

      “Week out at the fishing cabin. And I haven’t lost yet.”

      “When’s the last time