The Best Man. Kristan Higgins

round. “Sure. But take a shower or I’m gonna puke.”

      He stood up. “Want to help me wash the dog?”

      “No. But I appreciate the offer.”

      He moved to ruffle her hair, but she ducked. “Levi. Clean up.”

      He knew his sister loved him. She’d even changed her last name to Cooper when she was sixteen, to make sure everyone knew who she was, she’d said. But he still wanted to kill her sometimes.

      He took the dog into the bathroom—his own bathroom, thank God for that—and turned on the shower. The dog bent his head in deep shame. “Yeah, don’t give me that, chicken chaser. Who’s idea was it to go under the porch?” He took out his phone and dialed from memory. “Hi, Mrs. Holland, it’s Levi Cooper.”

      “Dear! How are you? Do you know how to get flying squirrels out of the attic? Faith doesn’t want us to set traps, and I don’t want her to watch her grandfather fall to his death, though to be honest, widowhood is looking better and better these days. By the way, that pipe that burst last winter? Do you remember the name of the plumber you recommended? Ever since Virgil Ames moved to Florida, I don’t know what to do! And Florida! Who’d want to live there? All those bugs and lizards and alligators and tourists.”

      “Bobby Prete should be able to fix the pipe, Mrs. H.,” he said. “Listen, I’ve got Faith’s dog with me.”

      “Oh, yes, he ran off when Ned was watching him.”

      “Can I bring him up?”

      “Just give him to Faith, dear. She’s down on the green, anyway. Which reminds me, I’ve got to get ready. Lovely talking to you.”

      Levi took off his shirt and threw it in the tub, giving it a good rinse before putting it into the laundry bin. “Come on, dog,” he said to Blue, who’d curled up in a tight ball and was pretending to sleep. “Time to face the music.”

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      THERE WERE PROBABLY five hundred people crowded onto the green and the streets around it for the Seventeenth Annual Cork & Pork, which sounded disturbingly perverted but was in fact a pig roast and wine tasting. Five hundred people, Faith noted, and it seemed like at least half of them were dying to console her—still—over being jilted on her wedding day.

      “You were the most beautiful bride,” Mrs. Bancroft was saying. “Really. We were all so shocked. So shocked.”

      “Thanks.”

      “Have you seen him? Is he here?”

      “I haven’t seen him yet, Mrs. Bancroft. But we’re getting together next week.”

      Mrs. Bancroft stared at her, shaking her head. “You poor, poor thing.”

      “Oops. There’s my brother. Gotta run.” She left Mrs. Bancroft and went over to the Blue Heron tables and looped her arm through Jack’s. “You needed me desperately, dear brother?”

      “No,” he said, pouring a one-ounce taste for a woman whose T-shirt proclaimed her as Texan and Carrying. “In fact, I’m not sure we’re even related. How many sisters do I have, anyway? You seem to be multiplying.”

      “Mrs. Bancroft is the eighth person to call me a poor thing and ask how hard it is to see Jeremy again.”