The Bff Bride

He just wanted things the way they’d been.

When they’d been as comfortable and familiar as a pair of old, beloved boots.

He dropped his hand and looked at Tabby from the corner of his eye. “If I let you punch me in the nose, would you finally get over your anger?”

She stabbed her fork into her pie, seeming to focus fiercely on it. “We’re not five.”

“We were nine.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I remember it vividly, since you managed to break it.”

“I never intended to break your nose,” she muttered.

“I know.” He waited a beat. “We survived that. So can’t we survive another kiss, even one—I hate to admit—as badly executed as the last one was?” It had been a helluva lot more than a kiss, but he didn’t figure she wanted to get into that territory any more than he did.

“It doesn’t matter. It was years ago.”

He leaned over the arm of his chair toward her. His gaze caught on the wedge of creamy skin showing between the unbuttoned edges of her shirt. Stupid, because there wasn’t anything like that between him and Tabby.

Except that one time they were both trying not to think about.

A frequent name on bestseller lists, ALLISON LEIGH’s high point as a writer is hearing from readers that they laughed, cried or lost sleep while reading her books. She credits her family with great patience for the time she’s parked at her computer, and for blessing her with the kind of love she wants her readers to share with the characters living in the pages of her books. Contact her at www.allisonleigh.com.

The BFF Bride

Allison Leigh

For my daughters and the fine young men who love them.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

Nineteen years ago

“Come on, Tabbers.” The boy holding the chains of the swing leaned closer to her and grinned. His weird bluish-purple eyes were full of mischief. And goading.

But that was something Justin Clay had always been good at.

Goading. And a whole lot of it.

Usually, it led to her getting her rear end in trouble with her mom and daddy.

“I told you. I go by Tabitha now,” she said firmly. She’d just turned nine. Tabitha seemed more fitting than Tabby, much less Tabbers.

Justin’s eyebrows skyrocketed, and he hooted with laughter, giving the swing’s chains a shove so that she shot backward then forward again so unevenly that her bare toes dug into the sand beneath the school’s swing set.

“That’s bat-crap crazy. You’re Tabbers,” he said with the annoying superiority he’d developed lately. Catching her chains again, he stopped her forward progress with such a jolt that her chin snapped against her chest. “And you might as well just kiss me. It’s gonna happen, one way or another.”

She glared at him. “You made me bite my tongue.”

If anything, he looked even more devilish. “You going to cry about it?”

She curled her lip. “Not ’cause of you, that’s for sure. And I’m not gonna kiss you just so you can make Sierra Rasmussen jealous!”

His eyebrows drew together. “You’re my best friend,” he complained. “We’re supposed to help each other out.”

Now it was her turn to snort. “Good thing your best friend isn’t a boy, then. And I’m still not kissing you!”

“One day you’re gonna wanna kiss me,” he warned.

Annoyed at the absurdity, she shoved her hand against his chest and pushed him away far enough that she could jump off the swing. Even though his daddy was the tallest person Tabby had ever met, for now, she and Justin were exactly the same height. She looked him straight in the face. “Try it and I’ll punch you in the nose,” she warned. “I’d sooner kiss a toad than you.”

His skinny chest puffed out. “Lotsa toads down at the swimmin’ hole, Tabbers.”

She puffed out her own chest. It was just as skinny as his. And as flat. Which was fine with her, since boys seemed to have more fun than girls did. At least all the ones she knew around Weaver, anyway. Who wanted to be all prissy and perfect when there were baseball games to play and cow chips to throw and worms to be threaded onto fish hooks? Summer was short enough in Weaver without spending half your time playing indoors with dolls and dress-up. And Justin’s granddaddy had the best swimming hole around, out on his Double-C Ranch. She and Justin, along with his cousin Caleb, spent half their summer vacation out there. “I can make you kiss a toad just as easy, Justin Clay, and you know it.” She scuffed her bare toes through the sand. The sun was hot as Hades, and now that he’d brought up the topic of swimming, that’s all she wanted to do. “I dunno why y’all are so gaga over Sierra, anyway,” she groused. The other girl was a year ahead of them in school and the biggest snot around.

“’Cause she’s got boobs,” he said, as if the answer were obvious. “And Joey Rasmussen says his cousin won’t kiss no boy who ain’t already kissed someone.”

“So? Since when’re you interested in kissing girls?”

“Erik’s already kissed three girls!”

She rolled her eyes. “Who cares if your brother’s kissing girls?”

“I do. So now I gotta kiss someone, and I ain’t gonna kiss Caleb!”

She leaned over, pretending to gag. “That’s just gross.”

“That’s just ’cause you don’t got any boobs.”

She rolled her eyes and shoved his shoulder hard enough to tip him over in the sand.

He laughed, squinting up at her in the sunlight as he stuck out his suntanned hand. “Help me up.”

Sighing mightily, she grabbed his hand and yanked.

He sprang easily to his own bare feet and pecked his thin lips against hers before she had a chance to evade him.

Then he danced around her, cackling like a madman, waving his arms over his head in victory. “Told you!”

She made a face. “You are disgusting.”

He laughed even harder. “You’re just mad ’cause I got my way.”

“And it was disgusting, too. Still don’t know why you gotta keep up with your big brother. I don’t gotta keep up with mine.”

His smile didn’t die, but he stopped his victory dance and dropped his arm over her shoulders, like the best buddies they were. “Come on.” He started walking away from the swings. “Let’s find Caleb and go out to the swimming hole to catch some toads.”

She shrugged. Because she did want to go swimming. “Sure. But first—” She hesitated when they left the sand for the closely shorn green grass covering the rest of the playground.

He hesitated, too, his eyebrows lifting again over his weird bluish-purple eyes. “What?”

She smiled.

Balled her fist.

And punched him in the nose.

Chapter One

“Hey there, Tabby! Happy Thanksgiving.” Hope Clay reached for the covered dish in Tabby’s gloved hands. “Every year we keep telling you all you need to bring is yourself,” she chided with a smile.

“And every year, you know I’m going to bring something to share,” Tabby countered easily as she followed the older woman out of the cold November air into the warm, soaring foyer. This year, the rotating Thanksgiving feast was being held at Hope and Tristan Clay’s home. The smells of Thanksgiving dinner filled the air, along with the sounds of music and laughter as Tabby pushed the heavy wooden door closed behind her. “I can’t take credit for the casserole, though. That’s Bubba’s doing.” Robert “Bubba” Bumble was the cook down at Ruby’s Café, which Tabby managed for Hope’s two sons, who owned the place.

“How is Bubba?” Hope asked over her shoulder as she turned left and sailed into the dining room, where an enormous table was set with white china and sparkling glasses. Next to it—jutting out into the wide hallway—was a slightly smaller portable table set with disposable plates and cups.

The kids’ table, Tabby knew, though the kids generally ranged from her generation down to any child old enough to hold her own spoon. “Bubba’s fine,” she said wryly. “He’s been cooking once a week for Vivian Templeton when her usual chef has the day off.”

Hope glanced toward the great room across the wide hallway, as if she were afraid Tabby’s words might be overheard. She even put a finger in front of her lips in a silent shush, and her “that’s nice” was barely audible.

Tabby had spent as much of her childhood roaming around Hope and Tristan Clay’s home as she had around her own. She raised her eyebrows pointedly but lowered her own voice to a whisper while she pulled off her gloves and her coat. “What’d I say?”

“That subject is still a little...sore...with some,” Hope replied.

Tabby started to glance toward the great room but managed to stop herself. She’d have to encounter Justin sooner or later. And later was better. “Squire?” she mouthed, more to keep her mind off Hope’s youngest son than anything.

Hope nodded, adjusting a few dishes in the middle of the table to make room for Tabby’s casserole dish. She looked over her shoulder toward the sound of the crowd in the other room getting all riled up again. “Ever since I married Tristan,” she said in a more normal tone, “he’s told me how stubborn his father could be. But I’ve never seen Squire be truly cantankerous until Vivian moved to Weaver. He’s downright ornery when it comes to the subject of her.” She straightened, her violet eyes studying the table through her stylish glasses.

Tabby knew there was bad blood between Justin’s grandfather and Vivian Templeton dating from way back, though. The elderly woman had only arrived in town a little more than a year ago.

“Guess it’s good that she’s not going to be here for Thanksgiving dinner, then,” she said drily. “And I assume there aren’t going to be any other Templetons at the table today?”

Hope shook her head, making a face. “That would have been nice, but everyone is still feeling their way after learning they’re all related through Tristan’s mama.”

“Understandable.” Tabby’s hearing was acutely attuned to the voices coming from the great room, but she kept her gaze strictly on the table. She didn’t need to listen too closely to be able to pick Justin’s voice out from the others.

He never missed spending Thanksgiving with his parents. He’d never once failed to come home from Boston for the holiday, even if it meant flying in one day and right back out the next—which was what he’d done for the past four years.

“Anything I can do to help get the meal on?” she asked, trying to drown out her memories.

“Bless your heart, honey. You’re not on the job here. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t grateful for your help.”

Tabby grinned. “You know me. Always happier being useful and busy than sitting around on my thumbs.” And it kept her from having to go into the great room just yet.

She couldn’t imagine spending Thanksgiving anywhere else—particularly when her own parents were away—but being with the Clays on the holiday came with a price.

Thankfully, her hostess was unaware of Tabby’s thoughts. “You’re just like your mama.” She tossed Tabby’s coat onto the pile in the study, then drew her into the kitchen, where nearly every inch of counter space was covered with one dish or another. “Even though she and your dad are off visiting your grandma this year, I’m pleased you still came.”

Hope and Jolie Taggart had been best friends for Tabby’s entire life. “You’re my second family. Where else would I be? So put me to work.”

Hope gestured at an enormous pot steaming on top of the stove. “I just need to get the potatoes finished. Selfishly, I was hoping you’d get here in time to do the honors. Nobody makes mashed potatoes like you do.”

Tabby immediately rolled up the sleeves of her white blouse and plucked a clean white flour-sack towel out of a cupboard. “Flattery’ll get you everywhere.”

Hope laughed. “I’d hoped. I should have everything you need all set, but if I don’t, you know where everything is, anyway.”

Smiling, Tabby tied the towel around her waist like an apron before turning off the flame under the potatoes and hefting the pot over to the sink to drain it. From the great room came a loud burst of laughter and hooting catcalls. “Football game must be a close one.” She was recording it at home to watch later.

“Sounds like.” The older woman glanced over her shoulder when her sister-in-law Jaimie entered carrying an empty oversize bowl. “More tortilla chips?”

“And salsa.” Jaimie smiled at Tabby and bussed her cheek on her way to the far counter where a variety of bags were stacked. She deftly tore open a large one and dumped the entire contents into the wooden bowl. “You’d think the hordes hadn’t eaten in a week.”

“Or that they weren’t going to sit down to turkey and ham in only a few minutes.” Hope grimaced but handed Jaimie the near-industrial-size container of salsa she pulled from the refrigerator. “I know better than to warn any of them.”

Tabby didn’t bother hiding her smile as she began scooping the steaming potatoes into the ricer, which Hope had left on the counter next to the sink along with two large crockery bowls. At the diner, she made mashed potatoes by the ton, so the work was simple and easy. But unfortunately, it also allowed her mind to wander down the hallway to the great room and the people there.

Her parents traditionally spent every other Thanksgiving with her grandmother. Tabby’s brother, Evan, and his family had gone this year, too. Tabby could have accompanied them. She still wasn’t sure why she hadn’t.

She grimaced at her own thoughts and scooped more potatoes into the ricer. Steam continued rising up into her face, but she barely noticed as she squeezed out the fluffy fronds, filling the first bowl, then the second.

Who was she kidding?

There were only a few times every year when she was guaranteed to see him. Thanksgiving and Easter. He’d missed Christmas for years. Birthdays? Forget about it.

Seeing him was like picking at a wound that wouldn’t heal. She couldn’t stop herself, to her own detriment.

She huffed a strand of hair out of her eyes and refilled the ricer yet again. Fortunately, the contraption was just as large and sturdy as the ones she had at the diner, so the work went quickly.

“Don’t you agree?”

She realized the question had been directed at her, and she looked over her shoulder at Hope, only to realize Jaimie had left the kitchen with her chips and salsa and she’d been replaced with another one of her sisters-in-law, Emily. Tabby racked her brains, trying—and failing—to recall their conversation. “Sorry?”

“Thanksgiving is an easier holiday than Christmas,” Hope repeated.

“Oh. Sure.” It was a lie, and she looked back down at the potatoes. “None of the Christmas gift shopping stress.” Just all the stress of knowing Justin would be back in town.

She huffed at her hair again and scooped the last of the potatoes into the container, making quick work of them before running the ricer under the faucet.

“Frankly, I don’t know what to get anyone this year for Christmas,” Emily was saying. She moved next to Tabby, holding a saucepan filled with steaming cream and melted butter. “I don’t suppose you have any ideas for my son-in-law, do you?”

Tabby made a face and left the ricer to drain while she grabbed a long-handled spoon from the drawer. “I don’t have any ideas for him, and Evan’s my brother.” She gestured for Emily to begin pouring the liquid into one of the bowls while she gently stirred the riced potatoes.

Hope stepped up behind Tabby, watching over their shoulders. “I swear, honey, watching you work is like watching a cooking show on television.”

At that, Tabby snorted outright. “Only doing the same thing your grandmother taught me to do when I started working at her diner.”

“Hope’s grandma was quite a cook.” Emily drizzled more hot cream into the second bowl at Tabby’s prompting. “But I’m just thankful Ruby taught you how to make her cinnamon rolls.”

“My hips aren’t that happy,” Hope said drily. “I can’t tell you how many times Gram tried to teach me how to make her rolls.” She shook her head. “I can make them, but not like she could. Or you.” She patted Tabby’s shoulder. “She would roll over in her grave hearing me say so, but I think yours have got hers beat.”

“Good grief, don’t say that.” Tabby looked up at the ceiling, as though she was waiting for lightning to strike. “I loved Ruby Leoni, too, but oh, man, did she have a temper.”

Hope laughed. “You nearly finished there, honey?”

Tabby focused on her work again, giving the creamy potatoes a final stir. “All set.” She picked up both bowls, cradling them against her hips. “You want them on the table now?”

“That was twenty pounds of Yukon Golds. I should get one of the boys—”

“No worries. I’ve got them.” Tabby quickly cut her off and carried the bowls out to the dining room, placing one at one end of the main table and the other on the kids’ table. Hope and Emily followed along, bearing platters of freshly carved roast turkey and glazed ham.

“I have a good mind to let them all watch football while we feast on our own,” Hope said when a caterwaul of cheers and jeers burst out from the other room. She adjusted one of the platters just so and stood back to admire the display.

Emily, meanwhile, was counting off chairs and place settings. “I think we’re a few short,” she warned.

“We’re always a few short,” Hope returned. “That’s what happens these days when nearly the whole family turns out.” She stepped to the archway opening onto the wide hallway. “Food’s on,” she called briskly. Her onetime schoolteacher’s voice cut across the racket of televised sports and thirtysome family members debating the latest call. Considering they weren’t all rooting for the same team, it was chaotic, to say the least.

Nevertheless, at Hope’s announcement, the television volume immediately went mute and those thirtysome individuals turned en masse toward the dining room.

She didn’t rush.

For as long as she could remember, she’d sat at the kids’ table.

“Tabby! I didn’t even hear you come in.” Hope’s husband, Tristan, grabbed her up in a bear hug that lifted her right off her toes. “Thank God we’ll have decent mashed potatoes.” He kissed her forehead and dropped her back down. “When Tag said he and your ma were visiting Helen this year, I was afraid it was gonna be boxed potatoes.”

Hope gave him a pinch. “Since when have I ever made you mashed potatoes from a box?”

The tall man, still blond in his sixties, grinned and gave Tabby a quick wink before he made his way toward the head of the big table, jostling his relations while Hope directed butts to seats and ultimately determined that Emily had been right. They were short of chairs. Erik—Hope and Tristan’s eldest—immediately pigeonholed his adopted son, Murphy, to help him search down more.

Tabby, long used to the process, just moved out of the way as far as possible and bit back a chuckle when Squire brushed past everyone to take the first seat—which happened to be Tristan’s at the head of the table. “All that fancy money you earn, boy, seems you ought to have a bigger table ’n’ chairs.”

“That’s my chair, old man,” Tristan said mildly. But Tabby could see by the humor in his blue eyes that he wasn’t offended. Or surprised. “And the way this family keeps growing, we’d need a reception hall to seat everyone at one table.”

Erik and Murphy returned with two more chairs and a piano bench, and the shuffling began again.

“Same thing happens every year.”

Tabby stiffened inwardly at the deep voice. She didn’t look at the tall man who’d stopped next to her, bumping his elbow companionably against hers. She didn’t need to.

There’d been a time when she knew everything there was to know about Justin Clay. And he’d known everything about her. They’d been best friends.

Now...they weren’t.

“Yes, it does. Some people like that,” she answered smoothly and moved toward the kids’ table. She sat down in the only spare seat, next to fourteen-year-old Murphy, who was eyeing her from 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.