Flame - Erin Noelle Page 0,3

When my two older sisters, Juno and Denali, and I got our own apartment a couple of years ago, leaving the constant chaos of our parents’ home, I thought I’d learned the meaning of peace and quiet. But it wasn’t until the last six months when I moved into the small studio apartment by myself, a move necessary for school, that I’ve discovered a lot about who I am in the silence.

There’s a distinct difference between being alone and being lonely, and as long as you like the person you are, then it’s a lot harder to become lonely. Being content in my own company is definitely something I’m working on, something I never had to face when growing up.

Me: That sounds awful. Hotel room?

Rory: Yeah. I’ll book it. See you in a bit.

Tossing my phone onto the bed, I wonder if my parents will mind that I don’t stay here at the house my first night back in town. Didn’t Mel say she thought I’d be going out afterward anyway?

The display screen lights up the white comforter with another message from Rory indicating he’s reserved a room at Victoria Pointe Lodge, one of the nicest hotels on the mountain, thus eliminating any second thoughts I may be having.

Tonight, I’ll be fucking in style.

THURSDAY, JUNE 14

“DUDE, RHINO, YOU HIT THE ball backwards. How is that even physically possible? You were like defying laws of golf physics or some shit.”

Everyone in our group rolls with laughter as Gunner, my cousin, continues to harass our childhood friend, Ryan, about how unbelievably terrible he was on the course this morning. And when I say terrible, I mean it was the worst display of athleticism I’ve ever seen from a physically competent grown man. I had no idea anyone I knew could be that uncoordinated when swinging a stick at a ball.

Except for Nathan, Gunner’s soon-to-be father-in-law, it wasn’t like any of the rest of us were any good, but the guy races four-wheelers for a fucking living, and he can’t hit a golf ball up into the air three feet in front of him? It was fucking hilarious . . . which is why we’re all still chastising him about it hours later over drinks at Ember Bar and Grille, the after-dinner meeting place for everyone in the wedding party.

“And then, when we got to the green on seven, he pulled out his—”

“Baby, leave him alone,” Emmy Sue, Gunner’s fiancée, cuts him off as she slides down from her barstool and stands in front of him. “He was a good sport for getting up early and going out there to try. I’m sure that’s not how Ryan wanted to spend his morning, but he did it for you. For me. For our wedding weekend. Be nice.”

Softly patting his chest, she peers up at him with her big, brown doe eyes and a slightly pouting lower lip, otherwise known as her look. It’s the look she gives him that he absolutely can’t resist. I know it. He knows it. And she knows it. It’s a lethal fucking look.

“Please,” she purrs, lifting up on her tiptoes to brush her lips across his. A bonus sweet gesture. The cherry on her sundae, if you will.

Not even bothering to put up a fight, he succumbs immediately, looping his arms around her waist and deepening the kiss. All thoughts of Rhino’s golf game—or lack thereof—are erased by a single swipe of her tongue. Lucky fucking bastard.

The twinge of jealousy taunting me from the back of my mind as I watch them interact with each other isn’t anything new. Ever since Emmy Sue, known as Emilia to everyone except those in our close circle, moved on to Gunner and my tour bus last summer, I’ve had a steady dose of sickeningly sweet moments like these. Strangely enough, I’ve found myself wishing more and more that I had a little bit of that in my life. A little bit of someone like Emmy Sue.

Or shit, a lot of someone like Emmy Sue.

Living in the tight quarters we have over the last year, I know my cousin’s wife better than I should. And like I said . . . he’s a lucky fucking bastard.

“Save it for the honeymoon!” one of Emmy Sue’s bridesmaids shouts out, thankfully breaking up their kiss and yanking me from my absurd pipe dream. No fiancées in my future.

Shaking my head at my own ridiculousness, I lift the frosty mug of dark lager to my lips and