Mistakes We Never Made

by Hannah Brown

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

An epic coastal road-trip gives two lifelong rivals a second chance at love in this debut novel from The Bachelorette star and New York Times bestselling author Hannah Brown.

Two former debate team champions who almost fell in love years ago are now stuck together on one wild wedding weekend. When bridesmaid Emma first sees groomsman Finn, she's reminded of all the mistakes she almost made with him—the date, the party, the kiss, that one night on the rooftop in New York. Each ended in heartbreak, and she would have been happy never to see Finn again.

But when the bride runs away, and both Emma and Finn are tasked with bringing her home in time to walk down the aisle, they end up on a whirlwind road trip down memory lane... and might just fall in love along the way. 

Perfect for fans of Emily Henry, MISTAKES WE NEVER MADE reminds us it’s never too late to risk falling in love, because being true to your heart is never a mistake. 

Release date: May 7, 2024

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 400

Sample

(Three days before the wedding)

THE GREAT THING ABOUT TEQUILA IS THAT IT’S NOT JUST A DRINK. IT’S AN activity.

Lick. Shoot. Suck.

Salt. Tequila. Lime.

And an activity is something we desperately need.

Earlier this afternoon Sybil and I dropped our bags in the cottage we’re sharing, at least until she marries Jamie on Saturday—then I’ll bunk with Nikki. Her eyes had gone wide when I fanned out four identical, laminated copies of our itinerary on the white oak coffee table.

“Emma, this is so… thorough.” And it was.

Complimentary hotel golf carts arrive at 7:10 p.m. Disembark at the Pelican Club at 7:25 p.m. Enjoy sunset and take photos 7:30 p.m.–8:00 p.m. Seated for dinner at 8:15 p.m.

Some might call it anal, but I just call it being prepared.

We had been progressing right on schedule. Five-star dinner: check. Oceanfront views: check. But now, a lull seems to have settled over our party. Full bellies and weak drinks will do that to you. Nikki has been sipping the same glass of rosé for an hour, while Willow nurses a nonalcoholic black pepper mango spritz. And Sybil has barely touched the rosewater and pistachio martini the bartender spent ten minutes concocting.

I covertly glance at my phone. It’s only nine forty-five. This is bordering on pathetic. We’re four women in our prime. Well, that is, if you consider “prime” to mean heartbroken (Nikki), pregnant (Willow), and possibly about to be fired (me). But no one can deny that Sybil is a woman in her prime, and this night was supposed to be about her. The wedding had come together in such a whirlwind that we didn’t have time for a real bachelorette, but I had at least hoped that the Core Four coming to Malibu a day early for the festivities would allow us one unforgettable night to toast away Sybil’s singledom. After mentally flipping through my itinerary of activities for the evening to see if there was anything I could shuffle around to revive our flagging group, there was only one option.

“I’m going to get us tequila shots!” I stand and adjust the sweetheart neckline of my most recently purchased Reformation sundress, brushing at the wrinkles.

Nikki perks up a bit. “I would do a shot.”

“We’re all going to do one. It’s tradition.” We do shots whenever one of us has a big win or life event. We did them when Nikki got picked to go on the reality show LovedBy, when I got my first big design job, when Willow got married last year. I’d even scheduled it to make sure we didn’t forget: 11:15 p.m. tequila shots. We had to have shots for Sybil’s wedding. She may have been engaged three times, but she’s only going to get married once. “Sybil, you’re drinking Willow’s too. I’ll be right back, and then we can play the game!”

Sybil’s eyes narrow. “What game?”

“It was on the itinerary!” I call over my shoulder, already halfway to the bar. “You’re gonna love it.”

The bartender—a white guy in his early thirties—is fairly cute, if only in a this-bun-and-beard-make-up-most-of-my-identity kind of way. I flash the smile that’s worked on bartenders since I was a freshman at the University of Texas trying to convince them that I actually was Carly Mulherin, twenty-two and from Elk City, Oklahoma, not Emma Townsend, an eighteen-year-old Pi Phi from Dallas with a $120 fake ID. It’s been a decade since those desperate days, but we need to get this show on the road, so I crank the charm to eleven.

“My friend Willow says the spritz you made her is the best drink she’s had since finding out she was pregnant,” I tell him, even though what Willow actually said was that it tasted like air freshener and she’d kill for a moscato. Drying a wineglass, the bartender just nods, so I plow ahead. No use wasting charm on an unreceptive audience. “Four tequila shots, please.” While I wait for the bartender to pour our drinks, I take a moment to look at the material of the bar. It’s a bone-colored marble with a sleek waterfall edge that adds a much-needed tension with the more boho vibes of the rest of the decor. I’m surprised that it’s still in such good shape after being outside in the elements. I don’t usually recommend using marble outdoors to my clients since it’s so soft. Maybe it’s brand-new, otherwise I need to ask what sealant they used.

“Unfortunately, I can’t serve shots.”

I look up from the marble. “Pardon?”

“It’s against the hotel’s policy.” He seems entirely too pleased to be telling me the hotel’s policy on alcoholic portioning. I feel the flicker of a challenge, and I fixate on it. I haven’t had a ton of wins lately, but I’m not going back to our table without these shots. We’re going to celebrate Sybil whether this bartender wants to help or not.

“What about four tequilas, neat,” I ask, and shift my smile from friendly to conspiratorial. He looks like he’s about to refuse, so I follow with a kill shot. “That man at the table by the firepit has a glass of whiskey. Neat. It really wouldn’t be fair for us not to have our tequilas neat. Would it?”

He gives me a look that says he isn’t particularly impressed, but must decide it’s not worth the fight.

“I can give you sipping tequila,” he says tightly, turning to the collection of bottles behind him. Instead of pouring the alcohol into shot glasses, he lines up four tulip-shaped glasses.

“This is an aged añejo. On the nose, you’ll find a soft bouquet of lemongrass, melon, and a touch of butterscotch.” He unscrews the top. “The palate opens with a hint of charred grapefruit rind, harvest grasses, and a light scent of caramel.” I nod along, as if I have any idea what “harvest grasses” are supposed to taste like. “It finishes with a strong pepper spice.”

“Oh, I love some spice. Could we have four lime wedges?”

He looks at me like only an absolute heathen would shoot his sipping tequila and destroy the aftertaste of “pepper spice” with a wedge of lime.

“I don’t have any limes.”

“Okay, lemon will work.”

“No lemons, either, ma’am.” That gets my attention.

“You’re—are you messing with me?” I plaster on a smile, hoping against hope that this is just a mixologist’s attempt at humor.

“We only use in-season ingredients grown on the property, ma’am.”

“It’s Southern California. Everything is always in season.”

“Limes are a winter fruit. It is June.”

“And y’all couldn’t have gotten some from the grocery store?”

“I take my work very seriously. Some of us care about quality control and our carbon footprints.” It takes him a beat, but he tacks on, “Ma’am.”

That initial flicker of a challenge now roars to life. I have to have a lime. It’s tradition. And not just for the Core Four, but for humanity in general. Salt. Tequila. Lime. It’s practically sacred. I think back to when we arrived at the restaurant, and an idea blossoms. “Isn’t there a giant floral arrangement near the host stand filled with limes?”

A vein above the bartender’s left eyebrow twitches. Victory.

“I have no control over the aesthetic choices of the hotel’s design staff.”

“Okay, well, I’m going to take these glasses of aged jalapeño—”

“Añejo.”

“Aged añejo,” I correct as I clink all four glasses together, “and sip them very slowly. If you could just add this to my tab.”

I’m not about to be bested by some snobby bartender. I’m getting one of those limes.

I turn back toward the table, drinks in hand, to see Sybil perched precariously on the deck railing, chatting with a man who has made his way to our table, drawn like a moth to a flame. He leans in to whisper something in her ear. Sybil tosses her blond hair and shoots him a megawatt smile in response, but then shakes her head and holds up her left hand, the stunning four-carat diamond catching the glow from the bar’s Edison string lights. The man throws a hand to his heart like he’s gutted, and Sybil consoles him, placing her right hand on his shoulder. Which means she now has zero hands on the railing.

“Oh, no, no, no.” My espadrilles are sturdy, but they aren’t built for speed. It’s fifteen feet down to the sand, and a broken-legged Sybil would probably constitute a massive failing of my maid-of-honor duties. The glasses rattle against the slick polished wood of the table as I rush to put them down and reach for Sybil right as she begins to wobble, pulling her back onto the deck.

Sybil’s admirer hovers awkwardly, as if waiting to see if he and Sybil will continue their conversation.

“Great to meet you, Glen,” she says genuinely. “But I’ve got to get back to girls’ night.” The man wanders back to his table, grinning as he reaches his buddies. I’ve seen that look a thousand times before: high off the adrenaline of having mustered up the courage to talk to Sybil in the first place, and feeling like they really hit it off. If only he had gotten to her first, they would have lived happily ever after. Of course, in reality, Sybil could do leagues better than this middle-aged guy with a guacamole stain on his polo, but that’s just how Sybil makes people feel. Special. Chosen. Like her magical light might fall on you, too, if you just stick by her side.

SYBIL AND I MET in the cafeteria of Eisenhower Elementary. It was a few weeks after my dad left us, and I was the new girl at school—which was pretty much the worst thing you can be as an eight-year-old. On the first day, Mom sent me wearing a bandanna shirt and a pair of thrifted denim shorts that she had “updated” by sewing on a bright trim with dangling rainbow beads. I’d loved the way they rattled together every time I took a step, like just walking was something worth celebrating. But clutching my red plastic tray and looking around for somewhere to sit, I quickly began to regret my one-of-a-kind ensemble. The other girls all wore those cool scrunchy micro T-shirts and a brand of jeans I’d never heard of. They looked like they’d walked off the pages of a Limited Too catalog, while I looked like my mommy’s arts and crafts project. I sat down alone at the end of a table, beads digging into the backs of my legs, and prayed that the next half hour would go by fast. But then, a bright-eyed blond girl plopped down in the empty seat beside me, snapped open her Lisa Frank lunch box, said, “I like your style. My mom never lets me wear anything cool,” and handed me half of a grasshopper brownie. And that was that. It was like she took my insecurities and recast them into something exceptional. Suddenly, I wasn’t a weirdo in handmade clothes, I had style. I wasn’t alone and friendless, I had Sybil. And ever since that day, I’ve kept her close.

WITH SYBIL FIRMLY BACK in her seat, I motion toward the tequila. “I almost had to commit a felony to get these from the bartender, so you better drink up.”

Nikki looks up from her phone and gives the bartender a predatory once-over. “He’s very pretty.”

“Nikki, no.” Nikki has been tearing through men after her recent breakup. “He’s very insufferable. And besides, I told you, you’ve hit your man-bun quota for the month. Now don’t touch these. I have to go grab a lime.”

Willow gives me a salute. “I will guard them.”

I head out of the bar and back through the restaurant, swiping a saltshaker from one of the tables as I go. Like a woman on a mission, I weave through the white linen tablecloths and rattan chairs, hoping that the Pelican Club patrons don’t notice the slightly wild look of determination in my eyes. I hate it when I find myself typifying the “fiery redhead” cliché, but sometimes I just can’t help it. When I commit to something, I commit. And right now, I’m committed to making sure Sybil’s wedding weekend goes off without a hitch.

I can admit to myself that the maid of honor really should have been Willow. After all, she’s known Sybil the longest—ever since their mothers took a mommy and me music-in-the-park class together twenty-eight years ago. And she’s always so serene and unflappable. She wouldn’t have let her need to best the bartender pull her away from her friends. But the pregnancy hasn’t been easy for her, and I know Sybil didn’t want to add any more stress to her life.

Nikki would have been a great maid of honor, too, or at least pre-breakup Nikki would’ve been. She was there when Sybil first met Jamie and had a front-row seat for all the major milestones in their relationship. But despite the many perfectly posed and flawlessly filtered photos she posts, it’s clear that she’s still hurting from her nationally televised breakup. And still not over Aaron.

In the end, I guess it does make sense that Sybil asked me to be her maid of honor. Our friendship has always functioned on a similar dynamic—Sybil, the glowing star of the show; me, the best friend keeping things on track behind the scenes. I know it might sound like that makes things unbalanced between us, but it’s not like that. She coaxes me out of my comfort zone, and I make sure she has a soft place to land after each wild adventure she embarks on. I take pride in knowing what’s best for Sybil—and all my friends—and making sure she gets it. Right now, what she needs is a lime.

I reach the gorgeous floral arrangement in the entryway. It’s an explosion of greens. Bells of Ireland are a subtle kelly, the magnolia leaves a dark glossy emerald, sprays of eucalyptus are a delicate blue-green pistachio. My mind wanders—could my painter color-match the electric chartreuse of the orchids?—before I remember my mission. There at the bottom of the arrangement, piled high and juicy: limes.

I dart a quick look at the host stand. The woman there smiles back, but the phone rings, and she turns to the tablet in front of her. It’s now or never.

I zone in on a lime right in the middle so as not to affect the symmetry of the arrangement. It’s a bit of a reach to the center of the table, but I think I can make it. Teetering on the toes of my shoes, I realize too late that one pair of my laces has unknotted. Right as my hand closes on a lime, I lose my balance. I pitch myself backward so I don’t topple over onto the arrangement, but before my ass makes contact with the Spanish tile, two warm hands steady my hips, pulling away as soon as I’m stable.

As I turn to thank my rescuer, the smile on my face ices over, but I can still feel the heat of his hands around my waist. Hands I know well. Hands that have skimmed up the bare skin of my calves toward my knee, and—

No. Stop. It’s not like that anymore.

I shut my eyes, as if my lids have the power to change the reality before me.

But when I open them a second later, I’m staring straight into deep brown eyes—dark but flecked with amber so they look like light through a glass of whiskey.

The eyes of none other than Finn frickin’ Hughes.

(Three days before the wedding)

SHAKING MYSELF OUT OF the unwanted memory, I slip my foot back into my shoe, darting a look from the lime to the ribbons of my left espadrille puddled on the floor.

“Allow me.” Finn drops down to one knee, matter-of-factly reties the bow at my ankle, and stands. Despite my six-inch platform heels, he’s towering over me. I decide any flutter I feel is annoyance at being loomed over by someone so unreasonably tall.

Finn Hughes, my former debate team partner turned unforgivable asshole.

Okay, that might be slightly harsher than he deserves. He wasn’t that bad for most of high school. But then he shot up six more inches, filled out to his current man-shape, and started making his way through the female half of our entire senior class. Once his soft smiles and serious eyes were paired with broad shoulders and a chiseled jaw, girls suddenly found him irresistible. Even smart, slightly cynical, redheaded girls were not immune.

I can chart my history with Finn in a series of almosts. We almost dated in high school. We almost hooked up, that summer after freshman year of college. We almost left our significant others for each other after things went too far one magical night on a rooftop in New York. And we would have never spoken again after that big blowup fight at Katie Dalton’s wedding a few years ago, if it were up to me. Our story is a sequence of mistakes almost made—times when I thought Finn and I might be something more than just friends—but thankfully I’ve managed to avoid making the one mistake I know would be fatal: falling for him. He’s a heartbreaker and a mess, and I’ve learned that the hard way more than once.

“What are you doing here?” I straighten up as much as possible and place my hands on my hips, tucking the lime and saltshaker to my side.

“Hi, Emma, I’m good, how are you? Why yes, it has been a long time.” His voice is tinged with sarcasm, but he seems the slightest bit uneasy. He slides his hands into his pockets, rocking back as if he’s trying to take in all of me. Feeling his eyes linger, I can’t help the flush that blooms across my skin. I wonder for a moment if his brain is flipping through the same highlight reel of PG-13- to R-rated memories. His hand slipping into mine on the back of the debate team bus, his lips closing around my—

He clears his throat, and I’m jerked back to the present. “Seriously, though, it’s good to see you,” he adds in a casual, friendly tone.

I stare at him, steely eyed, willing my blush away. If he can stand there and be completely unaffected, then I can too.

It’s been exactly four and a half years since I last encountered Finn Hughes—and I’d happily have gone four and a half lifetimes without seeing him again, if it weren’t for our mutual friendship with Sybil. I knew Finn would be coming to the wedding, but I’d hoped to avoid him by busying myself with maid-of-honor duties and keeping my distance with the help of the nearly two hundred guests Sybil and Jamie invited. But I hadn’t planned for an ambush before the wedding weekend officially got underway at the welcome party tomorrow night.

“Why are you here, Finn?” I repeat.

“I drove down early for a meeting in LA this afternoon. Sybil told me to swing by.” Finn invented a healthcare app and is now a Silicon Valley tech bro who apparently zips down to LA to attend meetings and crash bachelorette parties. He rubs a hand along the nape of his neck. “The real question”—he steps forward to block me and my pilfered lime from the host—“is why are you stealing produce from a five-star resort?”

I suppress a shiver and force myself to take a step away from him. “The bartender refused to give me a lime, so I had to take matters into my own hands. You can’t have a tequila shot without lime.”

“Oh, of course. I’m pretty sure that’s in the Constitution,” he says with mock solemnity.

I nearly rise to the bait, but then remind myself that Finn and I don’t debate for fun anymore. Unlike our teenage verbal sparring, which was clearly just a pretense for the flirting we were too shy to attempt, our adult arguments have the potential to wound for real. Your Honor, I submit for evidence the complete and utter shit show that went down the last time Mr. Hughes and I saw each other. But we need to keep our drama to a minimum this weekend for Sybil’s sake. So I take a deep breath and lead him back to the group. “Come on. We’re sitting on the deck out back.”

We make it back to the girls, and I motion at Finn. “The stripper I hired is here.”

“That’s not on the itinerary.” Nikki raises her eyebrows.

“Itinerary?” Finn’s lips quirk up into a half smile. “Is this a bachelorette party or a corporate retreat?”

My grip on the lime tightens, and I set the saltshaker down more forcefully than I mean to.

“Finn!” Sybil leaps up from her seat and barrels into him. “I’m so happy to see you! You know Willow, of course. And do you remember my college roommate, Nikki?”

Finn lifts his hand in a wave. “Of course I remember Nikki,” he says with a smile.

I settle onto the rattan love seat across from Nikki and Sybil, as Nikki cranks her own smile up to dazzling. “So this is what took you so long, Emma. I was beginning to wonder if you had decided to get the bartender’s number after all.”

“Nope. No man buns for me.”

Finn gives a wry chuckle and settles into the seat next to Willow.

“True.” Nikki nods. “You’ve always had a thing for guys with shorter hair. Who was that actor you loved from Grey’s Anatomy?”

“Jesse Williams,” I supply easily, but I regret it the moment I see the catlike grin on Nikki’s face.

“Right! Actually…” she says, as if the thought is just occurring to her, “Finn, you look a bit like him.”

Yup. I walked right into it.

“Oh, really?” Finn raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying this. “Is that so?”

Finn doesn’t look anything like Jesse Williams, unless you count the fact that they’re both biracial, and built, and generally hot as hell.

“So I guess your type is someone a bit more like Finn,” Nikki says, her wide blue eyes the picture of innocence, “wouldn’t you say, Emma?”

I don’t know what game Nikki is playing at, but I’m putting an end to it.

“Finn could be the actual chief of plastic surgery at Grey Sloan Memorial Hospital, and he still wouldn’t be my type. Never has been. Never will be.”

The playfulness disappears from Finn’s face, and he says, “Wow, okay. Noted.”

Tension hangs in the air. I fumble for something to do, and suddenly realize that I have no way to turn my hard-won lime into lime wedges. “I forgot a knife. I’ll be right back.”

Leaning over from his chair beside the love seat, Finn gently removes the lime from my hand and produces a small pocketknife.

“Don’t worry. I know you can be a little single-minded when you’re on a mission,” he says.

“Do you just carry knives with you everywhere you go?”

“It’s helpful to have a tool on hand.”

“Well, thank the Lord we found you,” I say sweetly.

He rolls his eyes but lets the insult roll off him as he quickly halves the lime, then cuts it into quarters.

“Here you are. Can’t have a tequila shot without lime.” He repeats my words from earlier and flashes me a smile. The sea breeze ruffles his shirt in a way that makes my stomach clench.

Sybil, Nikki, and I take our glasses, and Finn reaches for the remaining fourth.

“That’s Sybil’s bonus shot,” I nearly growl.

“Finn can have it,” Sybil says.

“You two are going to play nicely this weekend, right?” Willow asks Finn and me, a crease of worry forming on her brow, as if she too is remembering the shouting match that occurred four and a half years ago.

“Of course,” Finn says quickly.

“Sure,” I grit out.

And I can play nice with Finn. We’re grown adults, after all. I’ll just treat him like a demanding client with exceptionally bad taste—politely, yet firmly, pointing out when they are dead wrong. Still, might be best to stick to just one more drink. Three-Drink Emma can’t be trusted to remember the “polite” part, and we don’t need a Katie Dalton wedding repeat.

Finn swirls the dark gold liquid and brings it to his nose. “You know, you should really be sipping this tequila—not shooting it.” I’m not a particularly violent person by nature, but I look longingly at the still-open pocketknife sitting on the table and then at a vein pulsing in Finn’s neck.

“Come on, are we doing this or not?” I lick the side of my hand, sprinkle on a little salt, and pass it to Nikki. When she’s ready, I raise the glass, “To Sybil!” And we both take the shot.

Lick. Shoot. Make a weird coughing noise. Blink back tears. Fumble for the lime. And, finally, suck.

Sipping might have been the right move after all, but I would throw myself off this balcony and drag my broken body into the ocean before I’d admit that. My only consolation is that Nikki seems to have had as hard a time as I did.

Willow winces at us, rubbing her belly. “I don’t think I could throw back a shot like that, even if I wasn’t pregnant.” She sighs. “Didn’t I used to be cool, once? Now I’m just a circus tent,” she says, gesturing down at her patterned sundress.

“You are cool,” Nikki insists, running a hand through Willow’s dark brunette waves. “I don’t know anyone else who can pull off a red lip the way you can.” It’s true. Willow has that . . .