Ambitious.
Charming.
Emotionally unavailable.
Men who loved the chase more than the catch—who kept their hearts locked behind career goals and carefully rationed affection.
I’d spent months trying to earn more than crumbs from Miles. Telling myself his detachment was just depth in disguise.
That his ambition was admirable, not self-centered. That his lack of warmth meant mystery, not apathy.
Seven months of therapy had helped me name the pattern.
Seven months wasn’t enough to break it.
"Let's just have fun," I said, downing the rest of my champagne. "No expectations."
"That's my girl." Zoe linked her arm through mine as we left the suite.
"Besides, Cami said the bride's side is stacked with eligible bachelors. It’s a good thing we opted for separate rooms.”
She says with a smile and wink. “Who knows what adventures might happen this weekend.”
"Cami thinks anyone with a pulse and a penis is an eligible bachelor."
The elevator doors closed on Zoe's laughter, and my stomach fluttered with something that wasn't just nerves. Anticipation, maybe. Or a warning.
The Stone Creek Vineyard estate was a California dream of Spanish-style architecture and sweeping vineyards.
Rows of white chairs faced an altar draped in roses and greenery, with the golden hills rolling behind it like something from a painting.
The late afternoon sunlight cast everything in a honey glow that felt almost magical.
The pre-ceremony was a work of art. A string quartet played softly as guests mingled, champagne flutes catching the light. I recognized a few faces from Zoe's stories—college friends, cousins she actually liked.
Nobody I knew personally, which was exactly what I needed. Anonymity felt like a luxury after the claustrophobic social circle I'd shared with Miles, where every gathering became a performance review of our relationship.
"I'm going to find Cami," Zoe said, spotting her friend near the rose garden. "You good?"
I nodded, already scanning for the bar. "Perfect. Go ahead."
As I weaved through clusters of guests, I caught fragments of conversation—opinions on the bride's dress, speculation about the cost of the venue, gossip about which groomsman was already drunk.
Normal wedding chatter that required nothing from me.
"Scotch, neat," I told the bartender, earning a raised eyebrow. "Please."
"Most of the ladies are drinking the signature cocktail," he said, gesturing to a tray of blush-colored drinks garnished with rosemary.
"I'm not most ladies."
A low chuckle came from beside me.
"Clearly not."
I turned, the retort dying on my lips as I took in the man who had materialized at my elbow.
Tall.
