Finally, he pulls back just enough to press his mouth to my temple. “You scare the hell out of me,” he admits quietly.
My throat is raw when I answer. “Good.”
36
MANUELA
THURSDAY
The house isa flurry of perfume, heels, and steam from curling irons by the time I finish my makeup. There’s at least three people getting Elle ready in the primary bedroom, and everyone is fluttering around with that kind of energy she’s only able to evoke. Dresses in different colors swish past the hallway, laughter bouncing between doors and floors, Amelia shouting for another glass of prosecco like it’s already a party.
Camila leans against the doorway of my room, slipping in earrings, her lipstick a sharp red that makes her look more glamorous than I’ve ever seen her. “Are you ready?”
I smooth my palms down the satin of my red dress. “Ready enough.”
She glances at me in the mirror, lips twitching. “You clean up nice.”
I roll my eyes, but it’s true—I barely recognize myself. The dress I packed for the first official event of the wedding trip feels more like it belongs to someone else, sleek and bright with a flow that makes me self-conscious. New-York-me thought it was perfect. Tres-Fuegos-me wonders if I’m playing dress-up in the Swiss Alps.
The others are already gathering in the entryway by the time we head downstairs. Elle looks like she’s floating, her champagne-colored floor-length gown catching one particular bright ray of sunlight. Jack stands, steady at her side, looking very much like a fool in love.
Outside, the air is crisp but not cold yet. It’s almost like Elle had words with whoever controls the weather because the temperature is perfect, and the sky is a deep blue I haven’t seen in a long time. Guests are walking down the gravel path to the dock, and the air is buzzing with hellos and cheek kisses, and the small talk and different conversations mix in a way that makes me dizzy.
“Boat cocktails,” Nicole says, sweeping past in a sparkling green dress, phone in hand. Banks is holding her free hand as she drags him towards the line that’s forming to board. “Only Elle would rent a yacht for pre-dinner drinks.”
“It’s not a yacht,” Elle protests from behind the group, though her grin betrays her. “Just… a boat. A nice one.”
The group spills toward the dock, laughter echoing as the lake comes into view. The vessel waiting there is lit with strings of fairy lights, its deck already staffed with servers balancing trays of champagne. The water glitters around it, mountains fading violet in the distance.
“This is insane,” Camila murmurs at my side.
“Look at your husband in a freaking tux,” I whisper back. “I feel underdressed.”
She bumps my shoulder. “Not possible.”
We queue up on the dock, shoes clicking against the planks and the chatter rising around us. Connor stands near the front with George and a couple of their cousins, his tux jacket cut sharp against his shoulders. He looks unfairly good—hair swept back, bow tie loosened just enough to make it look intentional.He laughs at something Sterling says, dimples flashing, but when his eyes slide toward me, the sound falters.
I swear I feel the world stop moving around me. The sight of him actually knocks the air from my chest.
This morning he was all wet hair and teasing grins, both of us looking at the other across the room. Now, he looks like he belongs on the cover of a magazine, like someone I shouldn’t be allowed within arm’s reach of. And he looks comfortable in it. Effortless.
My pulse trips hard. Heat rushes through me in a wave so sudden I have to press my hand against my clutch, grounding myself before I give myself away.
As if he feels it, the left dimple hits first, and then the smile—slow, devastating, meant only for me.
I want to look away, but I can’t.
“Ahh, no soy la única con secretos,” Camila mutters under her breath, low enough that only I hear about how I’m not the only one keeping secrets.
My head snaps toward her, cheeks burning. “What?”
She arches a brow, the corners of her mouth tugging in a knowing curve. “Don’t ‘what’ me. I saw that.”
“I—no, you didn’t.” The words trip over themselves, too quick, too defensive.
“Manu,” she says, amused now, eyes flicking toward Connor and back to me. “You might want to work on your poker face.”
I glare at her, which only earns me a smug smile. She smooths her hands down the front of her blue dress, like she’s got nothing better to do than let me stew in my own fluster.
