Especially not by a server named Jamie, who smells like gin and dry cypress, and had arms that could bench press a small horse.
Not a pony. A full-ass horse. Let’s be accurate here.
Mistakes were made.
Regrets?
Not a single goddamn one. Because, let’s be real, his cock gave those biceps a serious run for their money.
And Mr. Fiddlestorm wants what he wants, when he wants it.
Straightening my tie in the mirror, I swipe a thumb over the suspiciously smudged lipgloss in the corner of my mouth and grin.
Not lip gloss, technically.
Lip balm. Don’t be gross.
Flavored. Peach. You’re welcome for that visual and no, I will not apologize.
And listen, I’m a gentleman. I reciprocate. Because manners. They’re important. And so rare these days.
After adjusting my boutonnière, I shoot myself a wink in the mirror for surviving that whole extremely life-affirming experience, and slip out the door like the very picture of innocence.
I even give Jamie a wink on my way out. He salutes me with a tray of champagne flutes like the god he is.
Outside, the music’s picking up, the salty breeze kicking through the open doors and scattering flower petals down the aisle like confetti.
The sun’s slanting low over the ocean, setting everything on fire in that golden, holy-hour kind of way, and honestly it’s almost disgustingly beautiful.
Nolan and Rorie’s setup should be a freaking magazine spread. Driftwood altar wrapped in eucalyptus and white roses, fairy lights strung between the dunes, rows of chairs tucked neatly into the sand.
It’s not just gorgeous.
It’sthem.
The wedding party is lined up and mostly behaving.
Mostly.
Maya is stiffly linked arm-in-arm with Asher, and the tension between them could power a small city. It’s like watching two beautiful magnets desperately trying not to touch. I give it twenty minutes before one of them throws the first insult disguised as a compliment.
Fifteen if the champagne hits early.
Asher keeps sneaking glances at her like he’s torn between kissing her and pushing her over the side of this cliff. Maya’s jaw is so tight you could probably cut glass on it. It’s going to bedeliciouslater. I’m already pre-writing the group chat jokes in my head.
They’ll probably fuck tonight.
Oh, let’s hope so.
Tammy’s muttering about how eloping is “99% more time-efficient” while her wife, Imogene, taps her pen against a clipboard, trying her best to keep everyone in line.
Good luck with that.
Some chick named Emily—who, according to Maya, is some genius professor who has befriended our Rorie—is stress-devouring mints from the favor baskets.
And me?
I’m trying not to get misty-eyed before the damn thing even starts.
