What it would feel like to be a bride.Hisbride. To walk this very path toward a future where the man beside me was mine, not just for today. Not just for the weekend. But for always.
At the wedding party table, we make polite conversation, laugh at speeches, and sip slowly from glasses that never seem to empty.
When it’s Spencer’s turn to give a toast, he rises with easy confidence. Funny. Sentimental. Sharp. Just like he was that night at the gala.
He has the room laughing in the first sixty seconds, and wiping tears by the last.
His closing line is simple:
“Love isn’t about grand gestures or perfect timing. It’s about showing up. Fully. When it matters.”
As he returns to his seat, I want to stand up and wrap my arms around him. Tell him how proud I am and kiss him like I mean it. But, of course, he’s not mine to be proud of.
Still, when the DJ announces the wedding party dance, I can’t get to the dance floor fast enough. I need to feel his hands on my waist, and our bodies moving together.
I need to look deep into those eyes again and try to figure out what’s there.
TWENTY-TWO
SPENCER
This day has been both exhilarating and excruciating.
I’ve spent the last eight hours near Rhea—close enough to see the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles, the faint dimple in her right cheek that only shows up when she’s genuinely laughing. Close enough to catch the warm, clean scent of whatever she’s wearing—a whisper of something citrusy and soft.
All day, I’ve heard her laughter. Watched her kindness. Felt my own restraint wearing thinner by the minute.
And now, at last, it’s time to dance.
“I’m pretty sure this first one is required of the bridal party,” I say, offering her my hand with a wink.
She pretends to hesitate. “I guess so,” she says, letting her fingers brush mine.
But the moment we’re on the dance floor, we fall into step like we’ve been doing this forever.
One dance turns into two, and four, and eight.
The slow songs are my favorite—because I get to hold her close, feel the shape of her body against mine. But when the tempo picks up, I get a different kind ofjoy, watching her let loose, seeing her throw her head back and laugh, feeling her trust the moment.
When the DJ queues up a jitterbug, she kicks off her shoes and grins at me.
“Let’s go,” she says.
We spin and twist, ridiculous and radiant, but halfway through I feel it—my shoulder screaming, my knee beginning to hitch. I do my best to hide it. Pain is a familiar rhythm. But for this, with her... I’d walk through fire.
After the song ends, we step off the floor and head to the bar. As I order us drinks, she turns to me, concern flickering in her eyes. “Are you okay?” she asks.
I nod, trying to downplay it. “Well… you know, not a spring chicken anymore.”
She rolls her eyes. “Right. No, for real. You looked like you were in pain just now.”
I take a deep breath. “A little. I took a little tumble in France. Still working out some of the kinks.”
She arches a brow. “What do you mean?”
“You remember that bike race I was so fired up about? Well… it didn’t end so well. I took a pretty good spill. Ended up spending the better part of a year in and out of hospitals and rehab.”
Her eyes widen. “Spencer. I had no idea. That’s… god, that’s awful.”
