“She hates it.”
“I know.” I rise from the chair, straightening my cuffs, smoothing away nothing. “That’s why it works.”
He huffs out a laugh. “You’re an ass.”
“So I’ve heard.” My gaze slides toward the bar—Cal with his glass half-full—and the direction Silas disappeared. “I should check on a few things. Make sure no one’s bleeding yet.”
Charles leans back, smirking. “Translation:go find Silas before he actually kills someone.”
I don’t answer. I just clap his shoulder once and head toward the door, pulse steady, jaw tight, mind already calculating.
Because Charles is right.
Something happened out there on that patio.
And if it has anything to do with Parker, I need to know exactly what.
5
PARKER
The yoga leggings fit perfectly—smooth and high-waisted, hugging every curve like they were made for me. So does the black crop top, and the sneakers that squeak faintly on the marble floor of the hotel shop. The air is cool and dry here, over-perfumed with citrus cleaner and the faint salt of the sea drifting in from outside. My skin, still slick from Carolina humidity and a morning spent half-sweating, half-running late, prickles against the air conditioning.
The shop clerk had smiled at me like she knew exactly who I was—or at least whose name had covered my tab.
Courtesy of Callum Voss,she said, her tone just shy of teasing, like there was some unspoken joke I was supposed to get.
So I did what any emotionally frayed woman would do: I leaned into the privilege.
I added a butter-yellow sundress that made my skin look sun-kissed, strappy stilettos I’d probably regret, gold hoops, and a delicate chain that shimmered when it caught the light.
Nothing major. Just enough to make a statement. Something that would either piss him off or make him laugh. I hoped for both.
By the afternoon, heat and humidity cling to me like a second skin. My muscles hum with fatigue as I make my way to the rehearsal space—a ballroom converted into a studio, the kind that smells faintly of lemon polish, sweat, and the ghost of old perfume. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors line the walls, reflecting back a hundred versions of the bridal party, all of us with flushed skin, many laughing, and our hair coming loose in curls that stick to the napes of our necks. The wooden floor creaks beneath our sneakers as Rochelle syncs her phone to the sound system and fills the room with the low, sinful pulse of Rihanna’sSkin.
The first run-through feels like play. By the seventh, it’s penance.
Every movement burns. My thighs tremble. My skin feels slick and tight beneath the cling of my top. The mirrors catch everything—the way my chest rises and falls, the arch of my back when the choreography demands it, the roll of my hips as I match the rhythm. Each reflection is a reminder that this isn’t the same body that left six years ago; it’s stronger, curvier, unashamed.
The chair section is the worst—or the best, depending on how you define sin. We’re supposed to bring men up from the audience, sit them down, dance for them, around them. The kind of choreography that straddles the line between confidence and confession. The air smells of vanilla lotion and salt, hot breath and hairspray. Every time we hit the downbeat, the mirrors shake with laughter.
Sienna’s using Charles, of course. Her smile says she’s planning to give him a heart attack before he even saysI do.
“One more time from the top!” Rochelle shouts over the bass, sweat glistening on her collarbone as she demonstrates the hip roll again. “And remember—this is aboutconfidence. Own it. Make them question every bad decision that got them here.”
The room fills with whoops and laughter. We run it again. My lungs ache, my heartbeat pounds in my ears, and when we finally stop, the air tastes like salt and exhaustion. I drain half my water bottle in one gulp, the cold cutting through the heat like mercy.
The girls collapse into conversation and teasing.
“I’m calling dibs on one of the groomsmen,” Madison says, tugging at her ponytail.
“Tall, dark hair, tattoos. Kyle? Kevin?”
“Pretty sure he’s married,” Jen replies, grinning.
“Damn.”
“What about the Best Men?” someone asks, and just like that, the air shifts—electric, knowing.
