Silas, my older brother, just called to tell me he’s getting married. To Lauren. His childhood love. Emma’s older sister.
He assumed I was with Emma—thought we’d been seeing each other for months. (We haven’t. It’s been three weeks, but I didn’t correct him. The point wasn’t the timeline.)
He also said he wants to pay for the Green girls’ mom’s treatment. I think that part hit her hardest. That, and the whole marriage announcement.
Feelings are the weirdest part of being human. At least for me. They always show up in paradoxes—conflicted, tangled. I’m happy for my brother. I really am. But yeah… maybe I’m a little jealous too. Because I saw the way Lauren looked at him at Christmas, defending him at the dinner table, facing down our father like it was nothing.
That girl loves him. She’sin. And Silas? He’s all in, too.
My eyes drift to Emma’s face. Her hair moves gently in the ocean breeze, but her gaze is fixed on the table between us.
We were just having breakfast out on the deck. Talking about our week, sipping coffee. Everything felt normal. Solid. Easy.
Then that call came in—and now the air feels thick. Heavy. Like we’re holding our breath, waiting for the aftershock.
I don’t say a word. Mostly because I don’t know what the hell to say. Every thought in my head is tied to our history. And I know exactly what’s running through hers. She’s thinking about the day she left me at the altar.
I booked the jet under the excuse that I wasn’t the only one flying out for the wedding. Emma’s coming with me, which made a private flight feel… appropriate. Personal.
We’re somewhere over the East Coast now, about an hour out from New York.
Emma’s sitting across from me, barefoot, legs folded under her, sketchbook in her lap. She’s drawing the clouds outside the cabin window with light, focused strokes of her pencil.
I’ve got a champagne flute resting between my fingers, legs crossed at the ankle, and I’m just watching her. The way her hand moves. The way she looks so damn peaceful.
We booked separate hotel rooms for the weekend. The plan is to keep up appearances in front of our families. But let’s be honest, I know we’ll end up together every night we’re there.
It won’t be that different from how we’ve been living lately.
Most nights, we end up in the same bed. If it’s not my place, it’s hers. On weekends, we surf until our bodies ache, eat greasy takeout straight from the cartons, and spend lazy afternoons tangled in the sand outside my house.
This routine… this kind of life together? It’s all I’ve ever wanted. Everything I pictured for us. The only difference is—officially—we’re not a couple. But I’ve got her back. That’s what matters.
“Are you gonna stare at me for the rest of the flight?” she asks without looking up, a smirk tugging at her lips as her pencil hovers over her sketch.
“I’ve been staring since takeoff.” My voice dips lower than I intend. “No reason to stop now.”
That earns me a glance, her hazel eyes catching mine, steady, daring. She doesn’t look away right away, and my pulse kicks harder.
“It’s gonna be hard to ignore each other,” she says softly, shifting in her seat so her knee brushes mine.
“I know.” I tip back my glass, trying to mask how much heat coils in my chest. The champagne fizz is nothing compared to her.
Weddings are basically hormone accelerators. There’s always some idiot trying to dance with the prettiest girl in the room, and I already know I’ll lose my cool when it happens.
Dr. Smith’s words echo in my head:“Control is your ally—unless Emma’s involved.”Damn right.
“We should have a signal,” she says suddenly, setting her sketchpad aside. Her shoulders angle toward me, the hem of her dress brushing against my armrest. “Something to remind us it’s all just a front.”
“A signal?” I arch a brow, lips curving.
Her grin sharpens. “Like the Bat-Signal?”
Emma laughs, low and husky, throwing me a shaka—hang loose, surfer style. The gesture is playful, but her eyes don’t leave mine.
“That’s way too obvious.” I lean closer, lowering my voice. “I’d rather use a word.”
“Okay, like what?”
