Monica:Rehearsal lunch at noon! Couples activities! Don't be late!
I stare at the message with growing fear.
"What is wrong?" Kruk asks, leaning closer to read over my shoulder. His proximity makes my skin prickle with awareness.
"Couples activities," I say weakly. "At the rehearsal lunch."
"What activities?"
I pulled up the wedding itinerary Monica sent three months ago, and scrolled to today's schedule. "Three-legged race. Egg toss. Sack race. Trivia about how well we know each other." I look at him helplessly. "This is a nightmare."
"We will adapt," he says, like we're planning a military operation and not about to humiliate ourselves in front of my entire extended family.
"Kruk, I'm the least coordinated person on the planet. I trip over flat surfaces. I once broke my arm falling up the stairs."
"You will not fall," he says with absolute certainty. "I will catch you."
The simple conviction in his voice does something dangerous to my chest. I take a long drink of coffee to hide the fact that my eyes are suddenly stinging.
"Okay," I whisper. "Okay."
The Rehearsal Lunch is held on the vineyard's south lawn, which has been transformed into some pastel Pinterest fever dream. There are mason jars hanging from trees with fairy lights inside. The tables are covered in burlap and lace. A banner strung between two posts reads "LOVE IS IN THE AIR" in letters made of artificial flowers.
I want to set it on fire.
"This is the maneuver zone," Kruk murmurs in my ear as we approach, his hand warm and steady on the small of my back. "Multiple hostiles. Poor sight lines. Unclear objective."
"The objective is not dying of embarrassment," I mutter back.
Monica spots us and waves frantically, bouncing on her toes in her floral sundress. Her fiancé, Trevor, stands beside her looking mildly concussed by her enthusiasm, which is his permanent state.
"You made it!" Monica squeals, rushing over to hug me. She pulls back, eyes widening as she takes in Kruk. "And you brought your... doctor boyfriend."
"Neurosurgeon," I correct automatically, then want to kick myself. The lie is getting more elaborate by the hour.
Derek is already here, leaning against a tree with his new girlfriend. Derek's eyes track to Kruk and he straightens, puffing out his chest like a pigeon trying to look threatening.
Kruk doesn't even glance in his direction. He's too busy scanning the lawn, cataloging exits and potential threats. I'm ninety percent sure he just identified Aunt Carol's purse as a possible weapon.
"Alright everyone!" Monica claps her hands together. "Let's get started with our first activity: the three-legged race!"
A collective groan rises from the assembled couples. Someone hands out strips of fabric to tie legs together. Kruk examines ours like it might be a trap.
"We will win," he announces.
"We absolutely will not," I counter. "Have you met me? I can barely walk on two legs."
"Then I will walk for both of us."
He's not joking.
We line up at the start. Derek and Madison are next to us, already perfectly synchronized. They've probably been practicing. Derek absolutely seems like the type to practice for a casual wedding lawn game.
Kruk crouches down to tie our legs together. His hands are gentle, efficient, and the brush of his fingers against my ankle sends completely inappropriate shivers up my spine.
"Stay close," he instructs, rising to his full height. "Match my rhythm. I will support your weight."
"That's not really how this works," I start to explain, my voice already taking on that nervous, apologetic quality that means I'm about to disappoint someone who's taking this way too seriously.
