He’s still paying for last night’s whiskey marathon, and he knows I could use something stronger than pineapple juice to survive this floating family circus.
It’s the kind of unspoken shorthand we used to have—eating from each other’s plates, reading each other’s moods, makingdecisions with just our eyes. For a moment, it feels like we’re still that couple.
So now he’s the one who’s been sipping juice, and I’m the one buzzing on rum and nostalgia.
Which might explain why I’m sitting so close to him. Why I’m starting to feel a little… floaty.
I take another sip, sending more happy bubbles flowing through me, and that last little bit of tension, of resistance, slowly drains away.
He’s the magnet, and I’m the paperclip.
He’s the earth, and I’m the moon that can’t stop spinning around him.
He’s tequila, and I’m the lime. He’s the rice and I’m the soy sauce.
Have I mentioned that Beckett has traded a few drinks with me?
“I’ve never seen anyone eat so much rice!” Courtney laughs up at Simon.
“I’m gonna need another nap. Third one today,” Simon groans, leaning back and rubbing a nonexistent belly. He did down two full bowls of fried rice, so he’s earned it.
“The night is young!” Luna pops up, tugging Noah to his feet. “On to karaoke!”
The chef’s spatulas clatter together in a final metallic flourish as everyone starts to rise, laughing and gathering phones, purses, and half-empty drinks. Beckett’s hand hovers at my back, not quite guiding, but quietly following me as we join the throng of people funneling out the door. By the time we've shuffled out of the restaurant behind Luna and Noah, that hand has slid around my waist.
And I… allow it.
In fact, I tuck my arm under his jacket and loop my fingers through his belt. Because tonight, apparently I’ve decided to go all in on the pretending.
It feels natural. Normal.Good.
Maybe sober me would have questioned whether it was necessary to be quite so convincing, but right now, I tell myself this is just part of the plan.
The karaoke bar is packed—half the wedding party is here, scattered in smaller clusters among the crowd of strangers.
Since there aren’t enough chairs for all of us, Luna props herself on Noah’s lap, and Beckett sits, patting his thigh for me.
“C’mon,” he murmurs.
“Wait!” Luna squeals from across the table. “What about your tattoo?—”
Beckett shifts a little and grins, shaking his head. “It’s fine.”
Then he leans in, close enough that his breath brushes my ear.
“Just… be careful, okay?”
I turn toward him, the rest of the room falling away, and touch his cheek, the rough edge of stubble catching against my palm.
“I’ll be careful with you, baby,” I murmur, half teasing, half… not.
He smiles, small and a little wrecked, and for a second, I can’t breathe.
Songs drift by in flashes of laughter, with off-key duets, group singalongs, and even a few potential stars.
I forget, briefly, that Beckett and I aren’t really together.
I forget that his hand holding mine is for show.
