And—of course—he looks unfairly good.
His hair, combed back and still damp at the edges, catches the sunlight. His jaw shows that faint shadow he can never quite shave away, and I can smell his aftershave—clean, sharp, expensive.
He shoves his glasses up onto his head, and his eyes—those impossible, shifting blues—lock onto mine.
They’ve never been a simple color. More like moonstone catching different light, cool and distant one moment, deep enough to swallow me whole the next.
Eyes that used to undo me with a single look.
Eyes I once trusted too easily.
My breath hitches, and even though I know I need to look like a loving wife, I can feel those secrets gathering like shadows, and I step out of his reach.
“Alright everyone, let’s get our luggage to one of the porters and line up for security,” I announce briskly, clapping my hands once, as if I’m corralling a kindergarten class instead of a wedding party. “Carry-ons stay with us, passports out, boarding passes ready. Let’s move, people.”
If I sound bossy, fine. Bossy keeps things orderly. Bossy keeps me from dwelling on Beckett’s unnerving presence.
At the same time, I’m mentally scanning my lists—the one in my planner and the backup on my phone.
The boys’ clothes, sunscreen, swimsuits—check.
Bachelorette party décor, tiaras, satin sashes, and all the other little extras I have planned because I’m going to be the best maid of honor ever—check.
Wedding day essentials, the veil, backup shoes, miniature fans, emergency kit—safety pins, lint roller, tissues—double check.
Travel basics for myself, including three new bathing suits, matching saris to use as my coverups, and a handful of elegant gowns to wear to all the parties and dinners. My bridesmaid dress and a pair of strappy formal shoes—check, check, check.
Beckett’s tuxedo. Nothing else.
He isn’t on my list. Not anymore.
And standing in line, I am absolutely not staring at his shoulders. Or the way his shirt fits across them. Or… lower geography.
Nope. Not doing that.
He must be spending more time at the gym.
In bed?
Not with me.
I tear my gaze away, and God, the bitterness. It slices through the part of me that still reacts to him, prying my attention off that stupidly well-shaped backside and reminding me exactly why we’re standing here like this.
He had endless hours for work. Apparently time to sculpt himself into this, too.
Just… not enough time for us.
Somehow, with Mom’s help (and her signature blend of charm and light emotional blackmail), we herd everyone into the line. Even though the number in our group keeps multiplying.
More of Luna’s guests have arrived. Some I recognize from the engagement party, others just smile at me like we’re one big happy family.
There’s Noah’s mom, elegant as always, and a blonde woman beside her—probably one of her business partners. If I remember correctly, even after overcoming breast cancer, his mom’s something of a workaholic. I shouldn’t be surprised that she’s brought an assistant.
Then I spot Taylor Lawson— “Tay”—the relentlessly upbeat tour guide who, according to Luna, helped“smooth the path to true love”on that bus trip last year where she and Noah met.
Tay has platinum blonde hair, which she’s wearing in a braid. She looks fit, energetic, and… like she’s ready to start herding cats. Comes with her profession, no doubt. She waves enthusiastically, already handing out laminated itineraries.
I appreciate her efforts even as I can’t help but feel like she’s moving into my maid of honor territory.
