Maggie’s head snapped toward her. “Can we?”
“We’re the boring married couple,” Gwen said with a smile, though Maggie recognized the strain beneath it. “We won’t need a door like all you new-relationship honeymooners.”
Izzy looked like she was going to argue, but then her eyes cut toward Danica and Pete — already setting their suitcases down in the bedroom farthest from the suite entrance — and nodded. “Let’s definitely keep that far room for the bachelorettes. Obviously.”
Kiera sighed, shuffling her suitcase toward the other private room. “That’s very kind.”
Maggie busied herself with finding the extra sheets in a closet, trying to keep her face neutral. She could feel Gwen’s presence behind her like a heat source. What would it be like to be in the same bed with Gwen again? Would Gwen need to be reminded this was all pretend, all just an act to save her friends from the heartbreak of her own heartbreak?
“You didn’t have to be such a chivalrous martyr,” Maggie muttered.
“Yeah, well, I kind of did.” Gwen was already taking the decorative pillows off the couch. “Unless you’d rather share a room with Izzy and Kiera.”
Maggie raised an eyebrow. “Sounds cozy.”
Gwen smirked. “What was it you told me about how Kiera flosses in bed? Or was it toenail trimming?” She raised her voice toward Kiera and Izzy’s open door.
“I do not trim my toenails in bed,” Kiera yelled. “It was in the bathroom like a perfectly regular person.”
The corner of Maggie’s mouth twitched. Damn it.
They moved in parallel, setting up the pullout with the efficiency only long-married — or recently separated — people could manage. Maggie tried not to notice how Gwen’s shirt clung to her toned back when she leaned down to tuck the sheet. Good lord, would she need to be the one reminded of boundaries? She shook her head and focused on the task.
“It’s like sleeping on a ravioli,” Maggie said, pressing the large lump in the middle of the mattress.
“We’ve weathered worse,” Gwen replied. “Remember that cabin in Santa Fe?”
“You mean the one with the wasps in the walls on our honeymoon?”
“They were bees.”
“Listen, I understand their importance and I will stillnever forgive their species for the childhood trauma ofMy Girl.”
There was a beat. Then Gwen asked quietly, “This is fine, right?”
Maggie smoothed a wrinkle from the top sheet, then stepped back. “It’s fine. It’s temporary,” she whispered, not daring to look Gwen in the eye as she said the words.
CHAPTER 8
Gwen
The suite was pure chaos.Music was playing from two different speakers — Izzy’s phone in the kitchenette competing with Kiera’s on the vanity counter in the nearest bedroom — while blow dryers roared and curling irons clicked shut like some kind of synchronized metallic insect. The air smelled faintly of hair spray, perfume, and the citrusy gin from the half-drunk cocktails abandoned on every flat surface.
Gwen leaned against the doorframe of the living room, drink in hand, watching Maggie get her eyeliner perfect in the reflection of the darkened TV. Pete was perched beside her on the circular couch, teasing her about wearing “mom shoes” to the club until Maggie threatened to hurl a throw pillow at her.
She wasn’t used to this kind of pregame energy — the shouting across rooms, the sudden bursts of laughter, the way people slipped in and out of conversations without them ever really ending. But Maggie was in her element. She moved between her friends like they were different rooms in a houseshe’d lived in forever — checking on Danica’s dress zipper, refilling Izzy’s glass without being asked, tossing Kiera a tube of lipstick from across the room.
It hit Gwen then, sudden and heavy: Even if they went through with the divorce, Maggie would be fine. She’d have this — this noisy, loyal, ridiculous crew who loved her without conditions. The thought was a comfort and a knife at the same time.
Maggie helped Danica with her earring, standing in the middle of the living area in a sleek, short black dress that showed off her long legs. The floral tattoo on Maggie’s arm had always looked alive to her. The lines weren’t perfect — too fluid, too much motion — but that was the point. It reminded Gwen of how Maggie moved through life: messy, impulsive, so different from her. She took another sip of her drink, looking away before Maggie caught her staring.
The suite door swung open, letting in a gust of hallway air and the sound of the casino floor somewhere far below. Izzy and Kiera walked in like they’d pulled off a heist, grinning so hard it looked painful.
“Okay, okay, don’t freak out,” Izzy said, which was, of course, the cue for everyone to freak out.
A woman followed them in. Tall, with sun-warmed skin, an easy smile, and hair the exact shade of expensive whiskey. She wore jeans that fit like they’d been sewn directly onto her and a black tank top that left her arms — strong, sculpted arms — completely bare.
“This,” Kiera announced, throwing her hands up like she was unveiling a prize on a game show, “is Pete’s sister, Lillian. Surprise!”
