PRESENT DAY
ASHER
I need to talk to you.
Not about you or me.
It’s about the wedding… Text me back.
Irefreshed my screen for the umpteenth time this morning, only seeing a “message read” from Katie, but no reply.
I stood outside your villa for three hours… Where are you?
Katie…
Message read…
My jaw tightened.
Sighing, I paced the groomsmen suite—dragging a hand through my hair, unable to stay still for more than a few seconds, hating that it was the only place I could find peace. My suite was teasing me with thoughts of Katie, and walking around the resort only made me wonder where she was.
Click. Click. Click.
I followed that sudden sound to the dressing room and spotted the senior tailor laying my brother’s tuxedo across the chaise. He smoothed the collar and the breast pockets in the exact same way he’d done it yesterday.
“Is it really necessary for you to keep doing that?” I asked. “You’ve done the same thing three days in a row.”
“If this were any other wedding, maybe.” He smiled. “But this is a Katie Elizabeth wedding, sir.”
“No, it’s a Chris and Michelle Brooks wedding,” I said. “They’re the ones getting married, and I can assure you they won’t notice whatever minor presses you make.”
“The expectations are sky-high when Miss Elizabeth is involved.” He ignored my comment, smoothing the fabric. “No detail is too small, and perfection is expected from top to bottom.”
“So, you’ve worked with her before?”
“Twenty-eight times and counting.” He smiled. “She only refers me to those who can splurge on an on-site tailor, and each wedding is a highlight for me.”
“Because you get paid a ridiculous rate to tinker with suits that are already finished?”
“No.” He picked up a tie and held it up to the light. “It’s because I love being part of a love story, even if I’m only featured in a few lines of it.”
Another lost soul from the lovesick and deranged department…
“I’m sorry for bothering you, sir.” I walked toward the door. “I’m sure your twenty-ninth time with Katie will be perfect like the rest. Have a good night.”
“It’s a pity that Miss Elizabeth spends more time working on other people’s love stories than her own,” he said as I twisted the doorknob. “Don’t you think?”
“No. That’s what happens when you’re Type-A and spend most of your time in fantasyland instead of reality,” I said. “It’s not shocking to me at all.”
“Oh?” He set down a pair of cufflinks and stood up straight. “Is that what you really think?”
“I don’t have a reason to lie to someone I just met.”
“Then you’re lying to yourself.” His expression shifted from cordial to accusatory, and the room suddenly felt ten times smaller.
The words landed harder than they should’ve.
His eyes narrowed, and I saw a glint of recognition.
