“Shut up,” I mumble as I push into my room.
Bailey follows me into the room, radiating the energy of a cat that just got the canary. “Spent the night with Tate?”
“And if I did?”
Bailey knocks me on the shoulder with his fist. “He’s been through a lot.” Bailey lifts his hands in defense when I stare him down. “So have you! I just think… you know, I think you’d both fit actually.”
“It’s just for the wedding. A fling,” I repeat, although it feels more and more like a lie every single time I say it.
“You don’t do flings.”
“No, I don’t,” I admit. I run my hands through my still damp hair and eyeball Bailey. “Have you ever met someone and just felt an instant connection? Everything is just… easy? It’s weird, Bailey. It’s like Iknowhim already. It makes no damn sense. It can’t possibly be real, right?”
Bailey tosses himself against my unmade bed, looking the picture of comfort and contentment. Tangling his fingers over his stomach, he peers thoughtfully up at me.
“That’s how I felt with Olivia.”
My heart beats a dangerous staccato in my chest at just the very thought. Even if it is real, how am I going to convince Tate that it is? How will I make this into something real that lasts beyond the wedding?
“Anyway, today’s the day before my wedding. Time to focus on me!”
“Nervous?” I ask as I toss myself on the bed beside him.
The smile that blooms across Bailey’s face is sickening with its sweetness. He turns his head to aim his hard stare at me. “Not really. When it’s the right person, there’s no nerves.” He lifts his arm to rest his hand over his heart. “She’s in here and I wanna make her mine forever.”
“I’m happy that you’re happy, buddy.”
Bailey slaps my chest as he sits up. “Today and tomorrow will be fun. No moping. Tell Tate you want to treat him right, date him back in the States.”
I watch my best friend leave the bedroom, wishing that it was just that easy. Because I have this odd feeling that even if I told Tate what I wanted, he wouldn’t believe me. Even if I layered it in sonnets and roses, Tate’s natural inclination would be to not believe me, to wonder what the catch to it all was. And maybe that’s the part of knowing someone too, even if only in a short period of time.
By the time I wander into the kitchen, Tate is nowhere to be seen. A few more new arrivals are scattered around, but I don’t bother introducing myself. I’m too focused on finding Tate. I wrap a pastry up in a napkin, just in case I find him outside. The man needs to eat more. The air is warm, smelling of the jasmine that climbs the villa walls. Golden rays of sun touch every surface of the vista beyond, painting the land in vivid yellows and oranges. It truly is beautiful here. Such a shame we ever have to return home.
The wordhomebrings that usual ache back to my chest. I’ve never really had a real one. Tried to make one for a few years, but the house I bought in Seattle always feels like just a place, not a home. How do people make a home? Is it the place? The person that lives with you inside the walls? Maybe one day I’ll figure that whole thing out.
A familiar laugh catches my attention. Butterflies fill my stomach as my gaze instantly locks in on Tate. He stands out in the garden with Olivia, their hands entwined between them as they speak softly. Their father and Tate’s stepmother stand to the side with gentle smiles. Family. I can’t help but smile as I watch on, seeing the easy joy spreading over their features as they laugh and hug, sharing final moments before Olivia starts her own family.
Tate must feel my gaze on him because his gaze snaps to mine. Suddenly those butterflies in my stomach turn into pterodactyl-sized creatures. I’m so far gone and I can’t bring myself to care anymore.
