Chapter Three
BRYNN
The rehearsal dinnerwas held on the sand behind Sunset Siesta, where linen-draped tables stood just above the high tide line and tiki torches flickered in the dark. A gentle ocean breeze fluttered napkins and tangled my hair into a briny halo. It looked like the set of a travel show, complete with an acoustic guitarist and enough citrusy cocktails to tranquilize a village.
Just an hour ago, we’d all stood on the lovely salt-and-pepper beach for the actual rehearsal, a clumsy, giggly affair orchestrated by a cheerful, flip-flop-wearing officiant. As maid of honor, I’d walked down the sandy aisle on Dean’s arm, a moment of public intimacy that felt both ridiculously fake and dangerously real. He stood beside Josh at the makeshift altar, looking handsome and out of place in a T-shirt and shorts, his expression a perfect mask of best-man solemnity. We practiced our entrance and exit, the whole performance a masterclass in pretending. I was still buzzing from the effort.
I hovered at the edge of the event, trying to look like I belonged. My black dress—borrowed from Holly and one size too optimistic—clung to the sweat on my lower back. My name card had been bedazzled, ensuring I’d be visible from the moon. An entire table of relatives stared at me with the intensity of people who’d once changed my diapers and never moved on.
Dean slid into the seat beside me, setting down two sweating tumblers of sangria and a plate of conch fritters. His button-down sleeves were rolled to display the muscle of his forearms, and his hair was neatly combed. His cologne found me—a spicy, expensive scent that blended with the salt air and that I couldn’t help inhaling.
He draped an arm over the back of my chair, his thumb skimming my shoulder blades. “Now it looks like you’re the one plotting an escape.”
I sipped the sangria and tried not to lean into his touch. Tried not to remember that moment of connection when we strolled along this same beach a few hours ago. “I’m deciding between swimming to Cuba or faking my own death. You?”
“If you bolted, they’d send out a search party. Your cousin is conducting a headcount every five minutes.”
I stifled a groan. “My family doesn’t handle unpredictability well.”
He leaned closer, a shadow of a smile on his lips. “And yet here you are, courting chaos.”
“If by chaos you mean deep-fried seafood and unrelenting social exposure, then yes.” I tossed a conch fritter in his direction. “Or maybe you meant chaos of the Dean Mercer variety?”
He caught it in his teeth. After chewing and swallowing, he winked. “I’ll keep that mystery. Speaking of mysteries,I was reading in the dive shop earlier. Did you know a group of jellyfish is called a smack?”
“No one on Earth except Eli knows that, Dean. And I promise you, no one but him cares,” I added, unable to suppress a laugh.
He flashed that smile again. “That’s why I like you, Brynn. You can’t be intimidated by raw intellect.”
His easy confidence, the casual way he crowded my space, made it hard to remember we were pretending. He played the part so well I was starting to believe it.
The table slowly filled. Holly and Josh beamed, accompanied by an assortment of family and friends, and at least two people who looked ready to initiate a group icebreaker at any moment. Dean’s arm stayed where it was.
The woman across from us—one of Holly’s coworkers—leaned in. “So, how did you two meet?”
Dean didn’t miss a beat. “Book club.”
I nearly inhaled a cherry tomato.
“Book club?” she repeated.
Dean nodded. “Brynn’s into the classics. I was there for the snacks. Turns out we both hate the ending ofThe Great Gatsby, and the rest is history.”
I picked it up from there, swept up in his ridiculous energy as I stroked a finger over that granite jaw. “He pretended to have strong opinions about Fitzgerald’s symbolism, but I’m pretty sure he was just in it for the scandalous affair.”
The woman laughed, charmed. “That’s adorable.”
“Yeah, I’m a sucker for a happy ending,” Dean said, his gaze on me as if I were the only one at the table.
My chest fizzed, and I had to glance away. Was this how it felt to be genuinely adored, even for show? My ex would have made a PowerPoint on codependency, but with thewarm weight of Dean’s presence, this felt more like a release.
The next hour was a blur of grilled shrimp and escalating banter. I managed to grab Holly for thirty seconds by the bar, giving her the lightning-fast version of our hastily arranged fake relationship. Her eyes lit up with the same gleam she used to get before we TP’d the principal’s house in tenth grade. She was in. From her seat at the head table, she watched our performance with the keen interest of a director, loving every second of my escape from Aunt Carol’s clutches.
Dean made the charade easy. He murmured jokes in my ear, the heat of his breath sending tingles down my neck, then delivered anecdotes with deadpan sincerity. Every time someone looked skeptical, he’d raise my hand to his lips and brush a kiss over my knuckles. The move was so smooth it made me lightheaded.
I should have hated how good he was at this. Instead, I watched him from the corner of my eye, cataloging the lines bracketing his smile, that damn dimple in his left cheek. He’d see me staring and shoot me a wink, as if he’d caught me in a secret.
When dessert arrived—a Key lime pie with a layer of meringue so thick it looked like insulation—Dean and I both reached for the same slice. His fingers closed around mine for a second. Not a staged gesture, but a brief, grounding squeeze. My pulse tripped over itself.
