Her eyes dart back and forth, the relaxed, carefree woman from the lake retreating. She moves away from me. “Someone could see.”
“I don’t care,” I say, wrapping my arm around her waist, but she shakes her head, pained.
“But I do.”
The words leave me with a lingering chill, like a blanket being ripped off on a cold winter morning, and I’m desperate to be warm again. After everything we’ve gone through to get here, I don’t want to give it up, not even for an evening.
“Mira, I can go in there and tell them the truth,” I plead. “I want to. I don’t want to hide. Meredith is your friend, too. I’m sure she’d be happy for us.”
“But would Katherine? Or your mom?”
“Fuck ’em.”
She scoffs, unbelieving.
“I’m serious. I’ve put so much time and energy into pleasing those people, and for what? They don’t care about me. And I’mtired of putting in the effort, especially if it means not being able to walk in there with you.”
I grab her hand, thankful when she allows my fingers to intertwine with hers. But I can tell she’s not convinced.
“I don’t want to cause a scene,” she says, untangling her hand from mine.
I want to honor her wishes, but I have no idea how I’m supposed to go in that room and pretend that I don’t know how soft she is underneath my fingers, or the way she tastes like candy and sunshine when I lick along her thighs, or the sounds she makes, desperate and breathy, when she comes.
“I just need everything to go smoothly—this is my job—and then I’m all yours.”
I want to hold her and tell her that whatever she’s afraid of, we can handle it together. That I’d endure the brunt of the judgment waiting for us if it meant I could sit beside her all night, listening to her laugh, stealing an extra dessert off the buffet knowing that she always likes something sweet around midnight. But her resolve is impenetrable and I know I won’t win this fight.
I move my hand to rest against her cheek, nudging her chin up so that her hazel eyes meet mine. “I understand.”
Leaning forward, she allows her lips to touch mine ever so lightly and bends down to pick up her camera bag.
“Now, go in. Say hello to your family. And I’ll come in a few minutes later.”
“Mira, that’s ridiculous,” I sigh, hating even a few feet of separation when she’s feeling like this.
“Just do it, please.”
I squeeze her hand before I make my way up the stone path and into the lodge. There’s a wary smile on the hostess’s face as she greets me, leading me through the restaurant floor towards my party. Unlike the Majestic, whose brand is more adventurecenter than resort, this place caters to the ultra-rich. I pass plates of steamed broccolini and filet mignon. Metal signs adhered to the walls indicate which direction to go if I want to visit the spa, cigar room, and wine cellar, but we pass by all of them, stopping in front of a set of mahogany doors.
“Right through here,” the hostess says. The room is bustling, everyone standing around with champagne flutes and crystal wine glasses. Long tables are adorned with tapered candles and gold place settings, and vases of white roses are scattered throughout. The upscale, gaudy decor is worthy of a gala, but it isn’t right for either Meredith or Grant, who would rather be roasting s’mores around a bonfire, knocking back a few beers, and joking with their friends.
They stand together, visibly uncomfortable; Grant in a tailored black suit, and Meredith in a structured white dress that looks more appropriate for a Labor Day party than a rehearsal dinner. They absentmindedly chat with their guests, all the while shooting pointed stares at Susan, who is beelining for me across the room.
“Finally,” she says, pulling me towards the top table, where I’m to take my place beside Katherine, who I can tell is already a little tipsy from the slew of empty champagne flutes in front of her. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
“For what?” I ask, grabbing my own glass from one of the trays floating around.
“To start dinner,” she replies, as Amelia ushers Meredith and Grant to their seats.
“Why do I need to be here to start dinner?” I ask, genuinely confused.
“Because you’re giving the welcome speech.”
I practically choke on my drink. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Amelia and I thought it would be nice if you said a few words tonight since Derrick is speaking tomorrow.”
“A speech isn’t something you can spring on a person at the last minute,” I argue. “I mean, they’re literally called prepared remarks because you’re supposed to get time to prepare for them.”
