“I’m going left.”
“You’re going right.”
“Because you’re pulling left, which means I have to compensate—”
The coconut drops. We both stop, still zip-tied, staring down at it.
“That was your fault,” she says.
“That was absolutely your fault.” The woman is competitive as hell, and it’s fun to push her buttons.
She opens her mouth to argue, but one of the other pairs—Franklin’s cousin and a bridesmaid whose name I’ve already forgotten—crosses the finish line, and Claire’s competitive streak flares so visibly I almost laugh.
“Again,” she says. “We’re going again.”
“There is no again. They won.”
“Then we’ll win the next one.”
She’s not wrong. The trivia round is a massacre. Claire answers every question before I’ve finished reading it, and after the third one I just stop trying and hand her the card.
“You’re enjoying this,” I say.
“I’m enjoying winning.” But there’s something lighter in her voice now, some of the tension from earlier bleeding away. “You’re a terrible dancer, by the way.”
We’re on to the final event—some kind of coordinated dance routine that Esme apparently learned from TikTok. Claire’s pressed against me from chest to hip, one hand on my shoulder, the other still zip-tied to mine.
“I’m an excellent dancer.” It’s a lie. I am absolutely a terrible dancer. And it’s not helped by the fact that her body is warm and soft against mine and I can feel every breath she takes. “I was compensating for your lead.”
She huffs and cuts me a look that could strip bark. “I wasn’t leading.”
“Someone was, and it wasn’t me.”
She opens her mouth, closes it, and points at me with her free hand like she’s filing that away for later. I blow her a kiss.
When the music ends, Esme appears with scissors and finally cuts all zip-tied wedding attendants loose. Claire steps back immediately, rubbing her wrist where the zip tie was.
“You alright?” I ask.
“I’m fine.” She doesn’t look at me. “I need to check on something for Esme.”
Then she heads toward the other bridesmaids, and I watch her go. She’s scared, and I’m not sure why, but I’m going to find out.
Franklin appears at my elbow. “That was priceless.”
“Which part?”
“All of it.” He takes a swig of his beer. “You good?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re full of shit, but I’ll allow it.” He claps me on the shoulder. “For what it’s worth, Esme swears Claire’s into you.”
“Esme’s right. But I’m not an asshole. Gentlemen don’t push.”
“True.” Franklin watches his fiancée across the beach, his expression going soft in that way that used to make me uncomfortable and now just makes me envious. “Give it time, man. The weekend’s just getting started.”
I stopped having a choice about that somewhere around the word ‘maybe.’
