Something I refuse to examine too closely, even internally.
No. A wink from a man is not giving me butterflies. Not. At. All.
As the congregation begins filtering toward the exit, Priya grabs my hand and leans closer.
“You ready for the real show?” she says.
“If there’s an open bar,” I reply, “I’m all in.”
The reception halllooks like someone handed a billionaire Pinterest board an unlimited budget and zero supervision.
White roses drip from every available surface. Literally drip. Garlands of them spill from chandeliers and archways and the edges of the ceiling like aggressively romantic stalactites. Candles float inside towering glass cylinders, flickering gold against polished silverware. The linens are so violently starched I’m reasonably sure they could support structural weight. Honestly, if civilization collapsed tonight, these tablecloths would survive us all.
“Jesus,” Priya mutters beside me as we step inside. “It’s like entering the wedding-industrial complex.”
I snort.
We barely make it three steps inside before we’re swallowed by a bottleneck near the entrance, trapped between a decorative champagne tower and a dense cluster of aggressively social guests.
And then we’re assaulted.
Not physically assaulted.
Sociallyassaulted by elderly women in sequins.
An entire flock of them descends at once, moving with startling speed and absolute confidence, trailing clouds of Chanel No. 5, champagne breath, and generational wealth. Their bracelets jangle like tiny warning bells as they exchange air kisses with alarming force, loudly compliment each other’s jewelry, and somehow conduct six overlapping conversations without taking a single visible breath.
One of them clips me squarely with her beaded clutch, follows it up with a shoulder check that would earn respect in professional hockey, and sends me stumbling sideways into Priya before I can even process what happened.
“Sorry, darling,” she says without slowing down.
I stare after her.
“She hit me with a clutch purse.”
Priya looks delighted. “That’s how you know they’re rich.”
I know Liora doesn’t have much family. So: definitely his relatives.
A seating chart the size of a minor government document stands near the entrance. Each table is named after a city Riley and Liora visited together.
“Ah,” Priya says, tracing a finger downward. “We’re at Kyoto.”
“Could’ve been worse.”
“You say that now, but wait until you’re trapped beside one of Riley’s crypto cousins. I don’t know if his father’s or his mother’s family is worse to be honest. No wonder they live next to Liora’s mom and avoid his family.”
We weave through the maze of tables until we find ours tucked near the edge of the dance floor. It’s conveniently distant from the head table but close enough to observe Riley’s motherbalancing herself atop what appears to be her third glass of champagne.
Possibly fourth.
Definitely not first.
I’m still sitting down when Colton appears beside me.
Honestly, the man materializes.
One second: empty space.
