FIVE
Lauren
I'm deep into a conversation about paddleboarding with a woman whose name I've forgotten when I see him.
The guy in the suite.
The guy from the room mix-up who showed up at my door with cold beers and absolutely no shame. The guy with the blue-green eyes the color of the springs — Kate had sent me photos of the water, and I’d spent an embarrassing amount of time studying them. She didn’t, however, tell me her future brother-in-law was so gorgeous.
He's grinning. He's waving. And I’m absolutely pretending I don’t see him.
I turn back to the woman. She knows Kate because she lives down the street from Kate's mom. Apparently she's rented paddleboards to Kate and Damien, a fact my best friend somehow neglected to share with me. Kate, who once refused to go near the water in Chicago because the river was “too brown.”
The more I discover about Kate, the more I realize my best friend is becoming someone I don't recognize.
“They loved it, they were on the water there for hours,” the woman tells me. “The water's so clear you can see straight to the bottom. You really should try it while you're here.”
I nod, genuinely tempted. I've paddled on Lake Tahoe, another magical place, and there's something about the idea of the springs that tugs at the same primal need to experience nature. To capture it in a still image. It’s the photographer in me, the one I don't feed often enough anymore.
“I'd love that,” I say, and mean it.
“The springs are stunning at sunrise. I do paddleboard yoga classes on Sunday mornings there.”
Sunrise. The light at the springs at dawn. I'll bet it would be extraordinary. Sunday is the day after the wedding, but perhaps we won’t even be here by then. Plus, I’m not the best at yoga (although I’ve tried. A lot).
“Hmm. Let me talk to Kate first. No one wants to see me attempt paddleboard yoga though,” I add. “I'd resemble a very spiritual manatee.”
She laughs and launches into a description of a class she teaches. What was her name again? Something beginning with C. Carmen? She's not in the wedding party. I smile and nod, and my mind wanders back to that guy. I sip my wine and glance over the rim of the glass, checking to see if he’s still there and still looking at me.
He is, and my face grows warm.
He's standing near a woman with long pale-blue hair. I get sister vibes from her — they have the same eyes. He’s grinning in our direction and the woman is rolling her eyes.
The woman standing next to me a wiggle-finger wave in his direction. “Oh my gosh, he's so handsome,” she says, practically swooning.
I clear my throat. He's definitely, objectively, disconcertingly handsome. Something about him in the outdoor light — the sun-kissed curls, the easy posture, the way he holds his beer like he's got nowhere better to be — makes him look like he belongs onthe cover of a magazine about men who know how to enjoy their lives.
Not that I'm looking for a guy like that. Or any guy.
“He's all right,” I say dismissively.
The woman makes a little snorting sound. “All right? That's Max Hastings. Damien's older brother. The best man. He's been living in New York doing something in real estate. Somethingwell-paidin real estate. He was homecoming king of Cypress Grove High almost twenty years ago.” She pauses. “You've met him, right?”
I think about him standing in his suite, phone in hand, looking at me with that playful smirk. “I think so,” I say, and leave it at that.
“I saw him swimming recently at the springs.” She sighs. “I can't forget that image and don't want to. Too young for me by about twenty years, though.”
I nod. “Well,” I say, “I should go introduce myself properly. Maid of honor. You know how it is. It was nice meeting you.” I smile and start to turn — but then I spot Kate under a palm tree near the pool, standing on her tiptoes to kiss an extremely tall, dark-haired man.
That must be Damien.
Max can wait. I've been waiting to talk to Kate for days, so I power in her direction, slipping past clusters of people, smiling tightly as I excuse myself.
As I get closer, I realize Kate has lost weight. She's always been small but now she seems almost fragile — or perhaps it's because the man she's kissing is built like a gladiator. He's dark where Max is golden, intense where Max is easy, and the feral way he's looking at Kate makes my chest clench. Even I can feel their attraction.
And it’s not just a lust vibe. They look, I hate to admit, genuinely in love. Whatever. I pick up speed, my flat sandals slapping the path.
“Kate,” I call out. “Katieeee.”
