“There he is,” he says, his Australian accent easy in his voice. “The man who tried to outdrink my wedding.”
“I didn’t just try. I succeeded,” I say, reaching for the carafe like I’ve earned it. “Congrats again, Trev. Fucking off the market and everything. Very tragic for the rest of us.” I do a little curtsy in front of Becca. “Mrs. Macklin.”
The half-Black stunner snorts into her cup. She sits beside Trevor, with her curls pulled into a loose knot, oversized sunglasses pushed up on her head. She has that just-married glow, somehow surviving a full night of dancing and still showing up fresh the next morning, like the rest of us got run over in comparison. “You disappeared halfway through all that dancing. One of my cousins was asking for you.”
“Good,” I mutter dramatically. “Let her keep the mystery alive.”
“She looked disappointed,” Becca adds.
Trevor grins. “Yeah, you were with Sierra for a while, mate. Thought we’d lose you early.”
“That was the plan,” I say. “No idea where it went, but clearly it didn’t happen.”
Across the table, Vince Holloway nurses an espresso, all brooding focus. Black hair, dark eyes, and tattoos down his right arm that look like ink dragged on in brush strokes. The NFL golden boy, wide receiver for the San Francisco Tritons, built for impact and fully aware of it.
He doesn’t look up. “You got distracted.”
Adrian leans into Holloway’s shoulder like he belongs there, already decided he’s not moving anytime soon. Lean, golden-haired, warm brown eyes, all of it wrapped up in that easy physical confidence of a man completely at home in his ownskin. An artist by trade, he showed up at our suite ten nights ago by mistake, booked as a stripper for the bachelorette party, and somehow ended up performing for Trevor’s instead.
That one wrong door blew everything open for all of us, because Holloway didn’t just recognize him. He knew him.
High school history, unfinished and carrying a few old scars. First love, first heartbreak, all that shit. The one who got away, depending on who you ask.
And judging by the way Adrian fits against him now, like no time’s passed at all, it’s pretty clear neither of them ever really let it go.
“I wonder what distracted you,” Adrian says, smile knowing.
Trevor points at me with his spoon. “You left with George. Can’t believe you guys retired early.”
I blink. “We what?”
“You left together,” Becca says, matter-of-fact. “We saw you go. I didn’t see you guys after that.”
George shows up behind me at that exact moment in a plain white T-shirt and dark jeans, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly wind-tousled. He pulls a chair out across from me and drops into it. He reaches into his pocket, and sets two acetaminophen in front of me without a word.
I grab them, nod once. “You’re a good man.”
“Drink your coffee,” he says.
Trevor leans back and stretches. “Look at these two. Barely out of bed and already in sync. Becca, babe, when are we getting married like that, hey?”
Becca laughs and sips her mimosa. “We did get married like that, babe. Yesterday. Try to keep up.”
I toss the meds back, tilt the bottle to drink them down, and immediately wince. “Fuck—my jaw hurts like a bitch.” I swallow again and grimace harder. “And swallowing feels like I deepthroated a cactus.”
George, mid-sip of his coffee, chokes violently. The mug nearly slips from his hand as he hacks into his fist.
“You okay there, Big Guy?” I ask, frowning in genuine concern.
George waves me off, eyes watering, still coughing like he’s trying to dislodge a lung.
Holloway reaches over and thumps him hard between the shoulder blades.
Adrian turns his head, studying me and George with open curiosity. “What’s your secret for a long-lasting marriage to this…thing over here?” he says, pointing at me like I’m some misplaced piece of furniture.
George doesn’t even look at him. “Survive. Don’t die.”
Trevor taps the table, grinning. “Anyway, newly married here, yeah? Let me enjoy being the only legitimate couple here before you two go and make it official.”
