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“I hate you,” I breathe, but there’s no heat in it. Just desperate, aching want.

“No, you don’t.” His hand slides from my hip to the small of my back, pulling me flush against him. I can feel how hard he is, pressing against my stomach. Heat rushes through me, stealing whatever smart reply I had. “You hate that I won’t give you what you want.”

Damn it. I should walk back inside with whatever scrap of pride I have left, but I can’t seem to move. He’s rendered me speechless and immobile.

Then he gives me a look that could set the whole world on fire before he takes a step back and walks away. And I… I just stand here with my heart pounding, cheeks on fire, trying not to imagine every terrible, delicious thing that could happen next.

thirteen

. . .

Whitley

Itoss my overnight bag onto the bed in Violet’s cottage and collapse next to it with a groan that’s way too dramatic. I’m staying with her since it’s the night before the wedding and all that. Rowan took my place at my cottage with Beau.

“You okay over there?” Violet asks, popping her head in from the hallway, toothbrush in hand and blonde hair tied in a messy bun.

“I’m not sure,” I mumble into the duvet. “Is it normal to be this sexually frustrated and emotionally unstable the night before your best friend’s wedding?”

Violet grins like I’ve just asked her the most delightful question. “Completely normal. For you.”

“I hate you,” I groan, flipping onto my back to stare at the ceiling. “No, I don’t. I love you. You’re getting married tomorrow. But I hate Beau Sinclair and his stupid perfect face and his…his hands and his voice and the way he just walks away after turning my thoughts into static.”

Violet leans against the doorframe, amusement dancing in her eyes. “You know, for someone who claims to hate him, you sure spend a lot of time thinking about his hands.”

“They’re very good hands!” I protest, sitting up abruptly. “He’s got these calluses right here,” I trace a pattern on my palm, “that feel like—I don’t even know. Magic? Torture? And he just knows exactly how to…” I trail off, heat crawling up my neck. “Never mind.”

“Oh, no, please continue,” Violet says, grinning wickedly. “I’m learning so much about my fiancé’s best friend right now.”

I throw a pillow at her, which she dodges easily.

“Anyway,” I say, flicking my wrist, “tomorrow is going to be absolutely perfect for you. The venue is dreamy, the flowers we rescued look better than the originals, and I triple-checked every last detail with the coordinator.”

I hop up from the bed, grabbing my phone from the nightstand. “Look at these centerpieces. Maggie worked her actual wizardry with those burgundy dahlias. They match your bouquet perfectly.”

Violet leans in, her expression softening as she scrolls through the photos with me. “You two really saved the whole thing, didn’t you?”

“That’s what maids of honor and best men do.” I nudge her shoulder with mine, pretending like it doesn’t mean everything to hear her say that. “Look, here’s the table settings with the gold chargers you picked, and see those fairy lights? I nearly fell off a ladder for those. So, you’re welcome in advance for the whimsical glow.”

Violet lets out a shaky breath, her eyes glassy now. “I can’t believe it’s all really happening.”

I set the phone down and grab her hands, giving them a squeeze. “You and Rowan are going to have the most magical, unforgettable, annoyingly perfect day. It’s all ready. Everything’s taken care of. All you have to do is show up and say yes.”

She blinks back tears, then bursts into a teary laugh. “God, I love you.”

“I know,” I grin, flopping back on the bed. “And tomorrow? Everyone else is going to love you, too. In white. With a string quartet and sugared flower petals and vows that’ll make grown men weep.”

“You’re already making me cry,” Violet sniffs, dabbing at her eyes. “Stop it. I can’t be puffy tomorrow.”

“Fine, fine,” I laugh, reaching for my overnight bag. “Let’s focus on more important things, like this emergency wedding kit I packed.”

I pull out a small pouch filled with essentials—safety pins, double-sided tape, a mini sewing kit, blister bandages, and a tiny bottle of champagne.

“Is that alcohol?” Violet asks, eyebrows raised.

“Medicinal purposes only,” I say solemnly. “In case of wedding jitters, cold feet, or general bridal panic.”

Violet sits beside me on the bed, her expression suddenly serious. “Can I ask you something?”