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The reception is a blur of laughter, theatrics, and a whole lot of wine. I try to follow the wedding planner’s lead, posing for pictures and thanking our guests for celebrating our day with us as we move to the dining area. This entire day feels like an out-of-body experience.

I’m surprised I’m not exhausted after the fretful night’s sleep I had. I’m wound tighter than a live wire. And while my feet ache in these unforgiving heels, it has nothing on the heat still lingering on my lips.

That kiss.

Even my dreams hadn’t prepared me for it. I’d imagined kissing Sam for years. The same way you dream of kissing your favorite rock idol or movie star. But knowing the utter disregard Sam has always shown me, I figured it would be a stiff peck. I’m sure it was his attempt to pull out all of the dramatics for the benefit of the cameras and the guests.

Yet when Sam’s mouth met mine, the air left my lungs as if all of the oxygen had been sucked from the venue. For a moment, the contract, his trust fund, and all of our turbulent history vanished. It felt real. That scares me more than getting caught in this charade.

I’m pulled back to reality by the sensation of a warm hand on my arm. Glancing up, I find Bella before me with a bright smile. “It’s time for your first dance.” She waggles her brows. Good lord. Why had I let Sam choose the music? “Where’s your husband?”

I stare at her blankly for a moment. Husband? Oh. Right. “It appears he’s already gone rogue.” I laugh.

“Get used to it. But that’s where we come in. And here they think we’re the fairer sex. There is no doubt who rules the roost at our house. And I can bet it will be the same way in yours.” She smirks.

On cue, an up-tempo beat begins to play, and Sam appears at my side. “Our dance, my beautiful wife.” He bows dramatically, extending his arm toward the dancefloor. It isn’t until we are centerstage that the song becomes clearer. “Selena Gomez? Really? Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald didn’t have any appealing choices in their library?”

“What? I like this song.” He straightens, looking affronted. “I like Selena.” With that, he starts spinning around, head thrown back, waggling his arms over his head. I can’t help but laugh. Have I ever seen him dance before? This can’t be real. He bounces his arms up and down overhead, and I sway to the beat, biting my lower lip to keep from laughing.

“What?”

“You remind me of watching Kermit the Frog dance on The Muppet Show as a child.” I snort.

“Ah, I love Kermy.” He gives the air a fist pump. “Nailed it.”

This isn’t how I expected my first dance as husband and wife would go. But perhaps this was the easy choice. No need to hold me close and pretend to look deep into my eyes with this up-tempo number. He probably used up all of his acting skills with that kiss.

I’ve apparently spoken too soon, as he lifts his balled fist to his mouth like a pretend microphone and lip syncs the chorus to “Love You Like A Love Song.” I can’t help but peer at the crowd that has surrounded the dancefloor. They’re grinning like loons at his theatrics. He’s ridiculously over the top, hamming it up with the pretend crooning about how beautiful I am.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Georgia swooning as she watches on. Lilly has her hands to her chest, and even Claire appears to be smiling at the spectacle. Summer seems distracted by something. She’s peering off into the distance with an expression I can’t identify from this angle. But there’s no time to contemplate this further.

The song makes a sudden change in tempo as Selena croons adoringly, describing how the person she’s singing about is above comparison, that they’re music to her heart. I get caught up in the dreamy lyrics until Sam abruptly pulls me against his torso. In a movement so smooth it feels as if it’s part of a romance movie montage, he slides a small collection of blue wildflowers into my hair above my left ear.

“Pretty.”

I gasp. I’m stunned at the unexpected reenactment of that innocent time so long ago. My shocked, wide eyes hold his. I had no idea he even remembered this. Not the way I did.

My first inclination is to turn away so he doesn’t see me tear up, but there’s no time. Before I can draw another breath, his large hands frame my face, his thumbs brushing lightly over my cheekbones with a reverent, almost desperate tenderness. There’s a slight tremble as his fingertips caress my skin. Sam’s gaze drops to my lips, hungry and intense, like he’s spent years starving for a taste of me.

When his mouth meets mine, everything else disappears. It’s beyond any kiss I’ve ever experienced. It starts with a soft, aching hesitation. An almost quiet plea that makes my heart lean into my sternum from its sheer longing for him. But then he pulls me closer, deepening the kiss. His lips press into mine with a fierce desperation that threatens to unravel me completely. It’s as if the unspoken yearning and stolen glances of the last two decades have distilled into this unexpected moment. My fingers tangle into the fabric of his jacket, clinging to him.

Because if I let go, I’m afraid I’ll awaken from this dream.

The room spins wildly on its axis. It feels like I’m starring in my own version of Enchanted. The song, the guests… everything vanishes. All I can feel is him. I’m surrounded by the heat of his skin, his distinct scent of cedar and red wine, and the desperate, crushing weight of how much I’ve longed for this moment.

When he finally draws back, his forehead rests against mine for one agonizing beat. His breath hitches as if he’s as shattered by the kiss as I am.

Thankfully, Sam is a gentleman and escorts me to our seats for dinner because I’m not certain after that kiss I could get there on my own. My legs feel like jelly. Holding my chair out for me, he gives me a delicious grin.

What is happening right now?

The noise of the reception hall is a dull roar of clinking glasses and music Sam has selected for the DJ to play throughout the evening. Yet the tension in my shoulders is so unyielding, I can practically feel them against my ears. I wish I could let my hair down and simply enjoy this moment, fake or otherwise, but there’s an innate need to protect myself. There is too much at stake here, both for the vineyard… and for my heart.

Sam stands beside me, his hand resting at the small of my back. To anyone else, we look like glowing newlyweds. Yet I’m acutely aware of every pair of eyes in the room. Especially the group currently making a straight line toward us. It’s Dr. Howell and Brian Lewis, the two most senior partners at my practice. They’re flanked by their wives in heavy jewels and stiff silk.

“Sam, congratulations,” Dr. Howell greets, stepping forward to clasp Sam’s hand with a booming, yet clearly performative warmth. He barely spares me a passing glance. “I’m Brad Howell and this is my wife, Barbara.”

“The wedding was beautiful,” she adds.