"That's what makes it interesting."
"Interesting," she repeated.
"Is that what you call upending a stranger's world?"
"Is that what I'm doing?"
She laughed, the sound slightly wild.
"You know exactly what you're doing."
I stepped back, giving her space.
Giving her a choice.
"I'm offering a night with no expectations. No histories. No names, if that's what you want."
"Just two strangers who met at a wedding."
"Exactly."
She took a deep breath, straightening her shoulders.
Making a decision, I could see move across her face like a shadow.
"My room," she said finally.
"The Vineyard Suite. Third floor." She stepped back, putting distance between us.
"Give me fifteen minutes. Then come find me."
Before I could respond, she turned and walked away, the gold dress shimmering under the fairy lights.
I watched until she disappeared around the hedgerow, restraining the impulse to follow.
Fifteen minutes.
Long enough for second thoughts. Long enough for her to change her mind.
Long enough for me to remember why this was a terrible idea.
I checked my watch, calculating how long it would take to make the obligatory rounds at the reception, speak to John about the investors, and extract myself without raising questions.
Twenty minutes, minimum.
By then, she might have thought better of our arrangement.
Part of me hoped she would.
The larger part—the part I rarely acknowledged, the part that recognized the specific flavor of her loneliness because it matched my own—hoped she wouldn't.
I straightened my tie, brushed garden debris from my suit, and headed toward the reception pavilion.
A lifetime of discipline allowed me to make conversation, to shake hands, to discuss potential investments with appropriate interest. But beneath the practiced exterior, a countdown was running.
Thirteen minutes. Ten. Seven.
I excused myself from a conversation with John's wife, ignoring her knowing smile.
