“And?” She twisted one of the drawstrings of his hoodie around her finger.
“They felt insufficient.”
She snorted and shook her head. “This is wildly disproportionate problem-solving.”
“Which just means it’s exactly my style when it comes to you.” His knuckles brushed the side of her neck, idly tracing the line there.
Rafael Griffin was incapable of half measures. A terrifying quality in a man. Which meant she definitely had to marry him.
Bea slid her hand into his hair, curled her fingers at the back of his neck, and pulled him down to kiss her.
Was there a scientific term for the radiance someone got after their first business-class flight? ‘Enlightenment’ seemed close, but not nearly self-satisfied enough.
Bea’s best friend emerged sparkling, like someone had rinsed her in rosé. “I have seen heaven and it reclined flat.”
“Claire Bear!” They collided, all arms and bags and uncontained joy.
“Beya Slaya, I slept horizontally on aplane.” She turned to Rafael and pointed a finger at him. “You might be my new favorite person.”
“Might?” he asked, taking her suitcase. “Welcome back.”
They piled into the Urus, the interior swallowing them in quiet luxury.
Claire collapsed into the back seat with a satisfied sigh. “I had a warm towel, real cutlery, and unlimited Belgian truffles.”
“Glad you enjoyed it,” Rafael said, merging into traffic.
Autumn sunlight lingered stubbornly, layering the skyline in metallic blues. The city buzzed with its usual efficiency around them.
“So,” Claire said, and her head appeared suddenly between their seats from the back. “Update me. Wedding countdown. Are we stressed? Are we thriving?”
“Thriving,” Bea answered. A partial truth. Thriving with asterisks.
“Good. I want glossy wedding photos, no philosophical panic.”
“Too late. Panic RSVP’d first.”
“Source of panic?”
“I still don’t have a dress.”
“You don’t—Beatriz Cruz,” Claire demanded, “what do youmeanyou don’t have a dress yet?”
“I have options,” Bea clarified. “Naomi’s in fashion, Georgie has wardrobe connections. I just haven’t picked anything.”
“You’re aware you’re getting married ineight days?” Claire’s voice had gone up an octave.
“I know,” Bea said. “I know. But I had to wait for my Maid of Honor to arrive first.”
Silence.
“…you waited for me?”
Bea nodded, feeling the sting behind the bridge of her nose. “We’ve done so much of the past three years apart. I wanted to do this together.”
Claire’s mouth wobbled. “You’re the best.”
Her head disappeared as she reached for the tissues in the back seat.
