“A wedding planner?” He quirks a brow. “Do you plan the whole thing? Dresses, flowers, seating charts?”
I snort. “No, I’m not a magician. I coordinate vendors, manage schedules, deal with venues. Sometimes I mediate cake tastings and bridal party meltdowns. It’s basically babysitting with clipboards.”
He hums like he’s impressed despite himself. “Sounds exhausting.”
“It is.” I sigh dramatically. “But also kind of amazing when it all comes together. Especially if there’s a dog in a tuxedo involved.”
He makes a face like he wants to protest but then nods slowly. “I’d show up for a dog in a tux.”
“Wouldn’t we all?”
Maverick pulls the fridge open and stares into it, the same way I had when I first woke up hungry. “There’s a wedding at the resort this weekend. Bridal party started arriving yesterday.”
Oh? That’s a fun tidbit. I slide onto a stool at the island. “Did you speak to anyone over there, or did you stalk around scowling?”
Maverick snorts, grabbing a yogurt and a spoon. “I nodded at a few of the groomsmen who recognized me.”
“Gracious me,” I murmur. “Did they jizz their pants from joy?”
He ignores me. “One of the groomsmen was bragging about the private chef they hired for the rehearsal dinner. Wagyu sliders, lobster tacos. They’re going all out.”
“Lobster tacos sound incredible.” My stomach agrees. “Maybe if I wander close enough to the lot line, I’ll be mistaken for a cousin and invited to the reception.”
“Anyway,” he continues, spoon halfway to his mouth, “I overheard someone say the bride’s a social media influencer or something. So everything’s being documented. Drones. Photographers. Bridesmaids with ring lights.”
“Ugh,” I groan. “One ofthoseweddings.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means it’s less about getting married and more about the aesthetic. People like that don’t care if the cake tastes good—they care that it photographs well.”
He nods thoughtfully, swallowing his yogurt. “Sounds like you hate those kinds of weddings?”
“I don’thatethem,” I say. “Influencer weddings are like hosting a Broadway show where all the actors are drunk and in heels and the director keeps changing her mind.” And doing random TikTok dances in random places throughout the day.
Maverick chuckles—low and warm, the sound curling around me like a blanket I didn’t know I wanted. “Well, I hope it rains.”
“What?” I gape, appalled.
“On the day of the wedding,” he says, licking his spoon clean. “Just a light drizzle. Nothing dangerous but enough to fuck up their footage.”
I gasp. “Maverick—that’s such a mean thing to say!”
He shrugs, utterly unapologetic. “I said ‘drizzle.’ I’m not summoning a hurricane. Calm down, jeez.”
“You might as well be,” I scold. “Do you have any idea how much chaos a little mist can cause to a hairstyle?”
“Nope. Nor do I give a shit.”
“You’re so rude.”
He leans one hip against the counter, drying his hands on a towel. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
I glance at the clock. It’s way too late—or too early—for whatever this weird little moment is. A part of me knows I should turn in, escape back to the couch and try for some sleep.
I linger anyway. There’s a long beat where neither of us says anything. The kitchen’s quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you aware of every heartbeat, every breath.
Then, softly: “You gonna be okay out here?”
