Me:We’re going to be okay. All of us.
Archer:Yeah?
Me:Yeah.
I walk to the car, sit in the Lexus, and look at my hands on the steering wheel.
Last night, those hands were in Archer’s hair while he kissed down my stomach. Last night, I was in his bed, his mouth on my skin as he said my name like it was the only word he knew. And this morning, I sat across from his ex-wife and apologized for loving him.
This life I’m building—this messy, complicated, beautiful life that I didn’t plan and couldn’t have predicted—is starting to feel real. Not borrowed. Not temporary.
Mine. Lauren would probably be proud.
I start the car and drive home.
Chapter Thirty
Wedding Guests
Sydney
The wedding is in a barn upstate, which sounds rustic until you see it—white lights strung from every beam, candles lining the aisle, and pine boughs and winter roses everywhere. It’s the kind of barn that costs more to rent than most people’s houses, and someone has heated it to a perfect seventy-two degrees, despite it being December in New York with snow on the ground outside.
Tori looks stunning. Her dress is simple and fitted, her hair is down, and when she appears at the end of the aisle, Zayden’s face shows something I’ve never seen before—something tender and sweet. Definitely not the normal expression I’m used to seeing on him.
I sit next to Archer in the third row. He wears a dark suit, clean-shaven for once, and he looks so good it’s actually a little distracting. His hand rests on my knee under the program, his thumb moving in slow circles against my tights, and I don’t think he knows he’s doing it, which makes it worse.
The twins are with Bree for the weekend, which means Arch and I are going to be alone at the hotel for some much-needed adult time.
The vows make me cry—not because they’re particularly poetic—Zayden is a hockey player, not a poet, and his vows are simple, earnest, and he stumbles slightly. He tells Tori that she made him better without trying to change him, and that Maisie asked him last week if Tori was going to be her mommy forever. He said yes, and that’s the only promise he’s ever made that he’s never been afraid of.
I wipe under my eyes, and Archer reaches into his jacket and hands me a tissue. I take it, blot it against my face, and his hand squeezes my knee once.
After the ceremony, we move to the reception in the main hall. There are more lights, more candles, and a band setting up in the corner. Archer pulls my chair out, which is still new enough to make me give him a look.
“Don’t start,” he says.
Banks and Winnie are at our table. Ollie is at the bar, already working on his second drink. Logan is in a suit that fits too well, dancing with someone’s aunt and looking thrilled about it.
Dinner is good, but the speeches are long. Banks gives a toast that’s exactly four sentences long, which is the most he’s spoken in public in his entire life. Winnie squeezes his hand under the table when he sits down. Maisie stands on her chair and yells, “THAT’S MY DADDY!” when Zayden kisses Tori, and the room erupts.
Then the band starts, and Archer looks at me.
“No,” I say, laughing before he can open his mouth.
“I didn’t say anything.” He holds both hands up, innocent, but his eyes are already on the dance floor.
“You were about to ask me to dance, and the answer is no.” I take a sip of my wine. “I’ve seen you dance. It’s not something I can unsee.”
He leans closer, his arm resting on the back of my chair, his mouth near my ear. “I can slow dance.”
“Can you?” I raise an eyebrow.
“I can hold you and move in a circle.” He shrugs one shoulder, as if this is a perfectly reasonable offer. “That counts.”
He stands and holds out his hand. I look at it—his big hand, open and waiting—and I take it. We’ve never slow danced before.
The dance floor is small, and the song is slow. He pulls me in close, one hand on my lower back and the other holding mine against his chest. My heels give me three extra inches, but I still barely reach his shoulder, so he bends his head down, bringing his mouth near my ear.
