My throat tightens, my pulse pounding beneath his fingers where they brush my jaw, where they traildown the curve of my neck. Barely there—but I feel it everywhere.
“Your life isn’t in Manhattan.” His fingers skim the hollow at the base of my throat. “Your life is here.”
His thumb traces my collarbone, sending a ripple of something deep and unshakable straight through me.
“With me.” He lets the words hang between us, sinking into the space where I should fight back, where I should say he’s wrong.
But I don’t want to keep fighting. And he knows it.
His lips quirk, just slightly, because he sees it—the cracks forming, the exhaustion pooling, the continued fall into something I was never strong enough to resist. He sees the moment I truly give in.
Then Alder turns and strides through the dewy grass like he owns the whole damn world.
And I follow.
***
The early morning chill bites at my skin as we push through waist-high grasses.
Alder’s tone was so certain, his resolve so firm, I almost expect to hear the bustle of workers dismantling the wedding tent, the murmur of voices, the clatter of metal. Even though I know something is very wrong, I keep going. Because when Alder speaks with that much conviction, it’s hard not to believe him.
But as we crest the top of the hill, an eerie silence presses in. It’s too quiet. Unnaturally quiet. The silence is so loud, my ears ring and the hairs on the back of my neck lift.
There’s no tent. No tables. No stray decorationslittering the ground. Not even the smallest scrap of confetti or pastel place card. Just grass stretching and rolling toward a dense forest of trees so thick the shadows seem to swallow the sunlight.
Alder stops beside me. His body goes rigid, his narrowed gaze sweeping across the empty field.
“This isn’t right.” His voice doesn’t waver, but the confidence in it falters for the briefest second.
Unease sinks its claws deeper into my chest, and my breaths come faster, shallower.
This is where the reception tent should be. Where Mackenzie’s wedding should be.
But there’s nothing.
I swallow, reaching for him before I even realize what I’m doing, my fingers clutching the sleeve of his suit.
“Alder…” My voice barely makes it past my lips. “Where’s the tent?”
His frown deepens. He glances at me, then back at the empty expanse of grass. A flicker of doubt creases between his brows, but then his expression smooths. “They must’ve cleared it out early. Packed it up while we were asleep.”
I stare at him, my disbelief bubbling to the surface. “When? The sun’s been up for, what, an hour? There’s no way they cleaned it all up that fast.” My voice cracks, rising with something that’s not panic—because I amnotpanicking—but something dangerously close. “Where are the trucks? The crew? A frickin’ napkin!”
Alder’s jaw tightens, his mask slipping. For a brief moment, the arrogance and assuredness that define him flicker, replaced by an expression unsettlingly close to fear.
Then, just as quickly, it’s gone.
“Maybe we should head back,” Alder says, rolling his shoulders. “Figure out what’s going on.”
Back where?
I wrap my arms around myself, hugging against the sudden chill.
“I don’t see Charleston Island Country Club, do you?” I demand, my voice sharper now, the edge of my fear hardening into something I can actually hold. “None of this looks familiar, and I know for a fact Mackenzie didn’t have her wedding reception in grass that’s damn near up to my tits!”
I gesture wildly at the empty stretch of land.
“And that man—who was pretty much in medieval cosplay—kicked us off the dock at the lake. Except, no, now it’s suddenly a river?! And he said the wordscar servicelike we were speaking German. So, you tell me, Alder, where are we supposed togo backto?”
