Page 111 of Rush

Yay. Spa.

Jack heads to his room for a much-needed nap. Between the morning of thinly veiled glares, wandering hands, and under-the-table threats, I’m wound tighter than a violin string—buzzing, restless, andachingfor release.

But Broderick and I agreed, no more funny business.

He and the rest of the groomsmen head out for golf, all smug swagger and pressed polos. As he walks out with the group, he shoots me a look.

That look.

Then my phone buzzes.

Broderick

My scout’s honor is hanging on by a thread.

I bite back a smile and slide my phone under the table.

Elena

You were never a scout.

Broderick

Exactly.

The spa is luxuriously over-indulgent—likeeverything at Ravenswood—but the way the masseuse works every knot and ache out of my body? Practically a religious experience.

Riley and I are side by side for a couples massage, acting like complete idiots. We’d started moaning louder and louder with every swipe of oil, like we were playing the penis game—except with groans.

By the time we’re lying there, hot stones lined down our spines, faces turned toward each other, we’re both on the verge of losing it.

“I think I need to fart,” Riley whispers, eyes wide with panic and amusement.

I bite my lip so hard I nearly launch a stone off my back.

“Shut up,” I hiss through clenched teeth. “They’re going to throw us out.”

“Can’t,” she murmurs, smug. “They’re on the payroll, Princess.”

“I’m sure Philippa made them all sign NDAs. But imagine the headlines.”

“Elena Montgomery orgasms during hot stone massage next to farting friend,” she deadpans.

I lose it. A full-body tremble of silent laughter shakes every stone loose.

After we’re showered and dressed, Philippa’s bridal party—plus Riley and Natalie—head out to the garden for mid-afternoon refreshments. The rest of the guests sprawl across the estate, soaking up the unusually warm sun.

Blankets are spread across the soft grass, pillows in muted tones scattered between trays of fruit, macarons, andcharcuterie so perfect it looks like edible art. The whole thing looks pulled straight from a mood board.

I drop down beside Riley, who immediately shoves a strawberry into my mouth before popping one into her own.

“You two give off lesbian vibes.” Sienna laughs from across the blanket, lounging like a spoilt cat, champagne flute in hand.

“We are,” Riley says, planting a quick peck on my lips—like we’ve joined some midday hedonist cult. “Jealous?”

Sienna laughs.

“Shame about Alexander, though,” Avery says, tossing a macaron into her mouth.