Page 24

Beau opens the truck door without looking at me. “You’re grumbling again.”

I plaster on a tight smile. “Nope. Just manifesting inner peace.”

He glances down at me, one brow raised. “You good with this?”

He means the cottage.

I square my shoulders and nod like I’m not internally screaming. “Totally. We’re adults. Best man and maid of honor. Who occasionally sleep in trucks and share romantic cottages. What’s a little close quarters among almost friends?”

Beau just hums. Unbothered. Calm. Meanwhile, I’m two seconds from hyperventilating into my makeup bag.

We follow the winding path through the resort grounds, Beau driving like this is just another Tuesday while I’m vibrating with curiosity in the passenger seat. The cottage comes into view—a charming stone and wood dream.

“Okay,” I breathe as he parks. “This is…wow.”

Beau shuts off the engine, grabs his bag, and heads for the door without so much as a double take.

“Do you feel anything?” I call after him. “Like maybe the urge to gasp or weep softly at the curb appeal?”

“Feels like a building,” he tosses over his shoulder.

Inside, it’s even worse. In the best possible way.

Vaulted ceilings, a fireplace with actual logs stacked beside it, and a couch so plush I could probably live inside it. The kitchen is full of brushed gold hardware and pretty dishes. The bedrooms boast massive beds with layers of white bedding I want to cannonball into.

But the bathroom? The bathroom is where I almost cry.

“Heated. Floors,” I whisper reverently, toeing off my shoes and pressing my bare feet to the tiles. “I am never leaving. This is my new home now.”

Beau walks past with his duffel. “Need a moment alone?”

“Don’t tempt me. This is luxury. This is romance. This is foreplay wrapped in stone walls.”

Beau raises an eyebrow. “It’s a room.”

“It’s a lifestyle,” I correct.

He heads toward his bedroom to hang up what I assume are his three identical black T-shirts.

And I—well, I stand in the middle of all this perfection and try really, really hard not to picture what it’s going to be like sharing it with a man who’s built like a Greek statue and has the emotional range of a cactus.

Totally fine.

Everything’s fine.

eight

. . .

Beau

I’m bone-deep tired.

I’ve been running on caffeine, highway lines, and Whitley’s nonstop commentary for two days now. And while I’d never admit it out loud, her voice has started to sound like white noise I can’t sleep without.

The cottage is nicer than I expected. Warm lighting, clean lines, no bizarre smells—which is more than I can say for the motel. And the fact that the resort dropped off dinner while we unpacked? That’s a luxury I can get behind.

Whitley’s somewhere in the other room, probably petting a bathrobe or cooing over the towel folding technique. I hear a muffled “Are you kidding me?” and assume it’s about the slippers.