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“Nope. No panic attack either.”

“Success.”

“Success. Champagne?”

“Oh dear god, yes.”

We make our way out of the chapel and into the enormous courtyard. Waiters walk past with trays, and I grab two flutes and hand one to Eloise.

“Cheers,” I say, and we clink glasses. Eloise gulps half her flute in one go.

“Okay,” she says, exhaling. “Okay …” She glances over to where Diego and Rachel are chatting with some of the other guests. “Was it a nice ceremony? I kind of blacked out.”

I chuckle at that. “It was fine. Not as long as I thought it would be.”

She wrinkles her nose.

We stand on the outskirts of the crowd. Diego’s mother, elegance personified in a shimmering, beaded designer gown, is entertaining a group of women her age, all dripping with diamonds. I catch sight of Nicolas and Eva chatting with Jorge Alvarez. I’ll have to go say hello to them. Surreptitiously, I scan the room for Ricardo. I’ve basically memorized his face from the photo on Grupo Real’s marketing team page.

“Should we go find our seats?” Eloise asks.

We peruse the tables until we find our names at a small circular one near the head table. “So many flowers,” I say.

“Those are definitely Rachel’s touch,” Eloise says, flopping into the seat with her name in elegant script on a tiny card in front of it. A card with my name is next to hers. We sit and people-watch, sipping our drinks until our flutes are empty.

“Another round?” I ask.

“Yes. No. Yes, one more,” she says, nodding so her curls quiver. “Then no more until the speech.”

“Okay,” I say, kissing her temple. “I’ll be right back.”

As I make my way toward one of the long bars set up along the side of the courtyard, I catch a glance into a neighboring hall where a full-scale candy store is being set up for later in the evening. It’s a tradition at Mexican weddings to have a buffet table filled with jars of candy—but this is like nothing I’ve ever seen. Like something out of Willy Wonka. Clearly the Alvarez family spared no expense. I’m beginning to see why Eva could believe the rumor that Luis Miguel might be performing.

“Con permiso,” a man says as he cuts in front of me, and my brain screeches to a halt.

It’s him.

Ricardo is better looking in real life than in his photo—his smile less stiff, his movements fluid. He walks toward one of the long rectangular tables at the back and before I get a chance to follow him, I hear, “Agustín!” and then Eva bursts into my field of vision, kissing my cheeks. “Look at you,” she says, nodding approvingly. “Where’s your date?”

I’m very glad Eloise is not here to be dissected by her. Plus, Eva knows I needed this invite for an interview. “She’s at our table,” I say. “I’m getting us some drinks.”

“How was the ceremony? The bride is muy guapa, and I heard her Spanish was pretty good for a gringa. Diego seems happy.” Eva sniffs. “Come say hi to Nico!”

“I will,” I say, forcing a smile. “Just a minute.”

I extricate myself but when I look around, Ricardo has vanished. But then, there are so many people here. Five hundred people sounds like a lot, but it’s a whole different thing seeing it in person. The space is simply enormous, with halls leading off to who knows where and waiters flowing in and out with trays of canapes. I get two more glasses of champagne and take the long way back to Eloise, passing the large table I’d seen Ricardo heading to. I catch sight of his place card.

I know where he’s sitting.

When I return to Eloise, she’s fidgeting nervously and scrolling her phone.

“Oh thank god, you’re back,” she says, and I feel an all too familiar pinch of guilt.

“Yeah, sorry, I ran into Eva Garcia.”

“The woman who put you on the plus-one list?”

I grin. “The very same.”