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I smile. “I am. Poppy’s a bundle of excitement, and her friends all seem like fun, too.”
“Good,” he says, with a casual smile. “We’ll have to hang out with them more, once they’ve back from their honeymoon.”
“That would be great,” I say, my heart leaping at the thought of future plans. Does this mean he wants to still be doing this even after wedding season is over? “Did Dash make it here yet?”
He grins. “Oh yeah. He took one look at the wedding planner and discovered a burning curiosity in event design. They’re off somewhere, she’s showing him the main ceremony area.”
“I’ll bet she is,” I laugh at Dash’s incorrigible bachelor ways. “But aside from men, she’s clearly got excellent taste. It’s a gorgeous event.”
Charlie gazes around the room at the décor and crowds. “They went all out, huh?”
“If it’s worth doing…” I quip, and he nods.
“It’s worth doing right.”
Our eyes lock, and my stomach turns another slow somersault. Because is it just me, or is there a new tenderness in his eyes? An emotion deeper than flirty fun?
“Listen—” Charlie starts, at the same time as I say,
“So—”
We both laugh, a little awkward.
“You go,” I insist, suddenly feeling breathless.
He shakes his head, looking bashful. “It’ll keep,” he says, leaning in to steal a slow, sweet kiss. “We have the whole weekend, after all.”
“We do.” I beam. A weekend of sizzling kisses—and more. Out here in gorgeous, romantic surroundings, celebrating the best love has to offer.
He feels it, too, I know. Hehasto.
“I should get back,” I eventually say, regretful. “The bride needs fresh supplies!”
“See you for the ceremony.”
“I’ll be the one trying not to cry at the sentimental vows,” I say with a smile.
“Then I’ll be the one holding your tissues,” Charlie promises.
I leave him, practically floating back through the hotel. I feel on top of the world, knowing that Charlie will be waiting for me at the end of the aisle. And sure, I’m not getting ahead of myself. It’s notuswalking to the altar for real, but still…
I haven’t been this happy since… I don’t know when.
Except… Then I see a figure so familiar that I slow my walk. One of the people in the bar looks exactly like Bret Bassinger.
No—this must be a stress hallucination. Or maybe I nodded off in the hotel room? Pinching my wrist, I desperately hope that I’ll jolt awake.
But nope. It’s him.
“Grace?” he asks, voice loud enough to make people turn. Did I conjure this nightmare? Is the Hellmouth in the Catskills?
My heart sinks, and I can feel myself retreating into my shell, braced and defensive for what’s to come.
But then I stop. What amIfeeling bad for? My job no longer relies on tolerating his behavior toward me. So, I give him a look with all the disgust I feel. “How are you even here?”
“How areyouhere?” he counters, stepping toward me.
I gesture down at my dress, grateful again for that bridesmaid’s muscle-pulling sexploits. “Bridal party.”
