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“Oh, there she is,” Whitley said.
I followed her finger and reared back in confusion. She was with a Locke, but not the one she’d married. Micah Locke stood at her elbow. She laughed at something he said, and he grinned like the weaselly predator I knew him to be.
“That is not Locke,” Whit pointed out.
I narrowed my eyes. “No, it’s not. Let’s go say hi.”
Whitley took my hand, and we walked across the vineyard lawn toward my cousin. Margaret startled when she saw us heading toward her. Then, her smile brightened, and she detached herself from Micah’s side. She collided with Whitley, giggling and jumping in a circle.
“Oh my god, you’re here! I had no idea!” Margaret gasped.
“I’m so glad to see you. Tell me everything,” Whitley said. “How was the honeymoon?”
“To die for! Everyone should take a trip to the Amalfi Coast. You’ll never want to leave.”
“Speaking of, where is your husband?” I asked.
Maggie sighed. “Olympics are two years away, and he took two weeks off for the wedding and honeymoon. He has no time for all of this.” She waved her hand at the vineyard. “He needs to be practicing. Qualifiers are coming up faster than anyone could ever imagine. They’ll be here in the blink of an eye.”
“And that’s why you’re here with Micah?”
“He was generous enough to offer to take me. Let me introduce you to my friends.” She took Whitley’s hand and headed toward a gaggle of women nearby.
Micah had just extricated himself from his conversation and was heading my way. He looked nothing like his athletic older brother. Though I knew he’d swam for years too. He’d even gone to college on a swimming scholarship, but at some point, he had gotten tired of the comparisons to Merritt and quit. He worked for the Locke family business now.
“King,” Micah said with a glance at Margaret before back at me. “Didn’t know you’d be here.”
We shook hands, but I got a weird feeling about all of this. If we were anywhere else, I might take him aside and demand answers. But we were at the start of the season, and there were too many people around. Already, attendees were flocking to Whitley, complimenting her mermaid hair, congratulating her on our engagement, and begging to see her ring.
I decided it didn’t matter at that moment. My cousin’s story was as complicated as mine was. And if I was going to pretend, then she could too. I just wanted a good time with my fiancée—fake or otherwise.
23
WHITLEY
The next evening, I’d just finished getting ready when I heard English downstairs. I threw on my strappy heeled sandals and hurried downstairs to find English standing there in a long yellow dress.
“You made it!” I cried, pulling English in for a hug.
They were staying at the Kensington house but hadn’t been able to make it to the vineyard last night because of some last-minute wedding fiasco. I’d offered to stay, but she’d insisted Gavin and I go to the Hamptons.
“We made it,” she said. “Wedding fiasco averted.”
“What happened?”
English rolled her eyes. “Nora came into town for a meeting, but when we went through the list of vendors I was working with, we discovered that the old wedding planner had canceled them all.”
I gaped at her. “What?”
“Yep. She was less than thrilled that I wasn’t using her anymore, and this was her parting gift on the way out.”
“Jesus.”
“Yes, well, Leslie and I have never been so united.” English had a chilling smile on her face. “Fucking over the mayor of New York was probably not her best move.”
“Definitely not, but at least you could tell LeslieI told you so.”
“Oh, she did,” Court said as he strode into the room. “Fabulously, I might add. With real gusto.”
