“Right.” I put my free arm across my lap because this conversation is having a very obvious physical effect on me.

“You’re really good at this sex stuff.”

Oh, come on. I look up at the ceiling, as I can see God up there, pointing and laughing at me.

Funny how he looks like Zeke.

I lean in to Carrie, moving my hand from her back to her shoulder, and plant a kiss on her cheek. “If we’re going to convince everyone out there, we might need a little practice.”

Her breath comes out of her nose in these short little rasps, sniffs here and there slowing down. Our faces are inches apart. I’m still in scramble mode from the road trip here, half starved, mind going a mile a minute, so my rational brain isn’t exactly at full attention.

Unlike my other brain. The one in my pants.

Leaning in, I kiss her on the lips, soft and slow. No tongue. Don’t want to push it.

Carrie kisses me back, hands going to my shoulders, sliding up to the back of my neck. I kiss her again with more urgency, our mouths slanting, her lips capturing my top lip, nipping. My hands cradle her face and I go for it as her lips part, my tongue exploring her. God, she tastes like spun sugar, fired by the heat of my blood, and soon one of my hands has a fistful of her hair, years of hunger coming out in this kiss.

Tap tap tap.

“Carrie?” a woman says from the other side of the hotel room door. “You there? It’s Angela. Jenny’s downstairs having a meltdown and I could use your help. The florist is bailing on the wedding and Jenny and her mother are acting like a meteor hit Boston.”

“Just a minute!” Carrie calls, staring at the back of the door, her fingertips against her lips as her eyes lock with mine.

I stand up. Damn. I resist the urge to rearrange.

“Uhhhh,” Carrie says.

“That was great. Good practice, C-Shel.” I give her my best flirty half-grin while I dig my cardkey into my thigh like I’m pulling a bone marrow biopsy. “Let’s show ‘em how it’s done.” I walk to the door and open it just as Angela has her fist in the air, ready to knock again.

“Oh!” she says, then looks me up and down. “Ooooooohhhhhh,” she says, drawing this one out. “You must be Ryan. I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?”

“No,” Carrie says. I die a little inside but don’t show it. “You didn’t. Sounds like I need to go downstairs,” she says, giving me a pleading look that either means Pretend to be my horny boyfriend or Get out of the room so I can get ready.

I go with the former, grab her around the waist, and plant a huge, over-the-top kiss on her neck.

“Sorry,” I say to Angela, clearly not sorry. “Four hours away from her and I just need to recharge my Carrie battery, if you know what I mean.” I flash Angela a grin. “How about I get you two some lemon water while Carrie freshens up. Not that she needs to.” I kiss her cheek. “I’m just inventing reasons to leave you alone to figure out how to help the bride.”

“Actually, we need to go now,” Angela says, giving me a wild look. The whites of her eyes get big. That’s what weddings do to women — turn their eyes into the color of the wedding dresses.

“Then I’ll just meet you downstairs,” I say, pleasant and smooth.

With that I leave her and Carrie speechless, eyebrows up.

And get the hell out of there so I can breathe.

Chapter 8

CARRIE

The big dining room for the wedding reception is full of round wooden tables, not yet covered with their linen tablecloths. In a storage room off the main dining room, one table is littered with shells, boxes of pillar candles, and bags of smooth stones. On another, clear glass containers are stacked in a pyramid. Huge buckets of beach sand rest on the floor.

A dozen or so women in cocktail dresses and perfect hair are standing around in small clusters, talking nervously. Jenny, who is weeping, is being comforted by her mother and sisters.

“What’s happening?” I ask, confused. This is the problem with always running ten minutes late. I’m forever trying to figure out what everyone else already knows.

“These centerpieces were supposed to have been assembled by the florist!” Jenny moans. “We paid Petal Pushers fifty dollars each for twenty-five ‘Beachscapes’ -- that’s over a thousand dollars! And she’s gone and we have nothing for the tables!” Her mother is frantically dabbing Jenny’s cheeks with a handkerchief where the tears are streaking her makeup.

“Oh no… who would do that? She probably just ran out for more coffee or something,” I soothe. “I’m sure she’ll be back.”

Jenny just hands me her phone.

The text on the screen reads: My band just signed with UMG leaving on tour tonight so sorry have a great marriage! Nova

“Okay, not coming back,” I concede. Jenny gives a ragged sob.

I look over the raw materials spread out on the tables. “Jen,” I say slowly, “listen. I can do this. I’m a designer. No problem.”

I lift a glass container from the stack and set a fat white pillar candle in the center. Using an empty cardboard coffee cup, I scoop in enough sand to hold the candle in place. So far, so good. I drop in a few shells and arrange them evenly.

Angela comes up beside me and watches for a moment. “I’ll help you,” she offers.

Jenny looks torn between hope and guilt. “Oh Carrie… could you really do this? But, oh, the rehearsal dinner tomorrow and then the bachelorette party — your new boyfriend is here — it’s too much to ask…”

“Ryan will be fine. He can talk to some of the other O people. You go to the dinner. Angela’s going to help me.”

“I will, too,” Diane volunteers. “If you can show me what to do?”

“Thanks,” I smile at her gratefully. “With three of us, it won’t take long at all. Go on now, Jen, everyone will be looking for the bride.”

“I’ll check back in a little while,” she says. “You guys are the best friends ever! I don’t know how to thank you!”

“A bottle of wine would be a good start.” I wink at her. “And three glasses.”

“Coming right up.” She heads for the door, followed by her posse of female relatives.