With a small eye-roll, Jamey sets off toward the groomsmen, who are being pushed and pulled into alignment for the camera.

“I’d better go,” I tell Ryan. “Are you okay just hanging out for a while?”

“Sure,” he says, “I’m fine. I think I’ll get one of those local IPAs from the bar.”

“The wedding’s supposed to start soon. After that, I’ll be a lot more free.”

“No worries. The reception’ll be fun.”

And then he meets my eyes.

For the first time all weekend, it’s like we’re really looking at each other. I mean, not in a fake-boyfriend, fake-girlfriend, performing-for-an-audience kind of way, but like we’re completely alone. All the breath goes back into my body. All of it. Every bit of oxygen in the whole, wide world.

Ryan leans toward me and softly, gently, his lips meet mine. Not rough and hard, not muscular and groping, just… us. A kiss that connects us and holds us together in time, because that’s what we both want. What we both choose. A kiss that lingers and breaks apart slowly.

Different. New.

I muster up my courage. “Ryan, we really need to talk — ”

“Um, excuse me, you’re Carrie, right?” The photographer’s assistant, clearly embarrassed, looks like she’s contemplating a career change. Taxidermy, maybe — something where the subjects stand perfectly still and exhibit no emotions whatsoever.

I can’t answer her because I have forgotten my name. She soldiers on.

“The bride’s mother asked me to, um, see if you, um, need any help with photo prep?”

I stare at her blankly.

“Um, makeup? Hair?” she tries. “They’re shooting the bridesmaids next.”

Ryan’s lips brush against my jaw light, light and feathery, enough to make me shiver and smile. “It’s okay. We can talk later. I know you have wedding responsibilities.” He eyes me appreciatively, his whole face smiling, eyes shining. “Go be the best maid of honor ever.”

“That’s not exactly a goal of mine,” I admit, but laugh.

“You can’t help it, C-Shel. Like I told Jamey, you’re the best.” He’s standing so close to me, a few inches taller, the sun high in the sky. When he looks at me like this, his body shielding me from the wind, I feel so safe. Impossibly comfortable and filled with potential.

Maybe — just maybe — these feelings are real?

“Stop,” I protest. “You don’t need to flatter me.” I can’t let myself dare crack open the vault of repressed emotion that allows me to function on a day like today. After opening myself up last night in every possible way — no matter how deliciously toe-curling — I need a little restraint.

His smile fades, replaced by an even hotter contemplative look. “Not flattering. Just telling the truth, Carrie.”

The photographer’s assistant clears her throat.

“I’ll see you at the ceremony,” he says. “I’ll be in the back, on the bride’s side. Ignore me until the reception.”

Before I can say anything, he turns and leaves, long strides eating up the ground beneath his feet. My heart plays a tambourine in my chest as I reconcile the friends we were with the… whatever we are now. My belly tightens, tingling as I remember his hands on me last night, my legs around his hips, how he sighed against my neck, how his kisses went on and on and on until I floated away on the feeling of endless connection with Ryan.

Right or wrong, we crossed a line last night. Watching him dance in front of all those women, with his body over mine as he dipped and stroked, teased and moved in the moonlight until I couldn’t stand it, couldn’t keep pretending, made my flight instincts kick in. I fled.

And he followed.

Making love — can I call it that? — wasn’t what I expected after I ran back to the room. But now it’s all I can think about. Ryan’s mouth. Ryan’s hands. Ryan’s naked body, so strong and powerful over mine, the interplay between our unclothed skin so new, so hot, yet holding so many questions.

It was real for me. Was it fake for him? How could it be so perfect if it was just pretend?

Funny how he looks like the perfect Instagram man, unposed, the light slightly off, and yet he is perfect.

In every way. I couldn’t wish for better.

RYAN

For once, I don’t hate Jamey.

Just this one time.

He focused me, gave me an excuse to approach Carrie and touch her, feel her. Gauge her. This morning, I was up and out the door long before she woke up. Went for a run, but before that, I spent entirely too long watching her sleep, hair mussed, lips red from so much kissing.

Never enough kissing.

The reality of what I did last night — what we did — still hasn’t seeped into the marrow of my bones where it should reside, permanent and lasting. Instead, it floats like tiny hairs on gooseflesh, rising to the occasion but unsure what to do next.

She’s torn away from me by the photographer, ready to be paraded around and admired the way she should be, though today she’s a backdrop. An extra. Part of the pretty scenery that showcases Jenny and Aiden.

At our wedding, Carrie will be in the spotlight, front and center.

Sweat breaks out on my forehead and palms.

Our wedding.

Where did that thought come from?

“Doing okay there?” Chloe asks, walking up to me as Nick holds her hand, fingers threaded intimately. He’s using his other palm as a visor, watching the wedding party as they walk carefully up a sand dune, trudging to the top as the wind sweeps Jenny’s lace veil like a kite tail, licking the heads of the groomsmen.

“I’m fine. Why?” I ask, struggling to keep my voice even.

“You look so serious.”

I break out a sexy smile. You know, the kind I’m paid to flash. “This better?”

Chloe frowns. Nick drops his hand and gives me a neutral look. “Weddings make people re-evaluate their lives.” He turns to look at Chloe, who meets his gaze. She’s focused and ready, attentive yet contemplative. Even more than usual.

And very clearly trying to read Nick’s layered statement.

“Weddings make women go crazy,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.

Nick laughs, but he still looks at Chloe. “All the details take over, but underneath it all, you’re promising forever to someone.”