“You couldn’t just walk in like a normal person?” Jack’s voice is sharp, but there’s a flicker of resigned affection underneath. “Always with the drama.”
Whoever is standing behind him—a woman, by the looks of it, but I can’t quite make her out—snorts at the comment. George claps his brother on the back, unfazed.
“What’s life without a little spectacle, huh?”
And then, casually, almost as an afterthought, George steps aside.
Camila appears behind him, shoulders back, smile poised, like she knows the spotlight is about to swing her way.
My stomach drops, and the chair under me screeches as I lurch to my feet, napkin sliding uselessly down to my feet. “Camila?”
Her eyes widen just a fraction, and then she recovers, flashing that calm, composed grin she uses when we bump intoeach other in the kitchen after work, trading quick comments about groceries or laundry before heading back to our separate rooms.
“Manu.” Her tone is light, but her gaze snags mine with razor-sharp intensity.
The room buzzes—Nicole’s phone clatters to the table, and Amelia is leaning forward like she’s watching atelenovelaunfold.
“Everyone,” George says, beaming at Camila next to him. Her smile drops a tiny fraction, almost imperceptible as he places his arm around her shoulders. “Meet my wife.”
The word “wife” detonates across the room, and there’s a collective gasp that is almost comical. Jack’s jaw tightens. Elle blinks once, twice, and if she’s sure she misheard.
“Since when?” Elle whispers under her breath, but it’s easy to make out in the silence of the room.
I move toward her, fast, my pulse thrumming in my ears. She waves politely to the group, cheeks flushed like she knows how outrageous this reveal is.
“What the hell?” I whisper, low and harsh, the sound swallowed by the rising chatter around us.
Camila’s hand brushes my wrist in warning, quick and subtle. Her smile never falters. “Later,” she whispers, almost inaudible. “I’ll explain later.”
25
MANUELA
The gondola swaysas it lifts off the platform, the thick cables whirring overhead. The cars are painted red—-just like every train we’ve been on since arriving in Switzerland—with wide windows that promise panoramic views. My stomach dips at the jolt, but it’s not the height that unsettles me. It’s the way we’re packed in, knee to knee, every word or sigh or laugh magnified in this cramped glass box.
Jack sits forward, elbow on his thigh, jaw tight. His gaze is pinned on a peak in the distance, already powdered with snow even though it’s still technically summer. He hasn’t loosened up since George and Camila’s grand entrance this morning.
Meanwhile, George has taken on the role of unofficial tour guide. He gestures dramatically at the ridges and valleys below. “Best view in Switzerland, right here, people.”
“Jesus,” Jack mutters, loud enough for Elle to swat his knee. “Always with the performance.”
Elle leans into him, resting her chin on his shoulder. “At least he’s enthusiastic.” Her laugh is soft, but her grip on Jack’s arm is steady, like she’s still absorbing the shock of her future brother-in-law showing up married. To my roommate.
I’m absorbing it too.
Across from me, Connor stretches out his legs, and the denim of his jeans brushes mine. He doesn’t glance over, doesn’t acknowledge the touch, but his thumb taps once against his knee. A nervous habit I’ve already memorized. He did it the first time we met on Elle’s terrace, tapping against his glass, the same look on his face that he wears now—calm, unruffled, like nothing gets to him. Not even George’s theatrics. Or Camila sitting across the gondola, perfectly poised, nodding along politely at George’s droning narration.
“Stop manspreading, Connie,” Nicole calls from the corner by the door, sipping from a water bottle I would bet anything isn’t filled with water.
The group laughs, the sound bouncing off the glass walls. Connor leans back, smooth as ever, and says nothing. But his knee doesn’t move from mine.
I shift slightly, tugging at the sleeve of my coat to disguise the smile threatening to give me away.
The crunch of our shoes on packed snow fills the silence as we step off the gondola and onto the ridge. The air bites instantly, sharp enough that I pull my jacket tighter around me even though it does nothing against this kind of cold. My breath fogs in front of me, curling white and fleeting. It reminds me so much of Tres Fuegos in July—those bitter, dark winter nights when the only light was the streetlamps and the glow of our own breath as we hurried home, past curfew and still giggling after a few underage drinks.
The entrance to the ice tunnel looms ahead, its archway carved smooth into the glacier. Blue light glints off every curve and angle, almost otherworldly, like we’ve stepped into some winter fairy tale. The short walk leads us deeper, the temperature dropping with every step, until our noses sting and my fingers ache even through the thick pockets of my coat. Atthe end, glowing warmly against the cold, is a door that opens into a tucked-away restaurant, wood-paneled and golden, the kind of cozy Alpine place you’d never find unless you knew someone.
George whistles under his breath. “You rented this whole thing out?”
