“Wow,”I murmur before I can stop myself. “Breathtaking.”
She doesn’t look at me. Her gaze stays fixed on the lake and the mountain range shadowing the horizon. It’s dark now, but the faint glow of the scattered buildings across the hills paint a dreamy picture of the landscape in front of us. “Isn’t it?” she replies, almost distracted. “Elle really has an eye for these things.”
I step closer, bracing both hands on the glass railing that lines the deck of the main building at the resort, caging her in without really meaning to. “Why are you out here?” I ask, my voice softer than I intend. I dip low enough to press a quick kiss to the slope of her neck. She shivers, cheeks shifting into a ghost of a smile.
“I needed a minute,” she says, turning toward me. Her makeup is subtle, just enough to catch the light, and it makes me focus on her mouth. Her lips shine faintly, full and soft, and all I want to do is taste her again. “It’s a little loud.”
“They’ll call us in for dinner soon,” I tell her, chin resting on her shoulder now.
She reaches for my hand, pulling it against her stomach, anchoring me to her. “Okay,” she says, exhaling, but it sounds like surrender. Her fingers squeeze tighter, and suddenly thespace between us hums with something I don’t want to name. I know exactly what it is, though.
This is supposed to end. Five more days, and we go back to New York, back to our real lives. Pretend this was just vacation air, not something with this amount of weight.
“Okay,” she says again, but this time her voice trembles.
“What’s wrong?” I murmur, scanning her face.
She studies me, eyes flicking between mine and my mouth, searching. Finally: “I’m just tired.”
I don’t buy it. Her eyes tell me there’s more, but I don’t push. She leans forward instead, wrapping her arms around my neck, pressing the softest kiss to my lips. Chaste. Quick. A promise or a deflection, I can’t tell which.
“Can we go to bed after dinner?” she whispers.
“Of course,” I answer, smiling, though my chest feels tight.
Because I want to say more. I want to ask if she feels it too—this thing growing between us that doesn’t fit the boundaries we set. I want to ask if maybe we could keep going in New York, if maybe this doesn’t have to end. But if I’m wrong, if she doesn’t want it, the crash will destroy me more than the end of this pact.
So I kiss her instead, soft and lingering, then tug her back toward the glass doors where the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses spill from the ballroom.
Inside, the crowd is already gathered—Elle and Jack flowing at the head table, servers weaving between guests with trays of champagne, music swelling warm and bright. Manuela slips towards a table at the back and takes her seat next to someone I don’t recognize, while I make my way to the bridal party’s table.
I look across the room and find her already watching me, a small smile curving her mouth. When she realizes I’ve caught her, she blushes, lifts her glass, and tips it toward me in a silent toast.
38
MANUELA
The staff movesin synchronized precision, placing plates in front of us, uncorking bottles of wine that glint ruby in the candlelight. The clatter of cutlery rises, laughter skipping across the tables, a hum of comfort that feels choreographed, like Elle willed this whole room into existence.
I stab at my appetizer, smiling faintly at something someone across the table says, but my eyes drift again—always, always—to him. Connor leans back, shoulder loose, his arm draped over the back of Cash’s chair. He looks at ease. Radiant in a way that makes my chest ache so much.
It’s ridiculous, really. He belongs here. Cousin of the groom, lifelong friend, part of the fabric of this group. But there’s always been something in him that stands just at the edge, observing, calculating, never fully sinking in. Now? He looks woven into it. And maybe that’s why my heart twists, because I recognize myself in that distance. Ninety percent of the time, I’m the outsider. Smiling, laughing, but still a spectator. And yet, this week, with Camila by my side, with Connor’s eyes always finding mine, I’ve felt that shifting. I’ve felt the thread tug me closer. Which makes this twist sharper. Because just when I thoughtmaybe I could fit into this world somehow, I see him, and he looks like he already does. Without me.
The chair beside me scrapes suddenly, and Camila slides into it, a little out of breath. Her ponytail is slightly skewed, a piece of hair slipping loose, and her lipstick looks freshly reapplied but imperfect.
“Ey,” she says, smoothing her dress down, trying to collect herself. It’s a long-sleeved periwinkle thing that makes her eyes look impossibly bright. “What did I miss?”
“Absolutamente nada,” I reply, glancing around as the servers bustle through the side doors, balancing trays with military precision. “¿Dónde estabas?”
“Oh, umm…” Camila’s gaze flicks across the room toward George, who’s sitting across from Connor with his tie loosened and his shirt buttoned wrong, two holes mismatched like he dressed in a rush. “I needed to touch up my lips.”
“Sure,” I say with a chuckle, letting her excuse slide. Honestly, Camila’s arrival has been one of the highlights of this trip. It feels like we’ve known each other our whole lives, and despite being roommates for more than a year now, the past few days have been a very welcome respite.
And the other highlight? Well, it’s obvious.
So obvious that my eyes drift back to Connor. He thanks a server with a grin so wide it lights up his whole face, the sight making my pulse stumble.
“¿Y vos?” Camila asks, eyes searching my face as though she already knows the answer. “Ready to head home?”
