Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
And more hours like this, alone with him.
Except that’s not fair.
“I think we have⏤”
“I’m moving to Paris,” I cut in, my voice a scrape.
His fingers freeze on the bowtie. “What?”
“The texts from Lucy. It was about this job I’ve been after. It’s . . . overseas. It’s in France. I’m moving there,” I say, the words spilling out in a messy pile-up.
And Mark’s eyes widen.
He gulps in air.
His gaze is pained.
Then, in the span of a heartbeat, his expression goes blank.
Stony.
Everything is erased.
“That’s . . . great,” he says, and the transformation is so fast, I swear I imagined that hurt look from seconds ago.
“I leave in five days,” I add.
He’s pure cool now as he nods like he’s agreeing to a business deal. “Congrats, man,” he says.
Man.
Not St. James.
Not you posh fucker.
And not even my first name.
The distance between us is miles now, or maybe it’s just that way for me. No clue anymore what Mark⏤the expert poker player⏤is thinking.
I can’t read him at all.
“It all happened quickly,” I say. “I didn’t even know it was for a year. I thought it was going to be for several weeks. But FLI wants a photog who knows the sport and can craft a new image for the organization. And is free to travel around Europe. That’s me.”
And I’m not even sure why I’m justifying my choice.
It’s my life. This is a huge opportunity⏤one I pursued. J’adore Paris. I have a ton of friends from boarding school there. Felicity, Oscar, and others.
I’m not going to toss it away just because I want more days and nights with Mark Banks.
“That’s perfect for you,” he says. He tips his chin to my bow tie. “We’re ready for the pics.”
This is not the Mark from a few minutes ago, and I can’t even sweep my gaze over his throat for a clue. It’s covered.
“What were you going to say? I think we have . . .” A dangerous spark ignites in my chest but what’s the point?
I’m leaving.
Yet I’m dying to know if he was going to say⏤I think we have to give this a chance.
He shrugs casually, shoots me a tight smile. “I was going to say . . . I think we have to get out there for the photog. Can’t take pics without the two best men.”
Then, he turns on his heel and leaves.
Taking a little piece of me with him.
Not that I want to be soaked, but a little courtesy, weather? Some rain clouds would be fitting. Maybe a thunderstorm. A crash of lightning.
Fine, fine. I don’t wish that on my bestie and his bride, but it would fit my mood.
Instead, as I stand beside the groom at the edge of the lawn, the bay behind us, the emerald grass in front of us, the sun shines, a breeze blows, and it’s barely over seventy-five in June.
It’s a picture-perfect day for a Miami wedding—more lovely than June in Florida has any right to be.
Good luck, perhaps, and a sign of things to come for a couple who are meant to be.
Hannah practically floats along a white runner, her father’s arm hooked through hers, a radiant smile on her face as the bridal march begins.
One glance at Flip is all anyone needs to know that he’s besotted with his bride and their baby.
He only has eyes for her.
As for me? I’m fighting like hell to keep my gaze off Mark.
The man merely feet away from me, dressed like me, but who hasn’t so much as looked my way since the guest house, when I dropped my oh, I’m jetting across an ocean bombshell.
As the cellist plays Pachelbel’s Canon in D for seventy-five guests, the bride gazes happily at my friend. Everything ought to feel right in the world.
Flip is getting hitched.
I got laid the last few days, many times over.
I have a great gig waiting for me in a city I love.
Friendship, sex, and a fun as fuck career⏤that’s all I’ve ever wanted.
Yet I can’t shake this unsettled feeling. This what-if-ness clawing at me.
That’s entirely the wrong feeling for today. Wistful might be an okay emotion, but mostly I should be disgustingly happy for the end of the era, since it’s the start of a new one for Flip. My bud and I will be friends no matter what. We’ll talk and text while I’m on the other side of the world.
We always have.
But that’s not the issue, is it? As Hannah arrives under the wedding arch, hands her bouquet to her mother in the front row, then turns to her groom, I steal another glance at the other best man.
A terrible longing gnaws at me. The wish that he’d look my way, toss me a knowing wink.
But that’s ridiculous.
This is how we end.
Here in front of Hannah and Flip’s closest friends and family, at the edge of Miami.