The very last person I expected to see.
The very last person I want to see.
Wyn Connor.
My fiancé.
3
REAL LIFE
Monday
OKAY, SO HE’S not my fiancé anymore, but （1） our friends don’t know that yet and （2） when you’re engaged to a person as long as I was to Wyn Connor, you don’t stop accidentally thinking of him as your fiancé overnight.
Or, apparently, even over the course of months.
Which is how long we’ve kept up this ruse.
A ruse that was supposed to end this week, while I was here. Without him.
We’d hammered out the details over a competitively cordial email exchange, how we’d take turns on trips like our friends were the children caught in our would-be divorce.
He insisted I get the first trip. So why is he here, standing between Parth and Cleo in the kitchen like the grand prize on some ill-conceived game show?
“Sur-priiiiise!” Sabrina sings.
I gape. Gawk. Freeze, while the seesaw in my chest swings back and forth with the force of a well-manned catapult.
His hair has grown long enough to be tucked behind his ears, a sure sign that the family furniture repair business has been swamped, and he’s grown a beard too, but it doesn’t soften the hard line of his jaw or firm up his pouty lips. I’m still painfully aware of the way the right half of his Cupid’s bow sits higher than the left. At least his dimples are somewhat hidden.
“Hello, honey.” His smoky velvet voice makes it sound like he’s feeding me lines in a salacious stage play.
This man has never once called me honey. He never even calls me Harry, like our friends do. Once, when I had a terrible flu, he called me baby in such a tender voice, my feverish brain decided it would be a good time to burst into tears. Aside from that, it’s always been strictly Harriet. Whether he was laughing or frustrated, peeling off my clothes or ending our relationship in a four-minute phone call.
As in Harriet, I think we both know where this is going.
“Awh!” Kimmy squeals. “Look at her! She’s speechless!”
More like my frontoparietal network is short-circuiting. “I . . .”
Before I can land on word number two, Wyn crosses the kitchen, ropes an arm around my waist, and hauls me up against him.
Stomach to stomach, ribs to ribs, nose to nose. Mouth to mouth.
Now my whole brain seems to be on fire, random pieces of data flying at me like Hitchcockian crows: The taste of cinnamon toothpaste. The quick thrum of a heartbeat. The rasp of an unshaven cheek. The soft brush of lips, once with purpose.
HE’S KISSING ME, I realize, full seconds after the kiss has ended. My legs are watery, all my joints mysteriously vanished. Wyn’s arm tightens around me as he draws back, his grip very likely the only thing keeping me from face-planting onto the Armases’ knotty pine floors.
“Surprise.” His gray eyes communicate something more akin to Welcome to hell; I’ll be your host, the devil.
Everyone’s watching, waiting for me to say something a bit more effusive than I . . .
I manage to squeak out, “I thought you couldn’t get away.”
“Things changed.” His eyes flash, his mouth twisting unhappily.
“He means Sabrina bullied him,” Parth cuts in, lifting me off the ground in a bear hug so tight it makes me cough.
Sabrina tosses my bag onto the ground. “I like to think of it as problem-solving. We needed Wyn here for this. We got him here.”
People like to say opposites attract, and sure, that’s true—Wyn’s the restless and calloused son of two ex-ranchers, and I’m a surgical resident whose most torrid fantasy of late is mopping alone in the dark.
But Parth and Sabrina are one of those couples cut from the same oddly specific cloth. Like his girlfriend, Parth’s a Photoshop good-looking （thick, dark hair with a wave; strong jaw; perfect white smile）， type A lawyer with a long-term signature scent （Tuscan Leather, Tom Ford）。 Despite all their similarities, it took the two of them a ridiculously long time to accept that they were in love with each other.
“You don’t call, you don’t write!” Parth teases.
“I know, I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s been so hectic.”
“Well, you’re here now.” He tousles my hair. “And you look . . .”
“Tired?” I guess.
“That’s just her new face,” Kimmy says, popping up onto a stool and stuffing her hand into a bag of Takis Fuego on the counter.
“You look gorgeous.” Cleo squeezes past Parth to hug me, her subdued lavender scent folding around me as her head tucks neatly beneath my chin. Even the height differences between Cleo, Sabrina, and me always seemed like proof we belonged together, balanced one another out.
“Of course gorgeous,” Parth says, “but I was going to say hungry. You want a sandwich or something, Har?”
“Takis?” Kimmy holds the shiny purple bag out in my direction.
“I’m good!” my mouth says.
You are VERY bad, actually, my brain argues.
Cleo frowns. “You sure? You do look sort of peaked.”
Sabrina ducks her head. “They’re right, Har. You’re, like . . . milk colored. You okay?”
No, actually I feel like I’m going to puke and pass out, and I’m not sure in which order, and having everyone’s undivided attention and worry on me is making things a hundred times worse, while the feeling of his undivided attention is pure torture.
“I’m fine!” I say.
Just furiously wishing I’d opted to put on a bra before my flight, or styled my hair, or maybe even just spilled a bit less mustard down my boobs whilst eating that airport hot dog.
Oh god. He’s not supposed to be here!
The next time I saw him, I was supposed to be in a sexy Reformation dress with a hot new boyfriend and a full face of makeup. （In this fantasy, I’d also learned how to apply a full face of makeup.） Most importantly, I was supposed to have no perceivable reaction to him.
Shit, shit, shit. As badly as I’ve wanted to avoid imploding our friend group over the past few months since the breakup, I now just as badly need to get the truth out so I can get away from him.
“There’s something I need—”
“Honey.” Wyn’s back at my side, his hands catching my waist as if in preparation to throw me over his shoulder and abscond if necessary. “Sabrina and Parth have something to tell you,” he says pointedly. “To tell everyone.”
My skin tingles under his grip. I’m suddenly convinced I’m not wearing any shorts, but nope, I can just magically feel his calloused fingers through the denim.
When I try to extricate myself, his fingertips sink into the curves of my hips. Don’t move, his eyes warn.
Bite me, I try to make mine reply.
The right peak of his lips twitches irritably.
Sabrina is getting a bottle of champagne out of the stainless steel and glass refrigerator, but she doesn’t look celebratory. She looks downright melancholy.
Parth goes to stand behind her, setting his hands on her shoulders. “We have a couple of announcements,” he says. “And Wyn already knows, because, well, we had to give him the full picture so he understood why it was so essential that he’s here this week. That all of us are.”