Chapter Eight

Julia

The bride and groom are dressed in matching denim and mustard yellow. A flowy dress for her, a t-shirt for him, ripped jeans hugging his thighs, plus a fitted jacket accentuating her trim torso. They are all smiles, glorious blond hair tousled from a drive out in a windows-down all-terrain vehicle. Their arrival has gone off without a single dramatic hitch, though I did have to turn down my walkie-talkie and pray that Zoe could handle any disaster that might come our way in the interim. On the way over to meet them her voice scratched over the speaker to tell me that florist Francine was going rogue on the bride and groom's "Blessings Table" centerpiece, claiming it wasn't "grounded in love," whatever the fuck that meant.

"Tell her we can't follow our bliss," I walkied back through gritted teeth. "We have to stick to the approved designs."

There was a pause. Zoe had her finger on the call button and I could hear Healer Arynne egging Francine on: "Listen to your soul, what does Spirit say will most serve Millie and Sean?" as if ten minutes prior she hadn't been ready to cancel the wedding because of a trifecta of broken tourmalines.

"Yeah, I'll figure it out," Zoe said, before going silent.

Fortunately, no further dramatics have interfered with the bride and groom's arrival.

"It's going to be such a vibe," Millie exclaims now, spinning around in a circle to take in the lobby entrance. Sean is on his phone, texting like mad—his usual way.

"Tucker says they're just around the bend," Sean says in an unexpected outburst. He lets out a woot and fist pumps into the air before running back toward the main entrance.

"He had a beer at the bar while I was checking in." Millie shrugs.

My pulse shoots into overdrive. "You should not have had to check in."

They should have been handed champagne flutes and wildflower seed recycled-paper envelopes with their names written in calligraphy on the front, containing their room keys, lodging information, and itinerary. That's standard for all Love, Always wedding venues, and even though this is our first time partnering with Celestial Sands, I was assured everything had been assembled and sat ready at the front desk.

"Oh no worries, Armand"—the day manager for the property—"and I went to a yoga retreat in Morocco together once." Her eyes are misty with memory. "A whole lifetime ago."

She's barely twenty-seven. By most standards, that's relatively early on the lifeline. It's hard to believe she's acquired long-ago memories to pine over dreamily and delay checking into her bridal suite. My face twitches, wanting to give my judgmental thoughts away, but I'm a neutral-faced pro, skilled in the art of faking the soft smile and interested gaze of someone who just gets it , while in reality my brain is on fire.

"We were catching up," she says, her voice still wistful.

"But you received the envelopes containing your room assignments, itineraries—"

She gives me a bighearted hug to cut my impending spiral off, causing me to immediately stiffen. Arms, legs, everything goes rigid. "Remember, it's a party." She presses me back, hands squeezing my shoulders lightly. Her face is a sunbeam of happiness.

I decide to drop the envelope inquiry for now, which is perfect timing since the entirety of the groom's party has arrived in a cloud of CK One and designer muscle shirts. I clock them, cataloging each one by one as they tumble through the doors into the sunlit lobby.

Banks Bartlett, son of a real estate tycoon. Blond, tan, rocking a short king energy that he probably doesn't deserve. He's wearing an iridescent hat featuring a decal of a fist flipping the bird, shades hooked to his ears backward, and a watch that probably costs more than my whole year's rent.

Next is Tucker Hawthorne, son of an oil baron (yes, those still exist), who is currently working in venture capital as his day job. He's tall and slim and the only one wearing real pants, but the snakeskin cowboy boots and nipple piercing outline beneath the paper-thin fabric of his shirt make up for that modicum of class.

Cash Kim (not his real name) comes in hot. He's Korean American and a rising star at a major record label. He looks like a Gucci store threw up on him. When he waggles his tongue in greeting to Sean, I notice a glint of metal from a piercing, then immediately loathe myself for liking it a little.

They call themselves the Final Four, a nickname they coined at Princeton (where they all, inexplicably, graduated with honors), though I'm guessing they've also lost heaps in March Madness betting schemes.

"Did you see the fucking desert out there, bro!" Banks practically spits, slamming down a hard high-five-fist-bump combo. "Miles of dirt and dunes—who wants to sand surf?"

A nervous young woman dressed in the orange and navy uniform of the resort approaches the crowd of males, carrying a tray of ice-cold beers. Not champagne. Beer. A request that must have been made by the groom. The murder of men flocks, splashing piss-colored liquid onto the silver tray as they yank the glasses up in a toast to the groom.

"To Seanypoo, the first of us to lock one down," Cash says with cheer.

"To Seanypoo," the other men—including Seanypoo himself—salute.

"They're fucking idiots," Millie says, but she's grinning with admiration as she watches the display of male bonding.

I'm scrutinizing the scene for all possible logistical nightmares that could (probably will) arise from the equation of this scenic, secluded desert setting plus this wild buffalo stampede of men, when Sean turns his attention squarely on me.

"You"—he points a meaty finger my way—"planned the bachelor night festivities."

I see the knowledge ripple through the men like a tsunami-level wave. I step forward, putting on my best bro in control energy, which is mostly just me puffing out my chest like a baboon in a dominance dance.

"Gentlemen"—I use this term so loosely—"Bachelor Town will not disappoint."

Pioneer Town, which—for the purposes of the itinerary—has been renamed Bachelor Town, is a local favorite for men and boys alike. Not sure which category these guys fall into, but we're running with it.

"It's got paintball. It's got skeet shooting. It's got s'mores and a bonfire pit." The crescendo of affirming excitement is a symphony to my ears.

"Beer?" Tucker chimes in. I nod in an affirmative.

"And, for when you're tired of running around and full on the buffet of brats, burgers, and twice-baked potatoes, there's also first-person shooter video game…stuff"— Jesus take the wheel —"to play to your hearts' content."

Basically, shooting, shooting, and oh, yeah, more shooting, with a little wholesome campfire fun thrown in for variety.

The males are pleased. And with a kiss to Millie, the Final Four flop off in the direction of the bachelor's wing of the building.

"I owe you big-time," Millie says under her breath. "If it was up to Sean, they would have gone to that casino in Palm Springs and come back smelling of cigarettes, hungover from cheap booze."

"All part of the Julia Kelley experience," I reply, before catching myself. "Love, Always experience, I mean." I'm giving myself away. Millie nods, not noticing the glitch.

"I'll be singing your praises to all my newly engaged girlfriends. You can count on it."

Joy ripples through me. Now all I need is the rest of the bridal party to arrive—and the women from my past to miraculously disappear—which is what I'm thinking when the tiny hairs on the back of my neck rise in high alert. My sense of smell is obstructed by the haze of male and puddles of spilled beer, but even so, Chanel No. 5 and sunscreen tinge my nostrils.

Piper Cunningham has never stepped foot outside without both.

I inhale through my nose, not to take in the scent, but to fortify against it. I'm going to see her all weekend, and if I'm truly honest with myself, seeing her isn't the worst of my problems. That credit goes to the girl who broke my heart into so many pieces that I'm uncertain if it ever mended. Millie's eyes brighten as she looks over my shoulder, raising her hand to Muppet wave in that direction. Her lips barely move when she whispers, " The Odd Couple , anyone?" and then, loud enough for everyone to hear, "Ladies!"

Someone. Kill me. Now.

I spin to see the two women I once loved standing side by side.

Kit is a good three inches shorter, curvy where Piper is lean, and looking at me like I'm a jigsaw puzzle she is trying to solve without having all of the pieces in hand. Piper looks like she has one of Healer Arynne's crystals shoved up her asshole—and not in a fun way. Her eyes dart from me, to Millie, peripherally to Kit, and then land in a neutral spot over my shoulder.

Kit is the first one to move.

Glide , actually.

She's at ease with her body in the most annoyingly admirable way. But she always was, even when we were teenagers and no one was comfortable in their own skin.

My palm absently goes to the buttons on the front of my shirt and I smooth them down, then adjust the hem to make sure it's firmly tucked in, and touch the cold metal of my belt buckle. These aren't nervous tics—they're just tics…generalized. Good old-fashioned distractions from uncomfortable feelings .

Kit smacks two air-kisses to each one of Millie's cheeks. "You are glowing—my God, your skin ," she says, touching her own flawless skin with a grimace, as if hers isn't creamy smooth, but instead prickly sandpaper. "No filter necessary, for real."

"Please, I'm an elephant hide. I'll need to do a hyaluronic sheet mask or ten before tomorrow." My mind is truly baffled by this exchange. "We are so thrilled you were able to come for the whole weekend."

"Meant to be," Kit replies, flicking her eyes to me for a fraction of a second. "Clearly."

That didn't happen. I made it up.

Even if making it up is ridiculous. I'm not trying to care about where her eyes are glancing, or what said glances may or may not mean. Neutrality and professionalism is the name of my game.

Millie turns to Piper, grabbing her by the hand and tugging her in for a warm hug. Millie seems to only ever offer one kind of hug, even to frosty recipients.

"Kappa Kappa," Millie says, gleeful.

"Alpha Alpha," Piper replies, her face a mask complete with a signature glimmery polished smile. She straightens, not yet pulling away from Millie.

"Theta Theta Theta—" they chant together, gripping each other's biceps and bouncing. "We're the best, hell yes!"

Kit's eyes widen. There's a brief twitch of her mouth before it clamps closed, firm, like she's keeping a chuckle hostage behind her teeth. It's an expression shift so subtle there's no way Millie or Piper would notice it—I shouldn't either. But she must feel me looking, because she glances over at me (again) and then her cheeks flush deep pink beneath whatever balmy blush she's dabbed over the high, plump apples.

I distract myself by turning my walkie-talkie back on and stepping away to radio Zoe.

"Any word on the bridesmaids?" I ask, soothed by the crinkle of static coming over the receiver.

"They stopped to do a photoshoot at Cabazon," Zoe says, her eye roll implied in her tone.

Every influencer who comes in the direction of Joshua Tree National Park does a photoshoot at Cabazon. With the exception of Piper—the unexpected fill-in bridesmaid—the rest of the party are varying levels and styles of fun, fit, fab content creators. Kit probably falls into the same category, though I haven't looked her up online. ( Will not look her up online.)

"ETA?" I ask Zoe.

"Your guess is as good as mine," she replies. "Within the next hour."

"Thanks," I reply, turning the radio back down. Millie should be getting settled into her room, enjoying a soak in the saltwater hot tub, getting an in-room massage, before her evening off-site at the Glamp-Out's facilities. I need to move this along, check back in at Homebase to see who's still due to report for work and room assignments today, do any other necessary chasing and fire extinguishing, before I close up for the evening.

I cannot freak the fuck out that my ex-girlfriend is hanging out with the girl who ghosted me the summer before college, for an entire weekend in the desert, and I have to watch it go down.

"I can wait here for the rest of your bridal party to arrive, Millie," I say, trying to keep my voice even as I near them. "If you would like to head over to your room."

"Ah! Thank you," Millie exclaims. "Piper was just telling me she prepped a whole charcuterie and champagne situation for us." Wow, Piper dropped that love bomb in record time. "Pre- and post-massage sustenance."

I'm pretty sure water is the ideal beverage for that, but I'm not a doctor.

"Perfect," is what I say.

Millie squeezes me into one more warm hug and says, "I know you're technically on duty all weekend long, but you should really come with us tonight." She pauses, raising her brows and smirking. "You can even pretend you're working, if you want." I exhale, but say nothing in response. She squeezes my shoulder. "Think about it." She's not moving on until I comply.

"I'll think about it." But I know the answer already.

Kit and Piper are supposed to follow the bride. It's clear from their expressions they both know that's expected. I'm hoping for it and dreading it. Wishing for a second alone with Kit and wanting to never be alone with her ever again. Frustrated at the instinct to reach out to her, even after all this time and space and pain. She edges forward, like she's about to say something that will allow her to stay behind without raising suspicion, like she read my mind and made the decision for me, but Piper steps in her way, squashing her opportunity with the red sole of her Louboutin.

"I just have a few minor details to work out with Julia," Piper says. "Bridesmaid questions." She flashes her teeth at Millie, who buys the smile as more than a dismissal, and absorbs Kit into her sashay toward the double doors out to the courtyard. Kit's gaze lingers; my heart somersaults.

"She's the one." Piper's voice is double-edged. The one is an arrow hitting its mark.

She knows.

I force myself to make eye contact. Hers are molten hazel and laser focused. I straighten to my full height for intimidation, but even then I have to angle my face up to look at her.

"The one?" I fire her words back.

"The first," Piper replies. She edges closer. "You haven't forgotten how you talked about her for hours, have you?"

No. I clench my jaw. I remember every word.

I just didn't think Piper would recognize her that easily. It's been almost three years since I made the endorphin-induced mistake of telling her about my first love.

"I'd just fingered you until your knees buckled." Piper's voice reminds me of a serpent's hiss. "In the comedown, you couldn't stop talking about her."

"You asked about my exes." I fight the instinct to retreat. "It was weird-ass timing, but it was yours." Heat licks its way across my cheeks. She's desperately close now, leaning over, fingers unfurling to brush the hair off my ear.

"Mystic Maven." Her fingers graze earlobe skin. The nearness isn't tantalizing; it's a taunt from a bully. "She's got quite the following, the little manic pixie dream cunt."

How has she already had time to look her up? They just met as far as I know.

"Can't wait to see her in action tonight." Her breath down my neck makes my skin crawl.

I step back, untuck my hair from behind my ear, and grit my teeth. She's going to make this miserable for me every step of the way. Piper Cunningham's actions are difficult to anticipate. She'll strategize, playing this like a chess game, because she wants to get me to join her on the board. But I can't give her a chance to get ahead of me.

The only option is to take Millie up on her offer to join in the fun.