Yep, it’s Mia.
Mia: We’re good for today. I told you, the resort is handling everything. Relax. We’ll see you at the rehearsal tomorrow.
I let out a breath. I’m starting to regret coming a day early. I wanted to be around in case they needed my help, and I figured Weston and I could enjoy a little getaway before the craziness of the wedding. But now I’m here by myself with nothing to do.
After moping for about ten minutes, I decide this is ridiculous. I’m in a beautiful place and I don’t have any obligations. I caught up on work before I came so I could take the entire weekend off. I didn’t even bring any work with me, although now that seems like a mistake. But I should at least do something with my time, other than stare at the ceiling and wish I wasn’t alone.
The weather is gorgeous—sunny and in the high seventies. Perfect for poolside. I change into a turquoise bikini and wrap a matching sarong around my waist. I put on some sunscreen—because this Seattle girl can get a sunburn all too easily—slip on my sunglasses and sandals, and head to the pool with a book and a bottled water.
There are a few other people lounging around the outdoor pool, and a family playing in the water. I stretch out on a lounge chair in the warm sun and try to focus on my book.
There’s a light breeze that keeps me cool, and my book is good. I read for a while, relaxing and enjoying the atmosphere.
A man dressed in a t-shirt and board shorts, with sunglasses on his face, comes to sit in the chair next to me. He gives me a nod in greeting and I smile back. He puts his things down next to the chair—a book, a cell phone, and a towel—and takes off his shirt. I glance up at him. He’s tanned and fit, with a muscular back and arms. He tosses his shirt down with his other things and turns, revealing a broad chest and chiseled abs.
I look away quickly and go back to my book. But the warmth of the sun is making me sleepy and it’s hard to concentrate.
“What are you reading?” he asks in a thick French accent.
“Oh, it’s called Agent of Enchantment,” I say. “It’s an urban fantasy novel about a woman who’s an FBI agent, but there’s magic.”
“Sounds delightful,” he says.
“Yeah, it’s good,” I say. “What about you?”
“The Dark Tower,” he says, holding up his book. “I’ve read it before. I like to read books in English when I’m in America. This helps me remember what to speak.”
“Is that a French accent I hear?”
“Oui,” he says.
“Where are you from?” I ask.
“I grew up in Lyon, but I live in Paris now,” he says. “Have you ever been?”
“Yes,” I say, wondering if I should admit to a native French speaker that I can speak the language a little. I’ll probably butcher it. “I spent a semester in Nice.”
“Ah,” he says. “Parlez vous francais?”
“Oui,” I say. “But I’m very rusty. It’s been a while.”
“I won’t force you, then,” he says. “Besides, my English needs practicing. I used to travel here quite often, but it’s been about five years. I feel as if I’ve lost too much English in that time.”
“I don’t think so,” I say. “You speak English remarkably well.”
“That is nice of you to say. May I ask what brings you here? Are you in the region on business or pleasure?”
“My brother is getting married here on Saturday,” I say.
“Ah, felicitations to your brother,” he says.
“Merci.”
“And where do you live when your brother is not getting married?” he asks.
I pause for a second. I’m not sure if he’s simply engaging in polite conversation, or if he’s interested in me. If it’s the former, I don’t see any harm in chatting with him. Maybe he just wants to practice his English. But if it’s the latter, I don’t know how to feel about that.
“I’m from Seattle.”
“That is a place I have not been,” he says. “Do you enjoy living there?”
“Mostly yes,” I say. “Around February it can get pretty dreary, and I start daydreaming about moving to the desert. But my family is there.”
“You are close to your family?”
I nod. “Yes. Very.”
“That is nice,” he says. “I like this about you.”
“Thanks. Are you close to your family?” I find myself hoping he says he has a wife.
“Perhaps not as close as I should be,” he says. “Such is the life of the bachelor.”
“Well, I’m sure you’re very busy.”
“Yes, this is true,” he says. “Did you travel alone to this wedding? Or are you here with a husband? Or date?”
“No, I’m alone.” As soon as I say it, I wish I hadn’t. What is wrong with me? He just told me he’s a bachelor, and he’s asking if I’m single. I just swung that door wide open.
“This is lovely news for me. But I am getting ahead of things. I have not yet introduced myself properly.” He reaches out a hand. “Louis.”
I take his hand. “Kendra.”
He brings my hand to his lips and kisses the backs of my fingers. “It is a great pleasure to meet you, Kendra.”
Under different circumstances—specifically, pre-Weston—this would have been a dream come true. Louis is gorgeous. And who can resist a man with a sexy accent? He’s obviously interested in me. What single woman wouldn’t want to meet an exotic French stranger at a resort in California’s wine country while she’s dateless at her brother’s wedding?
Me. Because no matter how shattered I am over Weston, I’m still in love with him.
It doesn’t matter that we never said those words to each other, nor that I have no reason to believe he was in love with me. It doesn’t change how I feel about him. I fell hard for that asshole, and I haven’t even begun to pick myself back up again.
I take my hand back and pick up my book. “It’s nice to meet you too, Louis. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll get back to my book.”
“What if instead, I take you to lunch,” he says. “We can drink some wine and get to know each other more deeply.”
I take a breath. Would there be any harm in having lunch with him? There’s no question I’m single. At this point, Weston has made it abundantly clear that it’s over. I wouldn’t be hurting anyone.
The little devil on my shoulder whispers in my ear that I could have lunch with Louis. Maybe take a few pictures of my meal and post them to Facebook—mention the pleasant company. Maybe even take a few pictures with Louis and post those. Weston’s not big on social media, but he might see them. That could really get under his skin.
God, what am I thinking? I hate those kinds of games.
“That’s really nice of you,” I say. “But I’m afraid I have to decline.”
“Are you certain?” he asks. “It is not right, for such a beautiful woman to be here alone.”
“I agree with you there,” I say. “But the fact that I’m here alone is someone else’s fault.”
“Ah, I see,” he says. “A recent heartbreak, I presume?”
I nod.
“The French, you know, we understand how to treat our women,” he says. “Whether it is just for one night, or for a lifetime. Our reputation as exceptional lovers is well earned. You could spend your weekend with me, rather than be alone. At the very least, I could ease the pain of your broken heart. Make you forget for a little while.”
“I appreciate the offer, Louis,” I say. “But I really can’t.”
He puts his hand to his chest. “I am saddened beyond measure. I think you and I would do very well together. You are very beautiful, and I could be pleasing you greatly.”
I laugh and start gathering my things. “Thank you, that’s very flattering.”
He stands up at the same time I do and takes my hand again, kissing the backs of my fingers. “I am in room five-twenty-five if you should change your mind.”
I slip my hand out of his. “Enjoy your visit, Loui
s. It was nice meeting you.”
I walk away quickly before he can say anything else. It’s not that I’m tempted. His offer to spend the weekend with me made it clear he never meant to simply take me to lunch. And I have no desire to jump in bed with anyone—not even a hot Frenchman with a sexy accent.
If anything, talking with Louis made me miss Weston even more.
I glance at my phone, but of course, no messages. I don’t know why I keep waiting for him to text me. For all I know, I’ll never hear from him again.
That thought makes me tear up and I hurry to the elevator, hoping it will be empty. I don’t want to break down crying in front of anyone, and I’m not sure how much longer I can hold it inside.
30
Weston
I knock on the door and wait. Caleb must be home; I saw his car downstairs. He might not let me in, and to be fair, I’m not sure what I’m doing here. But it’s been almost a week since I moved out of Kendra’s house and I’m starting to lose my fucking mind. I don’t know what else to do.
He opens the door and I keep my distance in case he wants to hit me.
“What the hell?” he asks.
I keep my hands in my pockets and look at the floor. “I don’t know, man.”
There’s a moment of silence, but he doesn’t slam the door in my face. I just wait, letting him decide what he’s going to do with me. If he tells me to leave, I’ll go.
“Dude, you look like shit.” He opens the door further and steps aside.
I come in and step around the suitcases sitting in the entryway. Must be his bags to take to the wedding. I do look like shit. I haven’t shaved and my hair is an unkempt mess. My clothes are rumpled. But I just don’t care.
I sink down onto his couch, grateful he let me in.
Caleb goes into the kitchen and returns with two beers. He hands me one and sits in an armchair. “Charlotte’s asleep. We don’t have to be silent, but just be aware.”
“No problem.” I take a long pull from the bottle. “Thanks.”
“So, what the fuck are you doing here?” he asks.
I take a deep breath. “I don’t know.”
“I guess this means you’re not going to Napa,” he says. “Didn’t Kendra leave this morning?”
“She must have,” I say.
“If you want to just sit here and drink a beer, that’s fine,” he says. “But my sister will probably murder me if she knows I let you in. I’m risking family loyalty here. I don’t want to have to ask you a million questions to figure out what’s going on. So either talk, or don’t, but let me know what it’s going to be so I don’t waste my time.”
I stare at my beer for a long moment. “I’ll talk.”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
“I don’t know what she told you, but it was my fault. I got some bad news at work, and then my dad showed up in my office. He was being worse than usual. He said… it doesn’t matter what he said. I went home in a shitty mood and I took it out on Kendra.”
“So, what, you guys argued?” he asks.
“Basically,” I say. “I was such an idiot. I laid into her about making me change and some other bullshit. And then I told her I was leaving.”
“Okay,” he says. “Then what happened?”
I shrug. “She left. So I packed up my shit and took it to my house. The remodel is done, so I guess I was moving out anyway.”
“Huh,” Caleb says after a momentary pause.
“What?”
“Well… is that it?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“So, what you’re saying is that you came home in a pissy mood, got in a fight with your girlfriend, and said some things you regret,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“And in the midst of that, you moved out?”
I nod.
“When was that?”
“Last Friday.”
“Okay, so what’s the problem?” he asks.
“What the fuck kind of question is that?”
“Well, I mean, what happened then?” he asks. “Is she not responding to your calls or texts?”
I furrow my brow, looking at him like he’s crazy. “I haven’t called her.”
“Not once? Not even a text?” he asks.
“No.”
He gapes at me for a few seconds. “Are you serious?”
“What the fuck would I say to her?” I ask. “I screwed up. I ruined it.”
“Well, you acted like a jackass,” he says and ignores my glare. “But did you tell her you hate her?”
“No.”
“Did you run out and bang some random girl?” he asks. “To get back at her or something?”
“Fuck no,” I say, too loud. I lower my voice. “Sorry. No. God, no I didn’t go out and bang some random.”
“Good,” he says. “But I think I’m missing something important, because this doesn’t add up.”
“What doesn’t add up?”
“Why getting in one fight with her means you broke up forever,” he says.
“What?”
He rolls his eyes. “Dude, this is what you get for avoiding relationships your entire adult life. Getting in an argument—even a really shitty argument—doesn’t mean it’s over. Do you really think people in long term relationships never fight?”
“No, I know they fight. I’m not an idiot.”
“That’s debatable,” he says. “People fight. They say things they don’t mean. It happens.”
I shake my head. “You don’t get it. This was worse than that. You didn’t see the look on her face.”
“Well, then you need to talk to her,” he says. “Call her. Send her a text. Apologize.”
“There’s no way she’ll talk to me.”
“I guess you’re fucked then,” he says. “I don’t know why you need my advice.”
I glare at him.
“Do you want to know what I really think?” he asks.
“I don’t know, do I?”
“You’re sabotaging this,” he says. “I don’t know if it’s fear of commitment, or a fear of rejection, or what. That’s on you to figure out. But you’re doing everything wrong, like you’re trying to make it worse.”
“The fuck I am,” I say.
“Maybe you don’t even realize it,” he says. “There’s nothing wrong with taking some space to calm down. But fighting with your girlfriend doesn’t mean it’s over, even if you say things you have to apologize for. Unless you move out and stop speaking to her. Then yeah, that’s going to mean it’s over.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he’s making a little too much sense.
“What do you want?” he asks. “That’s what you need to figure out. Do you want to be with her? Then talk to her. Apologize. Tell her how you feel. I know that’s not exactly your strongest skill set, but anyone can learn.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes and I stare at the table, tapping my finger against the cold glass bottle.
“I want her back,” I say, my voice quiet. “I never should have left.”
“No, you probably shouldn’t have,” he says. “And you should have called her by now.”
“You’re right, I’ve done everything wrong,” I say. “I don’t think she’s going to forgive me.”
Caleb laughs.
“What?” I ask.
“Sorry, I was just remembering something,” he says. “When we were kids, I put four pieces of chewed up gum in her hair when she was asleep. The next day, it was so sticky and tangled, our dad had to cut most of it off. She went from having long hair, all the way down her back, to this short little pixie cut. She was so mad at me.”
“Your point is?”
“She forgave me,” he says. “Well, at first she came at me like a feral cat. I think I still have a scar.” He pulls up his sleeve and looks at his forearm. “But eventually, she did forgive me. Trust me, you can fix this.”
“You think?”
“Yeah,” he says. “It won’t be easy
. Every day that goes by makes it a little worse, to be honest. And she’s in California until Sunday, so that’s not working in your favor. But you should at least text her and let her know you want to talk when she gets back.”
I let out a long breath. “Yeah. You’re probably right.”
“But Weston?”
“Yeah?”
“If you’re not sure, you should just walk away now,” he says. “Don’t string her along. Kendra deserves better.”
“Kendra deserves everything.”
He meets my eyes and nods. “Exactly. You have to be willing to give it to her.”
I put the half-empty beer on the table, pull out my phone, and start writing a text.
“Are you texting her?” he asks.
“No, Mia,” I say.
“Mia? Why?”
I finish the text and hit send, almost afraid to hope. “Because I need her help and she’ll know what to do.”
“Mia will know what to do?” he asks. “I’m confused.”
I stand and pocket my phone. “Yeah, me too. But thanks.”
“Sure,” he says as I head for his front door. “Where are you going?”
I pause and look over my shoulder. “I’m going to go fix this.”
31
Kendra
Alex and Mia’s wedding is phenomenal.
The ceremony is outside in one of the resort garden areas. The smell of flowers fills the air and trees provide shade.
Shelby and I stand up front, dressed in our matching lavender dresses. The two nieces are flower girls—Mia’s niece Alanna has to coax Charlotte up the aisle, holding her hand and whispering gentle encouragement. When Charlotte reaches the front, she dashes over to stand by Caleb, instead of staying by Alanna like she was supposed to. But no one minds.
Mia looks absolutely perfect in a simple strapless gown with a sweetheart neckline and a long, flowing skirt. The little bit of beading on the bodice catches the sunlight and makes her look romantic and almost ethereal. Alex is so handsome in his dark gray suit, his beard perfectly trimmed, and a constant smile on his face.
The ceremony is simple, but beautiful. They wrote their own vows, and there’s hardly a dry eye when they finish. They’re so in love with each other and it shines through in every look, every word, every touch they share.
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