Page 85 of Bridesmaid to Bride

The Saboteur

EVA

Foster jumps up from his seat. He dashes up the aisle without caring that the sand is working against him, nor that every camera, Android, and iPhone swivels in his direction.

“Skye,” he pants out, “I gotta say something.”

“Spit it out, Foster,” she drawls, unfazed. “The rising tide waits for no man.”

“Paige,” Foster begins, addressing me. And I’m struck speechless—with my eyes wide as pizzas and my body frozen in shock.

Foster’s a dramatic mess of suit and tie, eyes wild. “Paige. I’ve done everything, and I mean down to the last seashell on this godforsaken beach, to screw up this wedding. I’ve paid off hotel staff and even someone at your dress shop—everything.”

There’s an audible gasp from the crowd, and I’m caught in the eye of the storm.

Jesus, it was him? The whole time?

“Because,” he says, breathless, “I’m still head over heels in love with you. The biggest mistake of my life was letting you go.” He’s so close now, I can smell his desperation—and that awful cologne. “And shit, I’m sorry, but Eva’s just not you.” There it is: the gut punch. Except it’s not because I don’t care one iota.

“No kidding,” West mutters. “Eva’s so much better.” I turn to him, and the glint in his eyes is that of a man watching the world’s worst kept secret unravel.

If only I could hit pause, rewind, maybe skip this scene entirely. But nope, no remote control for me—only our millions of viewers at home.

This is the part where someone yells, “Cut!” but the cameras keep rolling, and the audience—God, the whole damn beach—is hooked on every word.

Because what the hell am I supposed to say? I’m not Paige! I don’t know what she thinks of this dick-magoo! Does she want to tell him she loves him back? Does she want to slap him across the face and tell him off? I have no idea, and right now, it’d be really nice if that twin telepathy thing would kick in.

But nope, nothing.

So I stand, frozen, literally weighing the pros and cons of each option. If I tell him off, then this wedding can continue, and it’ll be aired as scheduled. And then if that’s the wrong move, then I guess Paige can clear it up with Foster later?

That seems like the best bet, although I have this niggling thought that she might actually love him. I mean, he’s totally her type. I always wondered why she picked Zach, honestly, who seems way too chill for her.

The world tilts on its axis at Foster’s bombshell confession. I’m still standing like a mannequin in a bridal shop window when my asthma kicks in. I gasp for air, and I don’t have my inhaler because I’m supposed to be Paige.

Double shit!

But West steps over and hands me one, and I’ve never been more grateful in my life. “Thanks,” I croak out before taking a big puff.

Foster is looking at me like I’m an alien when the real chaos erupts.

Paige, looking like some sort of spa-warrior princess, bursts from the resort doors, her robe flapping behind her, face half-hidden under a layer of green goop.

“Foster!” she yells, voice muffled but unmistakable.

Everyone’s heads swivel toward her, eyes wide, camera shutters clicking like a swarm of mechanical crickets. She’s sprinting down the aisle, barefoot, with all the grace of a walrus.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, certain this is what a nervous breakdown feels like.

Paige skids to a stop beside Foster, who’s staring at her in shock. “I still love you too! I’m sorry too!” Paige declares, smearing seaweed across his suit as she throws her arms around him.

And standing here, all dolled up in my twin sister’s bridal gown, I can’t help but think about all the crap Paige has pulled over the years, and how this one takes the cake.

For a split second, everyone is silent. A seagull dares to squawk.

“Thank God,” comes a deep exhale from the front row. It’s Dad, shoulders suddenly sagging with relief, and I’m trying to process the fact that my sister’s love life just crash-landed into mine.

“You’re telling me,” Senator Easel adds, shooting my dad a look.

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