Page 51 of The Fake Out Flex

I've seen my brother Clayton handle this situation the wrong way enough times to know how to handle it the right way.

Don't engage. Make a swift exit.

That's it.

Simple but effective.

And so, keeping my back turned to our unwanted intruders, I block Evie as well as I can from them. I may not be able to go back in time to un-take whatever shots they've already got of us, but I can do my best to ensure they don't get any more.

We collect our things, and I carry Evie back toward the reception hall, her body pressed against mine the entire way, leaving behind the kiss that got away.

7

Evie

"We need details."

"We need all the details."

"Agreed. Don't leave anything out. We want the teeniest, tiniest, nittiest, grittiest little morsels of information."

I stare at my friends Hannah, Beth, Summer, and Amiel, whom we just met since Hannah invited her to join us on our morning walk, and say nothing.

Collectively, we've been dubbed the Fast-Talking Four. Normally, I'm a fan of the cute moniker.

But there's nothing normal about this morning.

Because it's the morning after the wedding.

The morning after Fraser carried me to the beach and held me in his arms as we danced in the water to "Sweet Nothing."

I'd warned him I'd be judging his Taylor song selection for years—possibly decades—to come, and yeah…he has nothing to worry about. He couldn't have picked a more perfect track.

And that almost kiss?

Because we were just about to kiss, weren't we?

And that right there, folks, is the biggest abnormality of them all.

I was about to kiss Fraser Rademacher.

Me.

Evelyn Freeman.

The girl who has, up until this point in my life, always strictly enforced a no kiss until the third date rule.

The girl who, up until yesterday, was ninety-five percent sure her feelings for Fraser were in the past.

The girl who stupidly agreed to a sunrise walk, only to be grilled by my three besties and one newcomer who doesn't know where to look or what to make of us.

All. Without. Coffee.

My friends pick up on my not-okay-ness and start talking like I'm not even here.

"Oh, no. She's got that look."

"This is bad, you guys."

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