Page 87 of Groomsman to Groom

My stomach churns with the same nausea that derailed my date with Serena. At this rate, I’ll develop a Pavlovian vomiting response to anything romance-related.

“Where’s Skye?” I ask, suddenly aware of her absence. Usually, our free-spirited host materializes within minutes of my arrival.

“I don’t know, actually,” the PA says. “That’s strange.”

Perfect. My one potential ally is MIA. I’m on my own for this slow-motion train wreck.

I hope she’s okay—I’m actually a little worried.

Inside my room, a note from Darren awaits: “Remember our conversation. All in. No hesitation.” His handwriting is as aggressive as his directing style.

I shower and change into what the stylist has laid out—board shorts and a light blue linen shirt that matches my eyes. Of course.

The camera crew arrives precisely on schedule. I paint on myGroomsman to Groomsmile and step outside to greet Luna.

She arrives in a golf cart driven by a production assistant, her entrance carefully choreographed. Her sundress is the exact shade of the turquoise water, her hair styled in beachy waves that somehow remain perfect despite the humidity. She’s objectively beautiful, the kind of woman who looks like she was created in a dating show laboratory.

“Hayes!” She squeals, launching herself at me with practiced enthusiasm. I catch her, my arms completing their assigned task while my mind remains detached, observing from a distance.

“Luna.” I infuse my voice with warmth I don’t feel. “You look beautiful.”

“So do you.” She straightens my collar, her fingers lingering. “I’ve been looking forward to this all week.”

The cameras capture our choreographed greeting—her enthusiasm, my polite response, our picture-perfect tropical backdrop. From certain angles, we probably look like a couple on the verge of happily ever after. From others, like two actors who’ve never met before thrown together for a toothpaste commercial.

“Ready for some adventure?” I gesture toward the waiting kayaks on the beach below.

“With you? Always.”

We walk hand-in-hand down to the beach, Luna chattering about the resort spa facilities and her morning facial. I make appropriate noises of interest while scanning the horizon, hoping to see Skye’s blond head bobbing in the distance, coming to my rescue.

The kayaking guide gives us a safety briefing that neither of us fully absorbs—Luna because she’s posing for cameras, me because I’m mentally drafting resignation letters to Darren. We paddle out into the clear blue water, Luna in front, me in back.

“This is literally perfect,” Luna calls over her shoulder as we navigate around a cove. “My followers are going todiewhen they see these shots.”

“I bet.”

“On Instagram. I’ve gained like, fifty thousand since being selected for this show.”

I paddle mechanically, watching a pelican dive into the water with enviable single-mindedness. “That’s impressive,” I say when I realize she’s waiting for a response.

“Right? I’ve already gotten sponsorship offers.” She flashes me a smile so bright it could signal passing ships. “Don’t worry,I told them I’m hoping for a couple deals after the finale.” She winks conspiratorially.

My paddle falters mid-stroke. Is she implying what I think she’s implying? That we’ll be doing sponsored content together after the show? The assumption makes my skin crawl.

“Luna,” I begin, then stop. What can I say? It’s not going to be me and her at the end? I can’t do that, so I’ll just let her have her fantasy.

“You’re being so quiet,” she says with another wink. “Thinking about tonight?”

I force a laugh that sounds hollow even to my own ears. “Just enjoying the scenery.”

The kayaking portion of our date passes in a blur of more meaningless conversation. By the time we return to shore, my shoulders ache from paddling and my face hurts from maintaining my camera-ready expression.

“That was amazing,” Luna says as we hand our life jackets to the waiting guide.

“It was.” I smile and offer my hand to help her across the sand. She takes it, intertwining our fingers, positioning us for optimal camera angles.

“Can’t wait for dinner,” she says, voice lowered to a murmur. “And what comes after.”

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