Page 89 of Groomsman to Groom

Luna’s eyes narrow. “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying...” I take a deep breath. “I think we should just sleep tonight. Actually sleep. I’m not engaging in any physical intimacy when there are still other relationships I’m exploring during fantasy week. Not after what happened before.”

It’s actually not even an excuse. It’s something I was planning on doing when I signed up for the show. Which changed when Brielle happened, but I digress.

“I see.” Luna’s voice has an edge now. “Fine,” she says, her tone suggesting it’s anything but fine. “I’ll just go freshen up, anyway.”

She disappears into the bathroom, leaving me to pace the suite like a caged animal.

The bathroom door opens, and whatever speech I was mentally preparing evaporates from my brain. She emerges wearing lingerie so minuscule it defies the laws of physics. The scrap of red lace could generously be described as “there,” but only barely.

“Still want to just sleep?” she purrs, advancing toward me with deliberate grace.

I back up reflexively, my calves hitting a side table. “I really think—”

“Don’t think,” she interrupts, closing the distance between us. “Just feel.”

My back hits the wall. I’m cornered. Luna places one hand on my chest, her face tilting up toward mine.

“Luna, please, I—”

In my panicked retreat, my elbow connects with a lamp, sending it crashing to the floor. The sound is jarring in the otherwise quiet room.

“Sorry!” I yelp. “I should clean that up.”

“Leave it,” she says, undeterred.

I sidestep, nearly tripping over my own feet. “No, really, there’s glass, it’s dangerous, we should—”

A thunderous pounding at the door saves me from having to finish that sentence. Luna and I both freeze, her hand still on my chest, my eyes wide with mingled fear and desperate hope.

“He died!” Skye's voice bellows from the other side. “Hayes Burke!” The pounding only intensifies. “Open this door right now!”

Luna sighs and stalks to the door, wrenching it open to reveal Skye—a vision in a hot pink fluffy robe, her hair in massive curlers, clutching what appears to be a family-sized tub of popcorn.

“Oh, thank God you’re here, Hayes,” Skye wails, pushing past Luna into the suite. “It’s horrible. Theworstnews.”

“What are you doing?” Luna crosses her arms over her barely-covered chest.

Skye seems to notice Luna’s attire—or lack thereof—for the first time. “Oh, honey, you’re going to catch a chill in that. Here.” She shrugs off her enormous robe and throws it at Luna, revealing a flannel pajama set underneath.

“News?” I echo, never more grateful to see Skye in my life.

Skye flops onto the bed and spills popcorn across the rose petals. “Rob Lowe isdead.”

“What?” My face puzzles.

“Rob Lowe isn’t dead,” Luna says.

“Not Rob Lowe the actor.” Skye rolls her eyes dramatically. “Rob Lowe, my teenage crush from summer camp 1980. The first boy who ever touched my boobs behind the archery range.” She shoves a handful of popcorn into her mouth, spraying kernels. “He died.Died! Heart attack. Very tragic. Very sudden. I amdevastated.”

Luna looks at me, disbelief written all over her face. “Is she serious right now?”

I shrug, trying to suppress the bubble of laughter rising in my chest.

“Of course I’m serious!” Skye howls, tears now streaming down her face. “Rob Lowe from Camp Minnetonka was the love of my life. He told me my boobs felt like velvet water balloons!”

Luna’s mouth opens and closes several times, no sound emerging.

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