Page 55 of Groomsman to Groom

I squeeze Brielle’s hand in warning. She goes still beside me, mid-breath, as I watch Gabby through the mirror. She lingers for another moment, then disappears back into the shadows of the villa.

“Someone saw us,” I say quietly. “Gabby.”

Brielle’s sharp intake of breath is the only indication of her alarm. “How much do you think she saw?”

“No idea. But just us returning together this late is probably enough.”

We sit in tense silence, the euphoria of everything obliterated by the consequences.

19

The Outcast

BRIELLE

Iwake to sunlight stabbing through a gap in the curtains. For one blissful moment, I exist in the limbo between sleep and consciousness, where nothing hurts and last night with Hayes feels like a beautiful dream. He was with me, and only me. Then I shift, and reality comes crashing back in the form of twelve fresh stitches screaming in my arm and the fact that Hayes is going on a date with five other women today.

“Ugh,” I groan, rolling onto my back and immediately regretting it as my weight settles on my hip, which I now realize must be bruised.

The clock on my nightstand reads 2:17 PM. I blink at it, certain it must be wrong, until I notice the light filtering throughthe curtains—the deep gold of mid-afternoon. I’ve slept through breakfast and lunch, medication and painkillers pulling me under. A hazy memory surfaces of Serena helping me take pills sometime around dawn, promising to check on me later.

Later is apparently now, except Serena isn’t here. No one is.

That’s because she’s in the group that’s going to the flamenco dancing challenge starting at four p.m.

Last night flashes into my mind again, and my chest flutters. His hands on my skin, his mouth on mine, the way the world narrowed to just the two of us. But in the light of day, the reality of it hits me—we crossed that line, blew past boundaries and basic common sense. And God, it was incredible.

The thought sends a fresh wave of anxiety through me. Because this isn’t just about attraction or compatibility anymore. The truth—the terrifying, exhilarating truth—is that I’m falling for him, and I told him so. Not Hayes the Bachelor, not Hayes the Internet’s Blurred Dick Pic Hero, but Hayes Burke the man: the devoted father, the passionate photographer, the guy who quotesStar Trekand gets my Marvel references and understands grief in a way that only another traveler on that lonely road can.

And that makes all this infinitely worse because now I have more to lose than just a shot at reality TV romance. I could lose someone who actually matters.

And then I remember—Gabby saw us. Kissing and returning together way beyond late. And if Gabby knows, it’s only a matter of time before Kavita knows.

And Luna, that liar!

With panic bubbling up, I force myself to stand, wincing as various parts of my body protest. My right arm throbs beneath its white bandage, the stitches pulling tight against my skin. Purple bruises mottle my hip and thigh in abstract patterns that could almost be artistic if they didn’t hurt so damn much.Even my lips feel tender—though that has to do with Hayes’s enthusiasm.

I mentally take stock of who’s heading to the flamenco challenge: Annabelle, Serena, Luna, and Chloe. That leaves Gabby, Kavita, and me here at the villa. The unholy trinity. Perfect.

My stomach growls, reminding me I’ve had nothing since hospital crackers the night before. Coffee and food are necessities, regardless of who might be lurking in common areas. I contemplate my clothing options, settling on an oversized sweater that won’t irritate my stitches and a pair of cotton shorts. Going full comfort mode—no makeup, hair piled into a messy bun.

My bedroom door opens to an empty hallway, and I shuffle toward the kitchen, moving like a sloth. As I approach, voices drift out—hushed tones that immediately set my nerves on edge.

“For that long?” Kavita says.

“I’m telling you, they didn’t come back until after three a.m.” Gabby’s voice, smugness coating each syllable. “And they had sex in the SUV. I saw it.”

I pause, heart thumping against my ribs. She’s lying—she didn’t see us having sex. Except we did earlier, so she’snotwrong. Dread pools in my stomach, but there’s no turning back now, and I need coffee more than I need to avoid this confrontation.

Taking a deep breath, I step into the kitchen. The conversation cuts off, three heads swiveling in my direction. Gabby sits perched on a counter stool, her manicured nails wrapped around a mug. Kavita leans against the refrigerator, arms crossed over her chest, her expression shifting from gossip-hungry to faux concern so quickly it’s almost comical.

“Well, look who’s risen from the dead.” Gabby’s Southern drawl’s exaggerated. “We were just talking about you.”

“I make my way to the coffeemaker with determined nonchalance. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

Kavita’s eyes follow me. “How are you feeling? You had an eventful day yesterday.”

The double meaning isn’t subtle. I focus on pouring coffee, grateful that the production assistants keep a fresh pot brewing.

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