Page 57 of Groomsman to Groom

She sighs. “Damn, that woman is messy. So you need a strategy for handling the women, and that strategy can’t be hiding in your room.”

“Right.”

“Say nothing,” she says, looking up in thought. “Unless someone asks you outright. Then tell the truth.”

“Won’t that just make things worse with Kavita and Gabby?”

“It absolutely will,” Skye says. “They’ll be furious. But it’ll also make them look petty if they try to attack you for being honest. The other women—Serena, Annabelle, Luna, Chloe—might forgive you if you fess up, but they’ll hate you if you get caught lying.”

I consider her strategy, seeing the logic even as my stomach churns. “And Hayes? How does this protect him?”

“It won’t. But he was a willing participant. He’s gotta face the consequences, too, although his will be mild compared to yours.” She stands, smoothing her jumpsuit. “Damn double-standards. The flamenco group will be back around seven, and the winner of the date around ten. Get some more rest, clean yourself up, and be ready to face everyone with the appropriate level of recovering-but-brave energy. Then, if confronted, own the truth before it owns you.”

And there Skye is, with her infinite wisdom. I nod, already mentally rehearsing what I’ll say. Emotions creep to the surface when I say, “Thank you. Really. I don’t know how I would’ve navigated this show without you.”

She pauses at the door, turning back with an expression that’s surprisingly vulnerable for her. “I care about you. I encouraged you to come here because I saw a connection that’s rare. And worth protecting.” Her usual spark returns as she adds, “Hayes deserves to be happy, and you, Penguin Girl, make him happy.”

After a hug, she ushers me out, leaving me to face the inevitable drama with honesty rather than deception. It’s terrifying. It’s risky. And yet, as I sit on the porch and sip my now-cold coffee and watch the birds and take in the breeze, it also feels right. I have the rest of the afternoon and evening to rest, prepare, and find the courage to face whatever comes next.

Starting with the truth.

20

Fiery Flamenco

HAYES

The sun beats down, but I force a smile and adjust my collar as the sound of guitar strings being tuned fills the air. All around me, the ancient stones seem to pulse with centuries of rhythm, oblivious to my mounting anxiety about whatever dance disaster is about to unfold. Flamenco. Why did it have to be flamenco? The only dancing I’ve mastered in my thirty years involves awkward swaying at wedding receptions and that one move August calls “Dad’s embarrassing robot.”

I scan the courtyard, taking in the terra-cotta pots spilling over with red flowers, the tiled fountain in the center, and the small raised wooden platform where our instructor waits. Four women stand in a loose semicircle, chatting nervously:Annabelle fidgeting with her hair, Serena standing perfectly still like she’s mentally calculating dance trajectories, Luna radiating easy confidence, and Chloe looking like she’d rather be anywhere else.

No Brielle. The knowledge sits like a stone in my stomach. After last night in the SUV—her skin under my hands, her breath mingling with mine—it’s probably a good thing that she’s not here because I’m not sure I could maintain impartialness. But her absence hopefully means she’s getting to recover from injuries and avoiding questions about our late-night return.

And I’m trying to guess who lied to her about being intimate with me. Gabby? Kavita? It has to be one of them, and I realize it doesn’t matter because I’m not going to pick any of them for hometowns. So I’ll just let it go.

“Señor Hayes!” The instructor’s voice cuts through my thoughts. She’s a compact woman with flashing dark eyes and the posture of someone who could kill a man with a well-placed stomp. “We begin now, yes? You are here to dance, not to daydream.”

“Yes, sorry.” I step forward.

“I am Marisol. Today I teach you the passion of flamenco. The fire in the blood.” She demonstrates with a sudden, explosive movement—her spine arching, hands twisting above her head like sinuous flames. “Flamenco is not just steps. It is life itself!”

Great. Just what I need—more performative passion while my actual feelings are a tangled mess.

“We begin with basic positions.” Marisol places her feet in an unnecessarily aggressive stance. “Copy!”

I follow her lead, acutely aware of the cameras tracking every awkward movement. My face flushes as I attempt to mimic her proud posture, feeling more like a confused flamingo than aflamenco dancer. The women follow along with varying degrees of success.

“Now, partners!” Marisol claps her hands. “Señor Hayes, you will practice with each woman. We start with—” She points at Annabelle, whose eyes widen.

“Me?” Annabelle squeaks. “I don’t—I’m not—”

“Come!” Marisol doesn’t accept refusal. “The dance waits for no one.”

Annabelle steps forward, her freckled face flushed, red hair falling from its messy bun. “I’m really not good at this,” she whispers as we take position. “I have two left feet and neither one listens to my brain.”

“That’s okay,” I say, taking her hands. “I have two right feet, so between us, we have a complete set.”

Her laugh—spontaneous and genuine—catches me off guard. As Marisol counts out the rhythm and we attempt to follow, Annabelle steps on my foot, I nearly elbow her in the ribs, and we both dissolve into helpless laughter.

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