Page 20 of Catch and Release Groom

Imogen glanced between the two women, noticing the golden lettering on their hats that declared thembrideandbride. “I’m not sure I do.”

“Don’t mind her,” the first bystander said. “She’s a recovering hetero-holic. Took her fifty-two years to admit it to herself, but the only thing my brand-new bride appreciates about men is their muscles.”

Already, Margot was shaking her head, her thick, strawberry-blond braid swishing with the motion. “Not true. I also appreciate how easy it is to play off their fragile egos, and the hefty settlement from husband number three that allowed us to throw our dream wedding and take this trip. And for the record”—she aimed a flirty grin across Imogen to her betrothed—“I also appreciate your muscles, Constance Williams-Lopez.

“Not as much as your many other assets, mind you. For instance, your gorgeous face, the big sexy brain in your beautiful head.” Margot waggled her eyebrows and added, “Your amazing rack, and that splutter of laughter that always escapes when you’re trying not to give in to my unique brand of humor.”

Constance snickered. The couple’s heated gazes locked and held, and Imogen cleared her throat, afraid she was about to become an awkward, up-close spectator to their forthcoming kiss.

Both women froze mid-lean, and Constance cast Imogen a sheepish grin. “Sorry.”

“I’m not,” Margot said, lifting one shoulder in a carefree shrug.

“Why am I not surprised?” The sarcastic question slipped through Imogen’s usual filter, much like the confession that’d sent Easton sprinting in the other direction. Blips of last night had played through her head in an obsessive loop, a disastrous roller coaster of sparks and frustration.

Obviously, her nerves over her solo adventure were getting the best of her. She parted her lips, her tongue already forming an apology for her uncharacteristic remark.

But the newlyweds merely burst into giggles, the sound so joyous that Imogen felt both blessed to be around it and a hint remorseful over never having experienced that sort of soul connection herself.

“We’ll see you at the falls, dear,” the more orthodox partner called out as the pair linked hands in the space between them, a dance so familiar they didn’t need to think through the steps.

“But don’t look too hard if you don’t spot us right away.” Margot made eyes at her literally blushing bride, and the traitorous whorl of envy that unfurled within Imogen led her to rethink the excursion yet again.

Not because she wasn’t beyond happy for the lovely couple, but because the passion sparking between them illuminated everything she’d been missing.

It was so difficult to put a finger on exactly what thateverythingentailed, too, and even more challenging to explain the nebulousness to someone as pragmatic as her ex. She’d often marveled that he’d ended up at a financial firm pushing his clients to invest more, while she spent her days buried in paperwork and assessing risk, suggesting everyone spend less.

“Who’d want such a tumultuous relationship?” Brett had once asked as she’d been watching one of her favorite enemies-to-lovers TV couples go at it, and she’d almost shouted“me” before realizing it did sound a tad ludicrous.

As if people seriously went from arguing one moment to a heated make-out session the next. All that groping and heavy breathing, and unbridled desire…

Butterflies whirred, and a wistful sigh slipped through her defenses. She’d put so much time and effort into trying to start an intimacy fire, despite the hurt it’d caused on both sides. Then she’d feel guilty for asking for more when he was a great partner in many other aspects, and wash, rinse, repeat.

Perhaps Brett was right, and she’d let go of something real to hold onto a fantasy that didn’t exist. If he hadn’t been so dead set on proving his point, bruising as easily as an overripe banana whenever she vocalized her needs, then maybe…

Nope, I’m done second-guessing myself.

This was the only vacation she’d taken since graduating college, and her first time ever traveling by her lonesome.

I’m a strong, independent woman.

I can do hard things.

I get to determine my own destiny.

With her chin lifting in the respectable range, Imogen allowed her newfound courage to propel her toward the shoreline, the slope of the landscape aiding her mission.

Sure, swans often represented soul mates, but the tale of the ugly duckling was just as well-known, if not more so. The solution didn’t involve forcing a square peg into an oval egg; it required acceptance of self and the realization that different didn’t always mean wrong.

Excitement zipped through her as she climbed into the boat, her gut dipping along with each wobble and sway. After a smack to her shin that would undoubtedly result in a bruise, she settled into the driver’s seat and stretched out her toes to reach the pedal. Rather than diminish her progress by letting in the nightmarish flashback from the soul-cycle class she and Mallory attended in hopes it would be their new “fun” way to get into shape, she assured herself this couldn’t be any harder than that’d been.

Plus, there’d be an actual journey with incredible waterfalls. Beauty like that, so powerful and raw, couldn’t be adequately captured on film.

It’s been a long time since I’ve filled my creative well.

From the very first moment she’d settled behind a potter’s wheel, Imogen had fallen in love with a vocation that would never quite love her back.

In college, she delved into other mediums, from various types of clay, to wood and glass, to assemblages that could include any and all of those materials. Junior year, the idea of letting her minor overtake her business and finance major beckoned.

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