Page 1 of Gin and Lava

1

NAOMI

Sunset streams in through the picture windows of Flambé’s dining room and bathes the wedding reception in golden light. It ricochets off each guest’s champagne goblet as we stand in a circle on the dance floor in the middle of the restaurant.

Our drinks are alight with flames—Flambé style—and at the center of the circle are Ned and Olivia, deep into their first dance as a married couple. The wedding photographer must be having an orgasm right now, because the light is freaking epic.

Sunset on top of the Atlantis Resort.

A ring of fire.

And one hot-as-sin lawyer-husband staring into Olivia’s eyes like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

Thisis why I love weddings: the heavenly light, the professions of love, the straight-out-of-a-romance-novel level of perfection. Yes, yes, I know fifty percent of marriages are doomed to crash and burn in the volcano of divorce. Heck, in some cases, you don’t even need the big rock on your hand for love to kick you in the lady-nads and leave you abandoned.

But, look at the two of them!

How can I not be swooning right now?

All of that gold and sparkle and music holds so much promise and hope. After all, a wedding is pretty much every little girl’s fairytale come true: the bride twirls in a ballgown, the groom acts like a prince, and for at least one night we can believe that happily ever after is a real thing.

Let a girl dream!

Plus, weddings one-hundred-percent turn me into a sentimental ball of sob-pudding.

I dab my eyes. Yes, I’m crying. I don’t even know Olivia and Ned very well and I’m an emotional wreck who probably looks like she let a raccoon do my makeup. Still, that’s not going to stop me from going ga-ga over how Olivia twirls in her elegant white gown, or how Ned wraps his arms around her tightly. Lady-boners and bright lights, my insides are getting all warm and fuzzy, people!

Honestly, this is better than a fairy tale or a movie, because it’sreal. Their love story is perfection. Olivia’s an artsy Flambé hostess. Ned’s a high-end lawyer who’s going to support her creative pursuits. The two of them live in Hawaii, and they’re going to make gorgeous babies that will be beautiful enough to be insta-models. Can someone please start playing the end-credits music as they ride off into the sunset?

Pinch me twice and tell me I’m not jealous!

I seriously hope theydomake it as a couple. After all, the other fifty percent of marriages do last, I’m told. And right now—with the flowers, and the music, and the sparklers and flaming drinks—I’m optimistic.

And yes, I’m jealous as hell.

This is the perfect wedding. It’s everything I would want: Hawaiian sunset, jaw-dropping dress, sexy husband (with a respectable job), and a love that looks like it could make oceans boil and the underworld turn upside down. Who wouldn’t be coveting such fabulousness?

The problem is I’m a romantic wrapped up in a cynic’s body. I keep wishing a love like that is possible. Iwantit to be real, but somehow I’m always attuned to noticing the cracks in the crystal. Cracks like my mom’s revolving door of boyfriends while I was growing up, or my ex telling me I was too clingy, or the fact that every date I’ve been on in the last six months has been boring as hell. And by boring, I mean every man I’ve met all simultaneously decided to sign up for the same anti-orgasm seminar, because it’s been ages since there have been fireworks downtown.

But all those fractures still don’t stop the waterworks from cascading down my cheeks like it’s Niagara Falls up in this place. Seriously, I must look like a mascara horror film in a cute dress.

Arms wrap around me from behind—female arms—followed by the tickle of lavender hair cascading over my shoulder. Both the hair and the distinct smell of vanilla let me know it’s my best friend, Esme.

“You know,” Esme says, squeezing me tightly from behind, “for a girl crashing a wedding, you sure make the ideal wedding guest.”

I laugh as I lean back into her embrace. “I’m trying really hard not to sob uncontrollably here,” I whisper. “They’re just so beautiful.”

“I love how much you adore weddings.” She nuzzles her head into my neck as we watch the end of the dance.

Technically, Iwasn’tinvited to this wedding. I know Olivia and Ned tangentially. You see, Esme’s twin sister Arie owns Flambé. And Arie’s boyfriend, Connor, is the groom’s brother and best man. Plus, the wedding planner asked me to put up Connor and Ned’s crazy mother in my beach house, so there’s an unspoken agreement that I’m allowed to be here since I helped pull in a favor. It’s a long, convoluted story. Truth is, I really came to see Esme (and, of course, to get my fix of wedding-day-bliss like a heroin addict).

Esme used to live in Hawaii, but she moved back to the mainland to shack up with her TV star boyfriend, and I don’t get to see her anymore. She’s the one who invited me to crash the wedding while she was in town, making me her second—and unofficial—date, after Desmond. Note to self: always make your hot TV star boyfriend your number one choice, duh!

Even Esme had her fairytale ending.

I try not to let that sour my cathartic, tear-drenched moment. I love Esme and Desmond together. They’re so sweet with one another.

Dare I say it—perfect.

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