Chapter Seven
Lyla
The private cabana table is set for romance.
White linen, low candles, the ocean glittering like shattered glass under the moon.
The chef’s tasting menu arrives in perfect waves.
From citrus-seared scallops, to chilled lobster tail dripping beurre blanc, to mango sorbet that melts too fast on my tongue.
Damon is attentive without being smothering.
He asks real questions—about the wedding I just pulled off with the ripped bustle, about how I built Clark Events with a laptop and determination. He listens. Actually listens.
He’s safe. Steady. Logical.
And I hate that every polite smile I give him feels like a performance.
Not just because that hollowness I feel in my chest won’t go away. But also because Scott is watching.
I can feel him from fifty yards away, up on the main villa deck where the rest of the contestants are pretending to drink cocktails and not stare.
His gaze is a physical thing—hot, unblinking, sliding over my bare shoulders, down the silk of my dress where it clings to my waist, lingering on the curve of my thigh crossed over the other.
My nipples pebble against the thin fabric.
Heat coils low in my belly, insistent and humiliating.
My thighs press together under the table.
Focus on Damon. Get it together, girl.
Damon leans forward, refilling my wine. His fingers brush mine. Warm. Careful. Nothing like the rough, claiming way Scott used to slide his palm up my thigh.
“You’re quiet tonight,” he says. His voice is gentle but direct.
I force a smile. “Just taking it all in. It’s beautiful here.”
He tilts his head, studying me, as though he’s collecting data.
“It is. But beauty’s cheap. Compatibility is what’s most important.” He sets the bottle down. “Okay, now I have to know. You must have other stories about being a wedding planner.”
A laugh escapes before I can stop it. “You want to know all the gory details?”
“I want to know everything,” he replies with intent.
“Okay.” His stare on me makes it hard to focus at first. “I once had a groom’s mother release doves during the ceremony.
I specifically told her not to, and she did it anyway—without telling anyone, including the bride and groom.
Sure enough, one of the birds flew straight into the minister’s face. ”
“No.” His eyes widen, delighted.
“Yes,” I wince. “Mid-vow. The bride was screaming, guests were ducking, and I stood there trying to herd panicked birds out of a chapel with a broom.” I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “The photographer got the most amazing shot, though. Pure chaos but absolutely worth it.”
Damon laughs—warm, genuine, the kind that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. “That’s incredible. Did the couple survive it?”
“They thought it was hilarious once the shock wore off and they realized no one was hurt. Sent me a bottle of wine last Christmas.”
My shoulders ease, the tightness I hadn’t noticed slipping away into the warm night air.
“See, that’s what I don’t understand about weddings,” he says, gesturing with his fork. “People spend thousands of dollars chasing perfect, and somehow the disaster becomes the memory that sticks.”
“It’s the imperfection,” I say, surprised by how easily the words come. “Perfect is boring. And it almost never exists.”
His smile lingers, but there’s something sharper underneath it.
“Maybe I should come watch you work sometime. See the method behind the madness.”
“Maybe.”
The conversation keeps flowing—easy, weightless. Damon makes me laugh with quick, dry humor that lands effortlessly, without history attached.
“I can’t imagine doing what you do,” he says. “It must be either incredibly romantic…or completely exhausting.”
“Both,” I admit. “Some couples are real fairy tales. Others…” I shrug. “Let’s just say I’ve talked more than one bride off a proverbial ledge.”
He smiles at that. “And yet you keep doing it.”
“I guess I do.”
“Most people would’ve burned out by now.” His gaze is thoughtful, not probing. “Or stopped believing in it altogether.”
“You say that like you have.”
“Not exactly.” He pauses, considering. “I just don’t chase the big, dramatic version of things anymore.”
“You seem cynical.”
He chuckles softly. “Practical, is the term I’d use.”
The word settles between us. Solid. Reasonable, but…cold.
His fingers brush mine as he reaches for his glass—brief, unassuming. The contact is easy but not electric.
That’s the thing. It doesn’t unsettle me. Doesn’t spark or linger. It’s simply as it is. That should come as a relief, but it doesn’t. Why is that? I should have my head examined.
He leans back, relaxed. “I like knowing where I stand. I’ve found things tend to last longer when you don’t ask them to be everything.”
I nod, even though something in my chest tightens.
After dinner, he gestures toward the shoreline. “Walk with me?”
Moments later, the sound of the waves fills the quiet between us. The calm stays, but the absence has weight. Like I’ve forgotten something but can’t name what.
“Can I ask you something?” Damon says as we walk along the water’s edge.
“Sure.”
He hesitates, eyes on the horizon. “You and Scott… I’m getting the sense that chapter’s not closed yet.”
It’s not a question. Not really.
“We were together in high school,” I say. “First love.” I keep it light. Surface level. “Then he left without explanation. That about sums it up.”
Damon studies me for a moment, expression thoughtful, not prying.
“I see,” he says.
I don’t answer.
He doesn’t push.
Instead, he slows his pace, giving me space without stepping away. “I like knowing what I’m walking into,” he adds. “Not because I need everything spelled out— I just don’t like surprises.”
Scott was, and continues to be, a surprise.
Damon continues before I can linger on the thought. “I had a similar experience. The kind of love that takes over your whole life.” He exhales slowly, eyes fixed on the horizon. “Let’s just say it cost more than it gave.”
I almost ask what he means, but something in his tone—the flat finality—tells me not to.
We walk in silence for a few steps, the water curling around our ankles.
“What if I don’t want just compatibility?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
He looks at me then—not pitying. Not judging. Just honest.
“Then I’d tell you to be careful about handing your heart to someone who’s already burned you once,” he says.
The words land softly. Not a warning but not a promise either. Just something stated and left there between us.
His words linger, unsettling instead of reassuring, as I try to decide whether the quiet is relief—or just unfamiliarity.
Damon’s hand rests lightly at the small of my back—not possessive, not demanding. Just there.
How little it affects me is hard not to notice. No restless heat. No pull. No urge to close the distance and disappear into him.
With Damon, everything stays contained. Pleasant. Easy. Safe.
I tell myself that’s the point. That this is what it’s supposed to feel like when something isn’t complicated or dangerous.
So why do I keep waiting for—no, wanting—more?