8. Vada
VADA
Standing in my suite's walk-in closet, trying not to think about how wine tasting felt like the most intimate date I've had in years, I choose my outfit with more care than usual, a black athletic bikini with high-waisted shorts that are both practical for competition and flattering for the inevitable photo documentation.
The ensemble strikes the right balance between serious athlete and confident woman who's comfortable being watched with her reunion boyfriend.
My phone buzzes with notifications—comments flooding my latest Instagram post about the wine tasting experience. The engagement is incredible, but the comments are... telling.
"THE WAY YOU TWO LOOK AT EACH OTHER ??"
"This is not friendship energy, bestie"
"When's the wedding?? The chemistry is UNREAL"
"Travel daddy found his match ?"
I scroll through dozens of similar comments, heart sinking as I realize that whatever happened between Emory and me during wine tasting was obvious enough to thousands of strangers through a phone screen.
The way we shared food, finished each other's observations, created that intimate bubble that excluded everyone else—it was all caught on camera and broadcast to my growing follower count.
A knock interrupts my social media spiral. Through the peephole, I see Maya's face.
"SURPRISE!" Maya shouts when I open the door, throwing her arms around me.
"Maya!" I squeal, hugging my best friend with desperate relief. "What are you doing here?"
"Jared invited me to join the celebration," Maya says, pulling back to study my face with laser focus. "Plus, your texts were giving me serious anxiety. 'Solid 7, maybe 8 complicated'? I needed to see this situation for myself."
She's wearing a flowy sundress and designer sunglasses. Maya Burdell knows me better than anyone, which means she'll see right through any attempt to downplay what's happening with Emory.
"Come in, I can't believe you're here!" I step aside so she can enter my suite. "But I should warn you, the situation has evolved since yesterday."
"Define evolved," Maya says, gravitating toward the ocean view windows. "Because from your Instagram content, it looks like you're recreating some romantic wine tasting fantasy with your college boyfriend."
"We're not recreating anything," I protest, though the words sound weak. "We're surprisingly compatible as collaborators."
Maya turns to look at me with an expression that suggests she's not buying that explanation for even a second. "Vada. Honey. I've seen your content collaboration with other event vendors. It doesn't usually involve looking at each other like you're about to start making out over a cheese board."
Heat rises in my cheeks because she's not wrong. Whatever happened during wine tasting went way beyond friendly collaboration into territory that felt sexy and charged.
"It's complicated," I say finally.
"So you mentioned," Maya replies, settling onto my sofa with determination. "Start from the beginning. How did your college boyfriend end up at your ex-boyfriend's wedding?"
I give her the full rundown—the cosmic joke of Jared marrying Erika, the collision at the cocktail party, Derek's inappropriate oversharing, our adjoining rooms, couples' yoga.
"Wait," Maya interrupts when I get to the wine tasting. "You two dominated a professional wine education session together? Like, impressing the sommelier and making everyone else feel undereducated?"
"We have complementary palates," I say defensively.
"That's the most romantic thing I've heard all week. You were basically having foreplay in front of a bunch of strangers."
"It wasn't foreplay!" I protest, though my face is burning because Derek said almost exactly the same thing.
"Vada," Maya says with the patience of someone explaining something obvious to a child, "you shared food off each other's forks. You savored flavors together while standing close enough to kiss. I saw the video Erika posted—you two looked like you were in your own private world."
A soft knock on the terrace door interrupts Maya's replay.
"Come in," I call, and Emory appears wearing board shorts and a tank top showcasing exactly how much his travel lifestyle has improved his already impressive physique.
"Hey," he says, then notices Maya with obvious surprise. "Oh! Hi, I'm sorry, I didn't realize you had company.
"Emory, this is my best friend Maya," I say, watching Maya's face as she gets her first in-person look at the guy who's been causing my emotional chaos. "Maya, this is Emory."
"The famous college boyfriend," Maya says with a smile that's warm but assessing. "I've heard a lot about you over the years."
"All bad, I hope," Emory says with charm.
"Depends on what you call bad," Maya replies, and I can see her cataloging everything about him, the way he carries himself, how his attention keeps drifting to me.
"I just wanted to check if you’re ready to go," Emory says, turning his attention to me.
"Actually," Maya says with the expression of someone who's just had a brilliant idea, "I'd love to watch this beach volleyball tournament. I need to get settled in my room first. "
"We haven't actually been put on a team together," Emory says, glancing at me with something that looks like anticipation mixed with nervousness.
"But we probably will be," I add, because Erika's seating charts and activity pairings have been relentlessly couples-focused since we arrived.
"This should be entertaining," Maya says with obvious glee.
Twenty minutes later, we're walking down to the beach where the resort staff has set up a professional volleyball tournament complete with regulation nets, sand that's been perfectly groomed, and seating areas for spectators.
The late afternoon light is gorgeous, and someone has clearly put serious thought into making this both competitive and camera-ready.
Erika is already holding court near the registration area, documenting everything for her Instagram Live audience with enthusiasm.
"Hey, you two" she calls out when she spots us approaching. "We're doing team assignments, and I was hoping to pair you together. You know, keep this going as cute volleyball partners!"
The way she says "cute" suggests this pairing is less about athletic compatibility and more about social media content potential.
"Sounds fun," I say diplomatically.
"Excellent!" Erika says, making notes on her clipboard. "Team Wise-King versus... let's see..." She scans the other couples with the expression of someone orchestrating maximum drama. "Team Patterson-Foster!"
Derek and Marcus, the two groomsmen who've been comically paired together, wave from across the sand with the enthusiasm of people who've been drinking since the wine tasting ended.
"This should be interesting," Emory murmurs to me as we accept our matching blue tanks that read "Paradise Cove" in elegant script.
"Define interesting," I whisper back, acutely aware of how good he looks in athletic wear and ocean lighting.
"Well, Derek's been drinking since noon, Marcus pulled his back during yoga yesterday, and we..." He pauses, like he's not sure how to finish that sentence.
"We what?" I ask, though I'm pretty sure I know what he was going to say.
"We're probably going to be ridiculously good at this," he admits with a grin that makes my heart skip.
He's not wrong. Within the first five minutes of warm-up, it becomes obvious that we move together like we've been playing volleyball as partners for years.
When I set up a spike, Emory is exactly where he needs to be without any verbal communication.
When he serves, I'm positioned perfectly to support whatever develops.
"Holy shit," Maya says from the sideline seating area, loud enough for other spectators to hear. "You two are like volleyball mind-readers."
Other teams are struggling with basic coordination—calling plays, bumping into each other, missing obvious setup opportunities. But Emory and I fall into a rhythm that feels as natural as breathing.
"POINT WISE-KING!" the resort staff member serving as referee calls out after I spike a perfect setup from Emory right between Derek and Marcus, who are still arguing about who was supposed to cover that part of the court.
"Beginners luck," Derek calls out, though he's already breathing hard from chasing balls in the sand.
"Sure," Emory agrees with a grin, then turns to me. "Same setup?"
"Always," I reply without thinking, then catch myself using language that sounds more like established partnership than casual friendship.
We win the first match easily, then dominate the second against Jared and Erika, who are adorable together but have clearly never played competitive sports as partners.
By the time we reach the finals, we've attracted a crowd that includes most of the wedding guests and several resort staff members who seem genuinely impressed by our athletic coordination.
The final match is against two actual couples who clearly play volleyball. They're coordinated, competitive, and significantly more challenging than our previous opponents.
"Okay," Emory says as we huddle before the final game, his hand resting on my lower back in a gesture that feels automatic and intimate. "They're going to target the middle and try to find the big holes."
"Got it," I say, hyperaware of his hand on my back and the way his attention focuses entirely on me when we're strategizing.
"Follow my lead," he agrees, and something about the intensity in his voice makes my pulse quicken. "Trust me?"
"Always," I say without thinking, then catch myself using that word again.
The final match is the intense.
When I dive for a difficult save, Emory is already moving to the perfect position for my return. When he sets up the next play, I'm exactly where he needs me to be. We're not just playing volleyball together; we're performing some kind of athletic dance that requires perfect partnership.