Chapter Five
Five
Icy cold water slaps my face, yanking me from the edge of a dream.
I gasp, bolting upright, my fingers clawing at my soaked dress.
For a bleary-eyed second, I’m sure it’s spilled champagne, but the chill seeps through the fabric and covers far too much of me.
I blink hard, wiping water from my eyes, squinting at the rising sun—a runny yolk smeared across puffy white clouds.
“Wake up, lovebirds!” a rough voice snaps through the morning quiet, slicing through my disorientation.
Alder stirs beside me, groaning as he sits up, golden hair plastered to his forehead in wet strands. Slowly, he drags a hand down his face, blinking against the brightness.
I turn toward the voice, and my surprise lodges in my throat.
A man stands on the dock holding an empty wooden bucket, water dripping from its rim.
He looks like an actor who stepped straight out of the Enchanted Renaissance book event I coordinated last spring, only dirtier, rougher, more authentic—like he belongs in the past instead of playacting in the present.
His mud-stained tunic clings to his wiry frame, his boots caked with clay.
His weathered face twists into a scowl as he glares down at us.
The venue must be putting on some kind of medieval faire. Maybe a cleanup crew in costume, working the early shift.
“You two better clear out.” He leans down, his voice rougher than the wooden planks beneath me. “Can’t have the likes of you sleeping here. You’ll drive away the fishes.”
Beside me, Alder tenses, water dripping from his chin. “What the hell?”
I force my stiff, aching limbs to move, scrambling to get to my feet as my mind tries to catch up. The wedding. The drinks. The dock. My head throbs, last night’s events returning in jagged fragments.
“I understand, we overstayed,” I say in a rush, brushing at the damp fabric of my dress as I struggle to shake the feeling that something isn’t right. “We’re with the wedding party, and we’ll get out of your way. But was the bucket really necessary?”
The fisherman’s eyes narrow. “Wedding? Ain’t no wedding ’round here, missy.”
My stomach plummets.
No wedding?
That’s not possible.
Did we sleep so long they’ve already cleared the whole venue? We couldn’t have. It’s barely sunrise…
I glance around, expecting to see the tent and remnants of last night’s celebration, but—nothing. No chairs. No flower arrangements. No distant clatter of a cleanup crew. Just an endless stretch of wild grass and a dense tree line, framing a river I don’t recognize.
Wait. A river?
I blink, trying to clear the fog in my brain.
This wasn’t a river last night. It was a lake. A calm, glassy lake on Charleston Island Country Club’s perfectly manicured grounds.
My heart stutters, and my legs wobble as a flare of panic goes off in my chest.
Alder exhales sharply. He’s taking it in too, but his face is unreadable, his jaw ticking as his sharp gaze sweeps the horizon.
“What the fuck,” he murmurs.
The fisherman snorts. “You lot done gawkin’ yet?” His scowl deepens, his gaze fixed on us like we’ve trespassed on sacred ground.
I stumble back a step. My mind reels, trying to root itself in logic.
“I—I need to get back,” I stammer, more to myself than anyone else. “Is there a shuttle? Or…or a car service?”
The man barks out a humorless laugh. “Car service? What in the devil’s name are you goin’ on about?”
The words hit like another splash of cold water.
I look to Alder, expecting a plan, a response, anything, but he’s still watching the horizon, lips pressed into a firm line.
“Young people’ve all gone barmy, haven’t they?
” The fisherman mutters the words under his breath and scratches his bearded chin.
I catch a glimpse of his calloused fingers, the dirt caked under his nails, the deep, dry cracks around his knuckles—this isn’t costume makeup or part of some quaint getaway experience. This is real.
He turns back to the river and dips his bucket back into the rushing water, pulling it up with a grunt.
Alder grabs my arm. “We’re leaving.”
The unease that’s been clawing at me only sharpens its talons as we turn away from the water and head toward the incline. But my feet drag, my body hesitating. Something is pulling me back toward the river.
My fingers twitch and my skin tingles, an electric hum buzzing at my side. My gaze shifts to the dock, drawn by a force I can’t explain.
The tarot card.
It lies on the damp wood, still and ordinary, its edges dulled in the early morning light. It’s not glowing. The figures aren’t moving. The strange energy that seemed to hum from it last night is gone. It’s just a card. Just ink and paper.
Except…it isn’t.
Is it?
I scoop it up, hesitating when my thumb brushes over the smooth surface, searching for the spark I felt before, the faint glow, the shimmer of movement. Nothing. It’s just a card. Just a silly, meaningless card.
At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.
I shove it into the pocket of my dress, but I don’t let go. My fingers curl around it, grip tightening, because somehow, letting go doesn’t feel like an option.
Alder’s hand clamps back around my arm. His patience is gone.
“Move, Gemma.” The command is quiet but absolute. His grip tightens around my wrist, his palm warm, steady—unchallenged. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t question. Because to him, this isn’t a debate.
Alder steers me toward the incline, his pace brisk, purposeful, like the world will rearrange itself the moment he decides it should.
“We’ll find the clubhouse,” he says smoothly, as if nothing about this situation is wildly unhinged.
“I’ll call us a car, get us back to my condo.
” His voice dips into familiar, honeyed persuasion, all the while leading me exactly where he wants.
“I’ll even order the eggs Benedict you like from that café—you know the one. ”
“Wait.” I plant my feet, yanking free. “Hold on. This is…”
“Sweetheart…” His voice is low, even, but there’s a razor-thin edge beneath it. “There’s no running away to New York this time.”
I stiffen. “I’m not running—”
His grip finds my wrist again. It’s not tight, not rough. Just firm. As sure and certain as he is.
“What happened to last night, Gemma?” It’s a question that isn’t really a question at all. “What happened to you finally admitting you were done fighting? What happened to me taking care of you, saving you, giving you everything?”
Alder leans in, his heat pressing against me, crowding out the chill, the doubt, the tiny voice still telling me to run.
“I don’t say things like that lightly.” His grip hardens, but his voice turns coaxing. “I meant it—every word.”
My throat tightens, my pulse pounding beneath his fingers where they brush my jaw, where they trail down the curve of my neck. Barely there—but I feel it everywhere.
“Your life isn’t in Manhattan.” His fingers skim the hollow at the base of my throat. “Your life is here.”
His thumb traces my collarbone, sending a ripple of something deep and unshakable straight through me.
“With me.” He lets the words hang between us, sinking into the space where I should fight back, where I should say he’s wrong.
But I don’t want to keep fighting. And he knows it.
His lips quirk, just slightly, because he sees it—the cracks forming, the exhaustion pooling, the continued fall into something I was never strong enough to resist. He sees the moment I truly give in.
Then Alder turns and strides through the dewy grass like he owns the whole damn world.
And I follow.
***
The early morning chill bites at my skin as we push through waist-high grasses.
Alder’s tone was so certain, his resolve so firm, I almost expect to hear the bustle of workers dismantling the wedding tent, the murmur of voices, the clatter of metal.
Even though I know something is very wrong, I keep going.
Because when Alder speaks with that much conviction, it’s hard not to believe him.
But as we crest the top of the hill, an eerie silence presses in. It’s too quiet. Unnaturally quiet. The silence is so loud, my ears ring and the hairs on the back of my neck lift.
There’s no tent. No tables. No stray decorations littering the ground. Not even the smallest scrap of confetti or pastel place card. Just grass stretching and rolling toward a dense forest of trees so thick the shadows seem to swallow the sunlight.
Alder stops beside me. His body goes rigid, his narrowed gaze sweeping across the empty field.
“This isn’t right.” His voice doesn’t waver, but the confidence in it falters for the briefest second.
Unease sinks its claws deeper into my chest, and my breaths come faster, shallower.
This is where the reception tent should be. Where Mackenzie’s wedding should be.
But there’s nothing.
I swallow, reaching for him before I even realize what I’m doing, my fingers clutching the sleeve of his suit.
“Alder…” My voice barely makes it past my lips. “Where’s the tent?”
His frown deepens. He glances at me, then back at the empty expanse of grass. A flicker of doubt creases between his brows, but then his expression smooths. “They must’ve cleared it out early. Packed it up while we were asleep.”
I stare at him, my disbelief bubbling to the surface.
“When? The sun’s been up for, what, an hour?
There’s no way they cleaned it all up that fast.” My voice cracks, rising with something that’s not panic—because I am not panicking—but something dangerously close.
“Where are the trucks? The crew? A frickin’ napkin! ”
Alder’s jaw tightens, his mask slipping. For a brief moment, the arrogance and assuredness that define him flicker, replaced by an expression unsettlingly close to fear.
Then, just as quickly, it’s gone.
“Maybe we should head back,” Alder says, rolling his shoulders. “Figure out what’s going on.”
Back where?
I wrap my arms around myself, hugging against the sudden chill.