Groomsman to Groom (Wingmom Stories #4)

1. Snog on the Beach

Snog on the Beach

brIELLE

I ’m still wearing glitter in my hair from last night’s destination beach wedding, and it’s not a fashion choice so much as a resigned acceptance. Glitter abides by the First Law of Thermodynamics —it transforms and/or moves but can never be destroyed.

The wedding party left this morning in a convoy of rideshares and rental cars, heading back to their real lives, but I stayed one more night.

One more night of pretending I belong in this five-star resort where the staff calls me “Ms. Wilson” and the ocean is the exact color of a blue raspberry slushie.

One more night before I go back to my apartment in Atlanta, where the closest thing to waves is the sound of my neighbor’s washing machine during the spin cycle.

Needing to talk to Skye, my new Mom-figure friend from the wedding, I tap on her hotel room door, careful not to chip my freshly manicured nails—another wedding perk I’m milking for all it’s worth. When she doesn’t answer, I knock harder.

“It’s open, darling Brielle!” Her voice floats through the door.

Okay, so she knows it’s me—that’s creepy.

She does claim to be clairvoyant, although that’s been scientifically disproved numerous times.

I push on the door, and it opens because tape’s covering the lock.

White lotus and sandalwood incenses flood my nostrils, and with curtains drawn, the room’s mostly dark despite it being seven in the evening. “Skye?”

“Over here, under the light of universal healing.”

I follow her voice to find her cross-legged on the floor, hands in meditation pose, sitting directly under what appears to be a two-foot pop-up pyramid with LED lights flashing inside it at erratic intervals.

“What’s with the blinking?” I squint at the show.

“It opens my third eye,” she says, her palms raised. “And after all that booze and cake I need my chakras cleansed. They’re utterly constipated.”

“That’s... descriptive.”

She opens a regular eye. “You’re radiating uncertainty. You need to talk. Is it about the hot photographer you’ve been eye-banging all week?”

“I have not been eye-banging anyone.” I choke on my ball of lies.

“Darling, if looks could impregnate, you’d be carrying his triplets.” She unfolds her legs with surprising grace for a woman with constipated chakras. “Sit. Tell Mama Skye everything.”

I collapse onto the edge of the bed. “Okay, I have been watching Hayes all weekend. He’s artsy, and his photos are amazing, and he’s a brainiac. We talked a bit at the rehearsal dinner.”

“Ohhh, Hero Hayes.” Skye claps her hands together. “The peeing savior of the old man with a jellyfish sting. The internet said his blurred-out junk was impressive.”

“Don’t remind me.” It was really long… and tempting. I run my hands through my hair, dislodging more glitter that falls like confetti onto the duvet. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. He lives in Chicago. I live in Atlanta. He has a kid. I have massive screenplay deadlines.”

“Details, details.” Skye waves a dismissive hand. “The real question is: did you feel the zing?”

“The what?”

“The zing! The electric current. The soul recognition.”

“Maybe? A little. But it doesn’t matter because—”

“—because you’re scared.” She stands up, abandoning her pyramid. “Come, we need ocean energy for this conversation. Bring wine.”

I grab the open bottle of Pinot Grigio and a couple of glasses from her minibar and follow her onto the balcony.

The ocean spreads before us, vast and glittering as the sun descends toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink.

Skye settles into one of the wicker chairs and gestures for me to take the other.

“So you felt something with this man, but you’re going to let geography stop you?”

I pour us each a glass. “Um, I’m gonna say, ‘Yeah.’ Because, well, math. Also, reality.”

“Reality’s overrated.” She sips her wine and looks at me over the rim of her glass. “Did you know that Hayes is my ex-stepson?”

I choke again, this time on my wine. “Um, no. That’s kind of a major detail you left out.”

“Yeah, well—his father and I were only married for a hot minute, twenty-five years ago, when Hayes was only seven, but still. Hayes and I reconnected at this wedding.”

I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. I mean, Skye and I just met at this wedding, too. Actually, she accused me of sabotaging it, but when she was wrong, she felt guilty, and we became fast and furious BFFs. “That’s wild.”

“It is wild, and it means my manifestation powers will be stronger with him since he’s basically family.” She bats her hand. “Speaking of, how’s your sister doing? With her Braxton Hicks?”

“Better. I guess it’s normal for seven-and-a-half months along,” I say, grateful for the subject change. “Paisley and her husband picked a name—Oliver.”

“A beautiful name for what I’m sure will be a beautiful child.” Skye’s voice softens. “It’ll be a joy for your family, a new soul since your mother journeyed to the afterlife.”

Wow, I really have told Skye everything. I think some of this was when I was super buzzed because I can’t remember it all, but her reminder hits like a sucker punch. Two months since Mom died, and I still reach for my phone to call her at least twice a day.

“I’m okay,” I lie, then correct myself because Skye has this irritating ability to see through BS. “Actually, it’s weird. Bittersweet—I’m thrilled for my sister, but Mom was such an amazing grandmother to my niece, and she would’ve adored a grandson, you know?”

Skye reaches over and squeezes my hand. “She’ll still be there for him, just in a different form. A guardian angel.”

I’m about to tell her how much I like that idea when Skye suddenly straightens, her eyes focused on something below us. “Well, speaking of, she must be watching over you now.”

I follow her gaze to see a man walking along the shoreline, camera slung around his neck. Even from this distance, I’d recognize that sandy blond hair and thin, fit frame anywhere. “Wow, he’s still here too.” I take a gulp of wine.

“The universe is literally delivering him to your doorstep, Brielle. This is a sign.”

“It’s a coincidence. He’s a photographer. Photographers like beaches. It’s a job requirement.”

Skye turns to me, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Go talk to him.”

“What? Absolutely not.”

“Why? Give me one good reason.”

“I can give you several. One, I’m leaving tomorrow. Two, long-distance relationships are doomed. Three, my career is finally taking off, and I don’t have time for—”

“Excuses, excuses.” Skye stands and disappears back into the hotel room. I hear drawers opening and closing before she returns with something small and black in her hands. “Put this on.”

She tosses the item at me. It’s a two minuscule scraps of material that I think is supposed to be a bikini.

“You want me to go down there in this ? Why bother wearing anything?”

“Yeah, it was a honeymoon gift for the bride, but I forgot to give it to her. Anyway, you’re a striking woman with a body many would kill for. Show it off.” She refills her wine glass. “Besides, you need to have a proper beach experience before leaving paradise.”

“I’ve been experiencing the beach all week.”

“Not the experience I’m talking about.” She waggles her brows.

I stare at the bikini in my hands. “Tempting, but this is ridiculous.”

“What’s ridiculous is watching two people with obvious chemistry orbit each other without colliding.” She leans back, sighing. “Go say, ‘hi’ to the man, Brielle. It’s just talking. If it turns into a sunset stroll and a good time, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“True. But if I end up liking him, it could never work,” I say, but my resolve is waning.

“Maybe not. Probably not, in fact. But you’ll never know unless you try.” She winks. “What happens in St. Sebastian stays in St. Sebastian.”

I do have a night free—and it could be fun while it lasts.

Three minutes later, I’m walking along the beach in the loaner bikini, which fits because it barely exists, but I also have on Skye’s cover-up that I forced her to lend me. My heart’s pounding so hard I bet Hayes will hear it before he sees me.

I’ve convinced myself this is a terrible idea approximately seventeen times since leaving Skye’s room, but something keeps pulling me forward. Maybe curiosity. Or maybe it’s because at the rehearsal dinner, I felt a major vibe with him that I haven’t felt in a very long time.

Hayes is crouched near the waterline, adjusting his camera settings as he photographs the waves. I take a deep breath and blurt, “Hey, fancy meeting you here.”

He glances up and a smile breaks across his face—the kind that starts in the eyes before reaching the mouth—and my stomach does a flip.

“Brielle,” he says, standing up. “I thought everyone left this morning.”

“Almost everyone.” I try to sound casual. “I’m flying back tomorrow. Wanted one more day of beach time.” I gesture vaguely around us. “Trying to clear my mind. Escape all the romance in the air, you know?”

He laughs. “I get that. Weddings can be intense, especially this wedding.”

“I know, right?” I laugh. The bride—no joke—switched grooms during the ceremony of the televised wedding after she was on the reality TV show, Bridesmaid to Bride .

She wasn’t really in love with her pick, she just wanted to be on TV.

Her true love was a wedding guest she’d set up with her twin sister.

But the twin sister didn’t care because she ended up with the guy who was supposed to be the male lead for the next season of this show.

Which makes me say, “I guess they have to find a new Groomsman to Groom ?”

“They definitely do.”

It was a dumpster inferno, but it all worked out. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “So, what are you doing? Getting some final shots?”

“Yeah, but also just enjoying the quiet. It’s not often I get beach time without my son building sandcastles all around my equipment.”