Chapter 18 Spencer
EIGHTEEN
SPENCER
I hand her the moment. Not much, but just enough to say we weren’t strangers.
“You look exactly like someone I once knew,” I say, soft but clear—an invitation, if she wants it. A chance to say, Yes, we do know each other. Yes, we shared something real.
But she sidesteps it with a joke.
“Well, I’m not sure if that’s good or bad—but it’s nice to finally meet the mysterious Cash Banks.”
And I’m pretty sure I know how to read that. She’s not taking the bait. She’s moved on.
Obviously—she’s a mom now. Which means there’s someone in the picture. Maybe he’s here. But I hope he’s not.
She’s definitely not here for wedding party flirtations—let alone anything real.
But I’m committed to holding myself together. Be gracious. Be a gentleman. Because she’s not wrong to look at me with contempt.
I didn’t reach out.
Not the morning after.
Not the week after.
Not even when I got to France.
And really—how hard would it have been? To send a message. To say,
That was fun. Let’s do it again.
I wouldn’t have meant just the naked part. I’d have meant all of it. The way we talked. The way we danced. The way she looked inside me, like no one else had in years.
I’m deep in it—too deep—when her voice cuts through.
“Cash,” she says. Not Spencer, but Cash.
Her tone is clipped. Businesslike. No warmth. No invitation.
“It’s time for us to get in line.”
I nod and follow her to the back of the room, heart pounding in all the wrong ways.
A woman from the wedding planner team meets us there, headset in place, clipboard in hand. She gives us a once-over and nods.
“Well, you two make a good-looking pair,” she says, already shifting into motion.
She adjusts my stance, turning my shoulder outward, and I flinch—can’t help the quick, sharp sound that escapes me as pain flashes white-hot through the joint.
Rhea notices instantly.
“You okay?” she asks, her voice softening.
“I’m fine,” I manage, trying to smile. “Just an old war wound.”
The planner laces Rhea’s arm through mine, drapes her hand across my forearm, and adjusts us like two mannequins in a storefront window.
Then, briskly: “Alright—step, together. Step, together.”
And we walk together. Stone silent. Arm in arm.
Having her right beside me, but not with me, makes every step torture. I can feel the heat of her skin, the subtle pressure of her touch, and it makes me ache in a way I don’t know how to contain.
I fight the urge to say her name. To reach over with my other hand and squeeze hers.
To ask if she ever thought of me. Of us.
But I can’t hold it in.
“I should have reached out,” I say quietly. “I should have reached out right away. I regret that I didn’t.”
Her gaze doesn’t shift. Her eyes stay forward. Her steps don’t falter.
“Well,” she says, her voice even but edged, “maybe that was because your conscience finally caught up with you.”
I pause. Her words land, but I’m not entirely sure what she means.
“I don’t understand,” I say, turning toward her.
But before she can respond, we’ve reached the front of the room.
The planner waves us toward opposite sides—bridesmaids on one, groomsmen on the other—and just like that, Rhea’s gone from my arm.
Serena is fussing with the flower arrangements up front.
“I specifically asked for white freesia,” she says to no one in particular. “This is clearly ivory.”
When we’ve all settled in our spots, Serena turns and examines us one by one, as if we’re champagne flutes lined up on a table—and she’s spotting fingerprints.
She lifts one hand delicately.
“Excuse me,” she says to the wedding coordinator, her voice smooth but firm. “The spacing between the bridesmaids and groomsmen feels… uneven.”
The planner glances up from her clipboard.
Serena gestures with a smile, as though offering a helpful suggestion. “The men are spread much farther apart than the women. It throws off the symmetry of the photos, don’t you think?”
Before the coordinator can answer, Serena turns slightly. “Perhaps some floor markers? Just something subtle—tape, or a petal—so people know where to stand.”
The planner nods, scribbles something, and attempts to resume her instructions.
“So after the vows, the officiant will prompt the rings, and then Carter and Serena will turn to face the guests—”
Serena lifts her hand again, not impatient, just… precise.
“I hate to interrupt,” she says, tilting her head. “But from here, it’s clear that the arch is still off-center.”
The planner blinks. “We did adjust it earlier, but—”
“I understand,” Serena says. “But from this angle—” she takes a step, pointing“—it’s pulling left. Maybe two inches. It won’t read in person, but it will in photographs.”
A pause. I glance over at Rhea, trying not to stare, but damn, she is beautiful. Not in a glitzy, glamorous way, but just pure, simple beauty.
“Well, if we can’t adjust the arch properly, possibly, we could re-center the runner to compensate?”
And then Rhea looks right at me, a slight shake of the head and roll of the eyes, as if she knows we agree about the ridiculous antics of the bride.
The planner’s nod is tight and fast. “Of course. We’ll take care of it.”
She turns the page of her program binder with slightly more urgency than before.
“Let’s run the recessional,” she says. “Serena and Carter will lead the exit, followed by each couple, four-count spacing in between.”
Serena and Carter take their places at the head of the aisle. Serena smooths her dress, lifts her chin, and turns to go.
“Wait, I didn’t get to kiss the bride!” Carter jokes, but Serena does not smile.
“Come on,” she says to him, annoyed, and down the aisle they go.
The rest of us follow.
As Rhea and I join arms again, the wedding coordinator whispers, “One, two, three, four.”
I think I hear Rhea snort. I start to grin; she thinks the whole thing is as silly as I do.
We begin our walk as a couple.
Then, Serena lifts her hand again, this time slower. Her voice stays composed, but the tension is unmistakable.
“I’m sorry,” she says, quiet but insistent. “Can someone please fix the bows on the reserved signs?”
The planner turns, confused. Serena’s already walking toward the first pew.
“They’re draping,” she says, voice low but tight. “They’re meant to sit upright. Like they did at the walkthrough yesterday.”
No one speaks.
Rhea’s hand is still tucked into my arm, but I feel her shoulders shift.
The air holds perfectly still.
And then, from somewhere near the back of the room, Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On” bursts into life—loud, unfiltered, and unmistakably not part of the approved playlist.
For a half second, no one reacts.
Then Serena—elegant, unflappable Serena—whips around, eyes wide.
“Are you kidding me—” she starts, her voice rising for the first time all day.
The music cuts before she can finish, leaving her next words—“This is fricking ridiculous”—hanging awkwardly in the air.
The room falls dead silent.
For about two seconds.
I feel it first—that twitch in my chest. The one that says I’m about to lose it.
The bows. The spacing. The damn arch. And now Marvin Gaye?
It’s like we’re all trapped inside a live-action SNL sketch no one auditioned for.
I realize Rhea is shaking beside me.
Not crying. Laughing.
She’s trying to hold it in—biting her lip, turning her head away—but her shoulders are trembling, her breath catching in tiny, guilty bursts.
And that’s all it takes.
I crack, too.
A low, involuntary laugh escapes me, and the moment it does, she loses it completely.
We both burst out laughing—sharp, sudden, totally unfiltered.
Heads turn.
The planner gives us a tight, strained look like she’s unsure whether to scold us or join in.
Carter lets out a chuckle, clearly trying to smooth things over.
Serena narrows her eyes, lips tight. If looks could kill, we’d both be toast.
But every bit of tension we’ve been carrying all evening finds its escape route in this one ridiculous moment.
Now Rhea’s actually looking at me, and I see it there. I feel it.
A spark.
“We better get out of here,” I say under my breath.
She smiles, nods, and amazingly doesn’t argue.
I slide my hand to the small of her back and guide her toward the side door, out of the room, and into the quiet hallway beyond.
The door swings closed behind us, and it’s just us.
Until I notice Isabelle leaning against the wall, waiting for rehearsal to be over. “Did you get your ‘step-together’ steps figured out?” she jokes.
I”m about to toss out a joking comment in return. But Rhea freezes. Jaw goes tight, walls go up in real time.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says, not even looking at me. Then she turns and heads straight for the elevator.
“Rhea,” I call after her, instinct overriding sense. “Come on. Join us for a drink. I’d like you to meet Isabelle.”
She stops, just for a second, her eyes flicking between the two of us.
Her voice is calm. Controlled. But it cuts like glass. “Nice to meet you, Isabelle.”
Then she strides away.