I have been to an inordinate number of weddings in my day. I have been maid of honor twice (Alice and Jess), a bridesmaid fourteen times, performed three weddings, and twice have done a reading during the ceremony (once was a passage from one of my books, and that was very weird). I’m sure a lot of people go to weddings and take note of what they like, what they would do differently. They think about the decor and the food and the number of guests. They lean in and whisper that they would never have put so-and-so and what’s-her-name at the same table. They maybe even get business cards from the various vendors.
Not me. It’s possible that the shine has been scrubbed off weddings in all my various experiences with them, but I think the wedding is the least romantic part of romance. Sure, there is splendor and catering and the opportunity to wear completely outlandish clothing. But there is also family politics and stress and the reality that many people spend the equivalent of a down payment on a house on a single day’s celebration. Love is not found in a four-foot-high floral centerpiece or a seven-tiered chocolate cake. Real romance is in the quieter details. Who proposes, and how. The way they look at each other across a room. The anticipation of what it means to be married, the nights spent side by side, shaping their forever. The first moment alone after the commitment is made. The day after, when they get to finally embark on the adventure. And, of course, all the banging.
But these are things one never considers about one’s brother. Yuck.
I blink away from Peter and over to his new wife, Kailey, just as she’s kissed by a grown-up version of the person who more than once held me down and farted on my face.
He pulls away, smiling, and there—right there—is what I came here to see: that unadulterated look of awe. That first beat of eye contact, the silently squealed We’re really married? Peter can be a selfish ass and I will never forgive him for cutting my ponytail off when I was thirteen, but he loves Kailey. He’ll be good to her.
And hopefully he will knock her up soon and keep the focus off me and my continued single status. That is, I remind myself, unless I end up happily ever after with one of my Heroes.
The thought pings around in my mind, but it remains a tennis ball bouncing on empty walls. I look out to the cheering crowd of guests, my eyes zeroing in on Connor in the middle of the pack, standing like a skyscraper in the suburbs. And what do you know? He’s looking right back at me.
It takes ten minutes to make my way through the crowd to him, and in between catching up with family, being stopped for photos, and once directing someone to the closest restroom, I’m able to catch glimpses of him talking to people around him. God, I love that I can find him so easily, that he cleans up so well in a slim-fitting black tux, and that he left his hair soft and floppy instead of meticulously styled. But his looks aren’t even the most interesting thing about him anymore. He’s so personally warm, gives such sincere eye contact. I love the way he interacted with my mom, the way he was so excited to meet everyone who stopped us on our way out to the garden. The way he puts his whole self into whatever he does and lets himself be emotional when he talks about his daughter. Connor Prince III should be awarded a gold medal in the Active Listening event at the Romance Olympics. It’s hard to believe I looked at him months ago and saw a plastic hero archetype. He’s no longer Hot Millionaire Executive or Hot Brit or Soft Lumberjack or even DILF… he’s just Connor.
How did I once find him boring and unpleasant and cliché? Now I’m struggling to not think of him as soulmate material.
And it’s good that I’m succeeding, because by the time I reach him, he’s standing with one of Peter’s high school friends, a petite blonde named—I kid you not—Ashley Simpson. When I say Ashley is hanging on Connor’s arm, I mean this: imagine a giant rock, and then imagine a barnacle. I like Ashley well enough—even though she toyed with Peter’s heart for years when he believed looks were more important than brains, and then chased him relentlessly once he figured out that brains were more important than looks—but I step up behind them right as she asks Connor if she can steal him away for the first dance, and my gut fills with a shimmering, violent heat.
I jerk to a stop. He hasn’t seen me. He should accept. I won’t like it, but it would be a good way out of this weird, inappropriate, untenable thing we have going on. I’m supposed to like Isaac or Dax or Nick. (Maybe Jude. I think we can all agree Evan isn’t it. But Connor is definitely not it.)
But then Connor says only a gentle “Sorry, tonight these dancing feet belong to Fizzy,” and my heart takes a gasping, free-falling tumble into my stomach.
At Jess’s bachelorette party, we were doing the drunk yet predictable swoon over all the big and small ways River is perfect for her. Given that everyone else was married, inevitably the topic turned to me, and the disaster of my love affair with Rob. The group was small—only about six of us—but everyone fell into overlapping reassurance that I’m amazing, that I deserve the best man alive, that whoever this magical human is, he’s still out there for me.
I didn’t believe it at the time, and despite doing this show, I’m not sure I totally believe it now. In the past couple of decades, I’ve dated a lot. I always assumed I wasn’t picky; I liked to brag that I didn’t have a type. I’ve had a thousand awesome first dates, and a handful of fun second dates. And then, that’s it. I’m attracted to a lot of people, but rarely do emotions get involved. In hindsight, my feelings for Rob benefitted from standing in the residual glow of Jess and River. But truthfully, the relationship was embarrassingly superficial. I didn’t know anything about his life (obviously), and he certainly never made me feel like this.
Oh shit, that’s not bad. I open my clutch for my notebook but come up empty. Even if I had started carrying one consistently again, this clutch is the size of a Pop-Tart.
Standing behind Connor, watching him gently but firmly turn down an objectively gorgeous woman, knowing that he does not do casual relationships and that he understands and admires me enough to put his entire professional career in my hands, and that if he feels even a fraction for me of what I feel for him, he’s putting his heart on the line to do this show with me, I realize that what I told him weeks ago is true, I don’t have a type.
But maybe I do actually have a one.
Have you ever been slapped? By yourself? This feels a little like that. I close my eyes, really squeeze them shut, willing the panic to subside. If I were writing this moment, I would describe the tunneling awareness that the feelings I’ve been ignoring have been here all along. I’d maybe make the heroine stagger to the side or reach for a half-empty glass of champagne and down it to take the edge off the sudden appearance of dizzying anxiety. But in reality, epiphanies just feel like your soul opening a gaping mouth and lamenting, “Oh, I am such a dumbass.”
I come up to the pair, swallowing down the thick ball of emotion in my throat. “Hey, you two, what’s up?”
Connor turns, extracting his arm from Ashley’s grip and setting a warm palm on my lower back. His answering “Hey” is low and warm, carrying a thousand meanings. I look up into his eyes and I know I can’t be imagining it. That one word says Hey, there you are, and Hey, did you hear that exchange just now, and Hey, I missed you, and Hey, remember when we had hard, fast sex and it was mind-blowing?
Ashley leans around from his other side, smiling at me. “Hi, Fizzy.”
I tear my gaze away from Connor’s. “Hi, Ashley. Thanks for coming.”
“Ohmygod, of course. I was just meeting your producer. Do I get a dating show next, and can he be on it?”
I smile tightly and look up at Connor like Wanna field this one?
He gazes down at me, sweetly amused. “I already told her I’m happier mostly behind the camera and you’re the one who made me do the interviews.”
Ashley rolls on. “It’s seriously unreal that you are doing this, Fizzy. I heard about it, but I had no idea it was such a big deal. Connor said the second episode airs tonight.”
“It’s a big deal because Connor is doing an amazing job with it.”
“It’s so funny, though.” Her laugh trills like tiny, spiked bells. “A few of us were talking earlier about how you’re a romance author, like, shouldn’t you know all the ways and places to meet people? If you can’t meet someone the usual way, there is literally no hope for the rest of us, right?”
I sense the smile slipping from my face, and I can’t do anything about it. An uncomfortable laugh escapes. Usually, I see these backhanded digs coming from a mile away. Usually, a smart comeback is right there on the tip of my tongue.
How is an expert in romance like you still single?
Gotta keep up with market research, you know.
It’s hard to find the right man after writing the perfect hero.
Even the simplest “I don’t have a lot of time for a relationship” doesn’t come to me in time. I feel caught in the headlights out here in the clinking hum of cocktail hour at my younger sibling’s wedding. In this gown that Connor so carefully buttoned up for me, and with my family all around me, and carrying these new, enormous feelings, I’d felt invincible—but oh, right. I’m the unmarried spinster. How easy it is to knock down and reshape someone with a few sharp words.
“I think it’s hard for someone in the public eye to find a good fit.” Connor steps in smoothly. “Fizzy is understandably careful.”
Ashley snorts. “Oh my God, you are so sweet. But I mean Fizzy used to date literally everyone.”
“Yeah,” he says with a cute bursting laugh. “Because everyone wants to date her.”
Ashley’s face does a thing. It’s a barely restrained Uh, okay, buddy. It’s a laugh held in.
Connor’s smile remains, but it doesn’t look totally natural anymore. “Do you read her books?”
Ashley shakes her head. “Oh, I don’t read books with just romance in them; I need there to be some plot, too.”
He goes quietly stony. “There’s plenty of plot. And Fizzy’s are the gold standard.” I stare up at him with fondness. This liar, still pretending he’s read my books.
“Oh, I’m sure—”
He rolls on and somehow manages to cut her off without leaving an insult in the air. “People think romances are just about sex—and some are, which is fine—but they’re also about social change and challenging the status quo, such as who the world thinks deserves a happily ever after.”
“And pirates,” I say, my heart glowing like a Vegas billboard inside my rib cage. “Don’t forget pirates.”
“And sometimes pirates.” He smiles down at me before turning back to Ashley. “Fizzy’s one of the best writers I’ve ever read, and has millions of readers.” His hand makes a slow circle on my back. Does he even know he’s doing it? It’s making me dizzy with want. “She did the network a favor by agreeing, and the ratings are entirely due to her on-screen charisma with every one of the contestants.” He laughs, and it’s smooth and round. “God, I sound like such a producer, don’t I?” He waves himself away with a self-deprecating grin. “Well, anyway, I’ll stop bragging about her now. It was very nice to meet you, Amy.”
With a firm hand, he leads me away.
I allow myself to be guided back up the grassy path and indoors to where a band plays during cocktail hour. Connor nabs us two flutes of champagne off a passing tray and hands me one.
“That was swoony,” I tell him.
“I literally just grabbed it from a tray. Christ, raise your bar a little.”
Laughing, I smack his beefy shoulder with my free hand. “Not that. The way you gently dragged her back there.”
Connor takes a sip, eyes on me, swallows. “I understand her preconceived notions because I used to share them. It wasn’t based on anything factual—I’d never actually read a romance novel. I’m guessing she hasn’t, either.”
“So what happened?”
“Nat set me straight, and I read your books.”
“Yeah, but only, like, one of them.”
“I’ve read almost all of them.” He smiles down at me. “There are quite a lot.”
I pause with the flute pressed to my lips. Champagne bubbles pop and tickle my skin. “What?”
“I told you I would.”
“Yeah, but that’s just a thing people say.”
He shakes his head. “Not me.”
“And your preconceived notions?”
He takes a drink of champagne, head tipped back, neck flexing. Drink lowered again, he meets my gaze. “I can admit when I’m wrong.”
I can hear my pulse in my ears. Is this thirty-seven-year-old Fizzy’s kink? Honesty, accountability, and open communication? “That woman back there? Her name was Ashley, by the way, not Amy.”
His grin is wicked. “I know.”
I don’t even know what to do with the infatuation ballooning in my torso. This bubble of joy rising in me is going to take me out, land me flat on my back if I don’t get my arms around him somehow. Peter and Kailey are still outside, taking couples’ photos post-ceremony. We have such a long night ahead of us, with dinner and toasts and dancing and cake, but I’m going to take advantage of this quiet lull. I take Connor’s glass and set it down on a high-top table, and then lead him to the small dance floor where a few couples sway slowly to the music.
He looks quizzically down at me, but his arms go around my waist when I slide mine up his chest and around his neck. “This is a sexy posture,” he says into my ear.
“Well, I feel sexy things about you.”
“But publicly?” he asks.
“Just give me this one dance, you hot DILF.”
He relaxes against me, hands warm on my lower back, and I rest my cheek to his chest. “You have nice muscles.”
“Thank you.”
“You are a very dapper brick wall.”
A quiet laugh rumbles against my temple.
I close my eyes. “You make it very hard to want to fall for someone else.”
The truth of this weighs me down, an anchor, dragging behind me.
He doesn’t say anything to this, not for five or ten or thirty seconds. I keep waiting for the remorse to land or to feel rejected in his silence, but instead it feels like agreement. He’s holding me so close.
“Maybe we can sneak out of here later and watch the episode,” I say.
“I’d like that.”
“No funny business,” I add. “Despite what I just said. I know we can only be work homies watching the episode together.” I notice he doesn’t say anything to this, either. And then it occurs to me. “Wait. Should you be at the office or—I don’t know—accessible somehow tonight?”
“No,” he says. “Blaine’s on it. He knew taking you here tonight was an important job.”
“A job, huh?”
“I pretend you’re a lot of work. It gets me points with the boss.”
“I am a lot of work.”
This makes him laugh. “Felicity, you are the easiest thing I’ve ever done.” I look up at him, watch his words land on his own ears. A flush crawls up his neck and turns the tips of his ears pink. “You know what I mean.”
“I do know what you mean, but you’re also full of shit. Objectively speaking, I am a handful.”
He tucks my head under his chin. “Get over yourself.”
I laugh into his shirt and close my eyes. Fuck, he’s perfect. This is awful.
