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Prologue - Astrid

“Holy shit! This is just like Bridgerton!”

The bridesmaid to my left sprints into the decorated courtyard, her heels clacking loudly as she runs, holding up the train of her dress with one hand, her drink in the other.

Of course it’s Katie, Sloane’s cousin. She’s the loudest at any party, her blonde hair curled loosely down her back, her makeup exaggerated. If she wasn’t a bridesmaid, she’d be in a dress a lot more risqué than the simple, blush-colored gown that drapes her body.

The space is beautiful—the small, cobblestoned space behind the massive Irish countryside house, surrounded by hedges and tall, flowering vines.

“Fucking dreamy!” Katie adds, twirling to face the other members of the bridal party, a hilarious contrast to the soft, gentle music and breeze floating through the canopy of flowers above. She fakes like she’s dancing with someone, and I see the comparison, especially with the soft, classical rendition of Espresso by Sabrina Carpenter coming from the string quartet.

It’s my best friend’s wedding—I should be more excited. I definitely shouldn’t be exhausted already, wanting to go back to my guest room and crash for the night. The ceremony is over, the real party just starting, and as maid of honor, I’m partially responsible for making sure everything goes perfectly.

Leave it to Sloane McKenzie, my former college roommate and current best friend, to pick the most romantic place on Earth for her wedding.

I was there the day that Callum and Sloane aggressively proposed to each other at the same time. I’d figured, between both of their busy schedules and mine, I’d be lucky to even attend, let alone earn the spot of maid of honor.

Of course, I was very wrong.

Hordes of guests are still filing from the chapel and down the slope. Golden light spills out and washes over the rolling hills. I run a hand down my dress and stop at the bar to get a drink from the menu of personalized cocktails. The Sloane Ranger , named after one of Callum’s nicknames for her, stands out, and I order it on a whim.

Also, leave it to Sloane to somehow bag a rich, famous athlete with a secret Irish family and a whole fucking estate in the Irish countryside. And to have the most lavish, enviable wedding of any of our college friends. The ceremony was moving enough that even I almost shed a tear. Her dad cried the entire time. Sloane was glowing, effervescent in her ball-gown-style dress, her golden hair falling in soft curls down her back. Her eyes were locked on Callum, who looked at any moment like he might pass out from sheer joy.

As maid of honor, I’ve been intimately involved in this wedding. Consulting on the seating chart, providing my input on whether or not they should do a private photo shoot (of course), and planning her bachelorette party.

Today, I’ve had my own series of tasks to focus on, and I’ve clung to them. It’s a lot easier than getting swept away by the grandeur, letting myself float on the current of love like a cartoon character, nose-deep in a pie’s steam.

I can see it in a lot of the other women here, the star-eyes, the belief that this kind of wedding—and groom—is coming to them, too.

Pushing those thoughts away, I run through the detailed list in my head. During the ceremony, it was my job to fluff Sloane’s dress, make sure her veil was sitting right for the pictures, remind the officiant to step out so his face wouldn’t be hovering behind theirs in the memories of the day.

Like with everything, I’ve done an endless amount of research to prepare. And I intend to busy myself with being there for Sloane, so I can ignore the consistent, clanging twinges of self-consciousness in my chest.

The string quartet sits in the corner, playing pop songs softly as we enter the courtyard. Callum and Sloane left after the ceremony for their private session, but it’s just as likely that they’ve stolen into a closet or something to start their wedding night early.

The caterers are already set up, and the food smells amazing—lemon and honey glazed salmon, roasted parsnips and broccoli, creamy risotto. There’s some sort of beef dish, and ratatouille for vegetarians. If Sloane hadn’t been strict on the no phones policy, people would be going hungry to snap pictures of the gorgeous dishes.

“Hey, Astrid.”

I turn to see one of Callum’s groomsmen, a Frost teammate, peering down at me. I know who he is instantly.

Grayson O’Connor.

He’s ridiculously tall—or, perhaps, just average height for a hockey player. For some reason, my heart does something weird now that I’m in his presence. He’s the kind of guy that emanates a controlled kind of scruffiness. Something about him reminds me of a calico cat, the way his curls are lighter at the top of his head, fading into a darker brown over his ears and at his nape. His facial hair is more intentional than a shadow, less intense than a beard. For some stupid reason, my hand twitches, wants me to reach up and run the pad of my thumb over it, just to ascertain the texture.

My mind flashes back to the first Frost game I attended with Sloane, the way she’d shoveled popcorn into her mouth, asking me to turn around so she could get a look at the jersey I was wearing.

Staring at Grayson now, it takes me right back to that moment in the Frost arena, the smell of popcorn and nacho cheese, that weighty material of the jersey on my shoulders.

“You picked the back-up goalie. The nervous one.” Sloane looked me up and down in the jersey.

“Grayson O'Connor,” her mom had added, eyes lighting up. “Luca snatched him up because the kid has these insane shut down moments.”

Sloane said, “We’ll have to see if he’s able to overcome his problem.”

“Problem?” I’d asked, something inside me sparking with interest.

“I’m calling it the pre-yips,” Sloane said, simply, shoveling popcorn in her mouth and pointing down at the ice. My eyes snagged on him in front of the goal. Together, the three of us were looking at him down on the ice, warming up. “Certain nights he’s on, certain nights he’s off. It’s completely random. When he’s on, he has the potential to be the best goalie like ever, but those bad days really bring his averages down.”

“Huh,” I’d said, dropping my hand into my chin, mind already churning with what could possibly cause something like that.

“Astrid,” Sloane said, jostling her shoulder against mine. “Don’t even try to psychoanalyze him from here. It won’t work.”

Now, mind slamming back to the present, I say to Grayson, somewhat stupidly, “What’s up?”

A lopsided grin stretches over his face, like he might know what’s running through my head. “Grayson. Grayson O’Connor.”

“Oh,” I blink at him, recalibrating. For some reason, I hear myself pretending that I don’t know exactly who he is. That he could be some long-lost relative from the Irish countryside.

“Irish?” I ask.

“I, uh, wouldn’t know,” he raises his hand, like he might scrub it over his head, then snaps it away as if someone has warned him off messing with it too many times today.

Shit, if this is his hair styled, I’d love to see it wild, his fingers combing it out.

I blink in shock at my own thoughts and glance down at the cocktail in my hand, blaming it for these thoughts in my head. Damn Sloane Ranger.

“Actually,” he goes on, “I was wondering if you know where I’m supposed to sit? I couldn’t find the planner, and I want to make sure I’m not in the way—”

“Oh, yeah,” I point to the other side of the courtyard, where a long table is set up for the wedding party. “We’ll be over there.”

“You too?”

“Yeah, the entire party.”

“Great.” When he smiles, dimples pop on either side of his lips, tiny divots that are suddenly carved into my mind.

I find an excuse to get away from him, because—what the hell? This drink must be stronger than I thought.

Grayson’s handsome, sure, but objectively, it’s not like he’s even the best-looking guy at this party. There’s Maverick Hawkins, with his dark hair and dark eyes, the whole leather -jacket-and-motorcycle thing going for him. Luca, who’s all-American golden boy, straight-sloping nose and charming smile. Marcus Johnson, with a thick beard and serious dad energy. Tyler Chen with his jet-black hair, bright eyes, and buoyant personality.

But, for some reason, I haven’t even glanced at the other hockey guys, never shown an interest in the big, buff type. So how do I explain the erratic pace of my heart after talking to Grayson?

Callum and Sloane return to cheers and whistles. Callum’s cheeks are flushed, and he can’t stop himself from glancing over at his new bride any chance he gets. We dive into the food, which is good enough for me to forget about the interaction with Grayson, Grayson O’Connor, for at least fifteen minutes.

Luca gives his toast, then it's time for mine. I warned Sloane that it wouldn’t be any good—she’s the writer—but she insisted she needed a toast from me, her best friend and maid of honor.

Hands trembling slightly, I stand in front of the wedding guests and hold my paper. I don’t really need it—I’ve rehearsed my speech enough that it’s practically burned into my head. But it’s something to hold on to as I speak.

“The first time I met Sloane, she hugged me, then cried—and that was all before saying hello,” I start, relaxing a bit as I go, telling them about how Sloane and I met in college, then about the first time I met Callum—and how I knew instantly that they were soul mates. When I get to the end of the toast, Sloane is wiping tears away from her eyes—gently, with Q-Tips—and I can’t bear to look at her, or I’ll start crying, too.

So, instead, I find my eyes settling on Grayson O’Connor. To my surprise, he holds my gaze right back, like we’re good friends, and it makes sense that I would look at him like this.

“…and that’s why this wedding comes with a thousand told-you-so’s from me. And I look forward to saying them at each anniversary, and every milestone the two of you will share. Cheers.”

I rip my eyes away from Grayson as the guests clap, cheering and raising their glasses. Taking my glass, I toss the champagne back, feeling the smooth, warm sensation as it travels down to my stomach.

After the toasts, we finish the meal. Callum and Sloane head out for the first dance. Of course, it’s highly coordinated and special, and there are even rose petals released over the dance floor, floating gently down over them.

I’m watching the scene when the wedding planner—looking slightly frazzled—catches me by the arm.

“Hey,” she says, breathing hard, “I need you to switch dance partners.”

I blink. “What?”

Her eyes dart over to Mandy, Sloane’s sister-in-law, who is looking upset, her hair coming loose from her carefully clipped curls. Luca, Sloane’s brother, is trying to comfort her.

“Luca’s going to dance with Mandy instead,” the planner says, forcing a tight smile. “No big deal.”

“But we planned best man and maid of honor,” I say, shaking my head, thinking about the rehearsal where I danced with Luca, feeling like I was dancing with a cardboard cutout more than a man. While he is, objectively, very handsome, he’s both not my type, and my best friend’s brother.

The wedding planner shrugs. “Change of plans. Sorry, you’re dancing with him, instead.”

I follow her finger to where Grayson stands, hands in his pockets, like he’s not sure what to do with them. The back of my neck flushes like I’m back in junior high, staring down the boys on the other side of the gymnasium.

Leave it to Mandy— fucking Mandy—to make this day all about her, rather than just going with what we’ve rehearsed.

“Okay,” I say, not wanting to be difficult. The poor planner clearly has enough on her hands right now.

The song changes, and couples drift out together like we practiced. Except this time, Luca and Mandy move onto the floor together first, joining Sloane and Callum.

“Hello again,” Grayson says, dipping his head so I can hear him over the music. His cologne is something subtle, fresh. “Okay if I…?”

He gestures to my waist with his hands, and I nod, suddenly wordless. When he settles his hands on my hips, the heat of the action licks up my sides, zinging through my body like adrenaline, making me feel anchored all at once.

We move onto the floor, and when I loop my arms around his neck, bringing us closer together, our bodies form together effortlessly. He doesn’t speak, but his hands tighten on my hips, and I breathe in the fresh scent of him. After that glass of champagne, I’ve declined any more drinks, deciding they weren’t helping me clear my head of this weird, lusting fog.

The quartet plays Sunday Morning by Maroon 5, and the couples drift around us. Luca and Mandy are silent, while Sloane and Callum talk the entire time, staring into each other’s eyes and laughing. When I make eye contact with Sloane over Grayson’s shoulder, her cheeks are wet, and she sticks her tongue out at me.

When I look back at Grayson, he’s smiling. I have an impulsive urge to rise up and kiss him, but I push that away, blaming it on the Sloane Ranger. When the song ends, Grayson lets his hands linger on my waist for a moment, then disentangles himself from me. As the night goes on, I catch glimpses of him. Joking around with his friends, elbows back against the bar. There’s something easy about him I hadn’t noticed before, something wide open and gentle.

We lock eyes too many times. Enough that I think he just might be looking at me, too. Finding me in the crowd, picking me out and lingering there until I look up, catching him watching.

Sloane and Callum play their specific dance songs, with Sloane changed into her flowy white pantsuit for more ease in choreography. People laugh and try to join in as classic 80's music pumps through the speakers.

Drinks flow, but I don’t take them. Instead, I chug water, dance with Katie and Sloane, and feel his eyes on me from across the room. Every once in a while, I look over at the other women, wondering if they’re catching this, the constant back-and-forth between the goalie and me. I can’t be imagining this tether between us, ethereal and floating. Maybe we’re the only two people in the world who can see it, feel it, but it’s there.

The reception winds down, with people peeling off to their rooms one by one. At some point, Grayson disappears, and I try to ignore the tugging sense of doubt in my stomach. That it might have all been in my head, that he wasn’t actually looking at me the way I thought.

Sloane and Callum run down the long stone steps together, climbing into a long black limousine. They’re off to the airport, out of Ireland, on the first leg of their honeymoon. We wave goodbye to them, throw more rose petals.

I have one more night in Ireland before flying home. Turning, I make my way back to my guestroom, thinking about how quickly I can get this damn dress off. Only to find Grayson O’Connor, standing outside my door, looking sheepish.

“Oh, hey,” he says, turning, cheeks flushed a delicious shade of pink. “Sorry. I thought—”

Saying nothing, I reach up, grab the base of his tie, rise on my tiptoes, and give in to the frantic, consistent need that’s been coursing through me all night.