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I snort, slapping the surface of the water with my foot. “Don’t tempt me. I’ll pitch that to Vince for an ad campaign.”

He groans. “Dinna say his name. If Vince were here, he’d have me doin’ wall squats while balancin’ this brace on ma head.”

“Greetings,” comes a voice from behind us.

Archie appears out of nowhere.

The man could be a mission-critical park ranger who moonlights in high-level espionage if we didn't know better.

His heart-logo red polo is pristine, tucked into his cargo pants so tightly, I think it might be vacuum-sealed.

Over one arm is a Love You Hot Springs: Take the Plunge!

tote bag, which he deposits on a nearby boulder.

“Hydration and towels,” he informs us. “Water temperature in the upper quadrant of the spring is currently optimal for hydrotherapy, just so you know. Security sweeps have been completed. The beaver has been neutralized.”

“Beaver?” I inquire. Hamish looks mildly alarmed.

“False alarm. Turned out to be an old animal costume under a bush. Broken zipper.”

Hamish nods solemnly. “Happens.”

Archie gives us both a firm nod, and retreats into the mist, speaking quietly into his headset.

I stare at the spot he vanished from. “Is he okay?”

“Dunno. But I like him.”

Hamish sighs, his shoulders dropping. The crease between his brows eases and I can tell he’s actually relaxed.

Then he glances over at me, expression unreadable. “I was serious about lookin’ at real estate. Would ye ever consider gettin’ a wee cottage up here?”

“You mean as a vacation place?”

“Aye. It’s got these hot springs. Bakery’s good, and ye canna throw a rock without hittin’ a chocolate-dipped strawberry.”

He’s serious. My gut does a slow flip.

Before I can answer, my eyes catch on a young mother across the springs.

She’s easing into the shallow side of the water, holding a plump, giggling baby in a floaty pink sunhat and a surfing wetsuit.

Pink, of course. They make babies hardier here in Maine, I guess, because it's early November and the child is all giggles. She lowers the little one’s feet into the water and the baby squeals in delight, legs kicking.

I can’t look away.

The moment is so peaceful, so ordinary , it pierces me like a tiny, warm arrow straight to the chest.

Maybe this is what we’re doing. Maybe this whole wedding escape plan isn’t just about avoiding disaster.

Maybe it’s about finding this .

This kind of joy–the real kind.

The kind that isn't found in a forty-thousand-person crowd in a stadium, or in a locker room with Hamish's teammates. Not at family gatherings with the Jacobys and McCormicks.

Just this. Right here.

Us.

I put my own feet back in the water, scooting closer to Hamish. The heat works its way up my legs and I exhale. For once, I’m not worrying about floral budgets, seating charts, or my mother’s voice in my head demanding that we create a signature wedding-scented air freshener.

Just the warm water. And Hamish.

Once again– us .

He reaches over and takes my hand, kissing it gently.

“Thank ye,” he murmurs.

“For what?”

“Fer bein’ here. Fer puttin’ up with all this. Fer makin’ me feel like I’m enough.”

I squeeze his hand back and lean my head on his shoulder.

“You are.”

No mothers. No vibrating beds. No strategy. Just a girl, her almost-husband, and a town that smells like pink sugar and new beginnings.

And if that’s not love, I don’t know what is.

As if to confirm my thought, WLUV's music morphs into a strong beat, and Beyoncé's “Crazy in Love” begins.

Suddenly, Hamish makes a strangled sound and goes stock still. I look up at him, and there is a woman running her splayed fingers through his hair.

Her. Hands. Are. In. His. Hair.

Full-on, fingers in the roots, massaging his scalp with the kind of confident, circular enthusiasm typically reserved for prostates during medical procedures.

“What the—?” I begin, but I can’t even finish because my jaw is on the ground.

“Wow,” the woman breathes, running her thumbs along his temples. “Your dye job is a crime against follicles.”

Hamish jerks forward like she just tased him with a blow dryer. “Ah—thanks? I think?” Poor guy can't just stand up and walk away.

She’s maybe late thirties, with flawless skin, a wavy blonde bob, and lips the color of a Valentine’s Day gift wrap aisle. She’s wearing lengthening mascara, a plunging halter tankini under a lightweight down jacket, and the casual air of a woman who knows how to reshape both bangs and marriages.

“Oh, I could have done so much better,” she sighs, trailing a finger along his now-frizzing hairline. “You’ve got the kind of natural assets that deserve respect. Not… this .”

She gestures at his head like she’s exorcising a demon.

I glare at her. “Excuse me?”

“Oh! Sorry,” she says, pulling her hand back and acknowledging my presence with a toothpaste-commercial smile. “Didn’t see you there. I’m Annabeth Khouri. I do hair.”

“Mmmm,” I mutter.

She plows ahead. “I’m the owner and lead stylist at Love You Hair. It’s a small salon I run out of my house. Anyway, I can totally do him.”

Hamish chokes on his own breath.

“I mean his hair. Obviously.” She gives me a quick once-over. “Unless you object?”

“I do. Like, in wedding ceremonies .” Normally, I try not to touch my face, but I break my rule so that my engagement ring sparkles in her face like a shot of warning.

She waves me off with a laugh that sounds like it’s coming from a flute of bubbly prosecco.

“Relax! I’m just a visual person. Besides, the black’s not fooling anyone.

You’re Hamish McCormick. I know those cheekbones.

” Her eyes comb over his body. "Anyone who’s ever seen your Sports Illustrated spread knows exactly who you are. Biblically."

Hamish is turning the identical shade of the wallpaper in our room.

“Just think about it,” she says, leaning down far enough to give both of us an eyeful of cleavage and a flash of a small tattoo that appears to read, Love is layered. “I can fix the color, bring back that natural auburn. Maybe give it some dimension. A soft fade, some texture? My treat.”

Then she slips a glossy pink business card into his hand like it’s a hotel key.

“Swing by anytime, I’m always available for walk-ins” Her voice drops an octave. “And if you need a little trim while you’re in town, the first one’s free…”

Then she sashays off toward a bench with her towel, hips swaying, sun bouncing off her perfectly blown out hair.

Hamish holds the card like it’s radioactive.

I snatch it and toss it directly into the water.

“Hey!” he protests weakly.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say sweetly. “Did you want her to ‘do you’?”

“Ye ken she meant hair.” He snorts.

“She meant your hair, your beard, and a little light grooming with her tongue, Hamish.”

“Ye jealous?”

“Not jealous. Territorial. But I'm getting used to it. I don't have a choice.”

He grins. “That’s ma girl.”

I glare, but then his foot nudges mine under the water and I can’t stay mad. Much.

But if Annabeth shows up again with a curling iron and a bathing suit that’s eighty percent nipple, I’m dunking her in the deep end and blaming it on a rogue moose.

Love You, Maine, may be full of hearts, but if she keeps touching my fiancé like he’s a living Ken doll, she’s going to experience heartbreak.

Up close and personal.

And maybe a nosebreak, too.

"C'mon, pet," he says, rubbing my shoulder. "Dinna be sore."

"It's not about the jealousy," I say, suddenly emotional. Weepy, even. “It's that this is our life. You're recognized everywhere. You're on magazine covers. Billboards. In commercials."

"And hopefully more," he says softly. "Soon, Sky News. Oh, the clips on YouTube!"

"You're going to be even more famous," I groan.

"Ye say that as if it's a bad thing!"

"Maybe it is, sometimes!" I look around the springs. "Maybe I didn't want a wedding like this! Maybe we should have gone to some tropical island and rented the whole thing to ourselves and chartered a yacht to get away. Or just caved in to our mothers."

"Did ma Amy say the words 'cave in'?" He presses a palm against my forehead. "Are ye ill?"

"Stop it," I sob, just a small one, but it's very real. "We're never going to get a break, are we?"

Real concern fills his eyes now. "Ye really are troubled by this. I ken it's hard sometimes, but I didna understand how hard. I'm so sorry. Truly. Let's fix this. Now."

"How?"

"Can Nessa and Archie get us a tropical island? A yacht? What else d'ya want?"

"I want a life where I have you and don't have to share you with the world," I whine, hating myself for it.

"I wouldna be who I am if that's what ye really want." He’s so sad, his voice stark. "Amy, is this yer way o' - "

"NO! GOD NO!" I shout. "I've made a huge mistake even talking about this! I'm getting it all wrong. I want you. I love you. I need you."

"Need?" He smiles so widely, so sweetly. "Ye need me?"

"Of course I do."

He strokes the side of my face. "I dinna think I've ever heard ye say ye need me. I like it."

"That's just it. I need more of you."

A lightbulb goes off, his face capturing the realization. "Ah. I see. Ye wish there were more o' me ta go around so ye could have a bigger share.”

"Er - I guess?" The man's mind is a mystery to me. We'll have to spend the rest of our lives figuring each other out.

Suddenly thirsty, I reach into the tote bag Archie brought and pull out two waters. We chug down the half liters quickly, then soak some more.

"Excuse me," whispers a woman’s voice.

So help me God, if another one asks to have Hamish sign her breasts with a Sharpie or take a selfie with their cheeks pressed together, I will–

"I'm Rachel Hart, director of development for the town," she says to him, her arm extending over me as I twist around to see her face.

Hamish cocks his head a bit as they shake hands. "Have we met before? Yer way familiar."