Spoiler alert: I did not come to this wedding to catch a bouquet.
And yet—there I am. In the direct line of fire. A wall of single women forming a loose huddle around me like we're in some glittery version of The Hunger Games.
I glance over at Eli, who's smirking like this is the best show he's seen all week. I shoot him a glare that says, if I die, bury me in your dumb blazer.
"You got this," he whispers, raising his glass.
"Shut it, cheerleader."
The bride—giddy and slightly tipsy—spins around, flings the bouquet into the air, and just like that, time slows down. The flowers tumble in slow-mo, a bouquet of doom. I duck. Literally duck. I want no part in this.
But fate? Oh, fate is a snarky little brat.
The bouquet hits someone else—bounces off their shoulder—ricochets like a floral grenade—and lands squarely in my arms.
The crowd erupts like I just caught the golden snitch. Someone actually shrieks, "She's next!" while I seriously consider setting the thing on fire.
Eli walks over, slow clap and all. "Wow. Didn't even need a net."
"Don't start."
"I'm just saying... if the prophecy has spoken—"
"I will shove this bouquet down your throat."
He grins. "Romance looks good on you."
I roll my eyes so hard I pull a muscle.
And then things get weird.
The crowd starts chanting for us to kiss again. "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!"
"Are these people okay?" I whisper.
"Let's just give them what they want. Quick peck. Public service."
I want to protest, but there are cameras. Phones. Flashing lights. And Eli is looking at me like he's not entirely pretending anymore. My stomach does a dumb little flip. Traitor.
He leans in. And just like that—bam.
We kiss.
Again.
Except this one? This one is different.
Because this time, he doesn't pull away right away.
And I don't either.
It's not explosive. It's not cinematic. It's... still. Warm. Like curling into a blanket you forgot you loved. Like maybe you're not faking anything after all.
When we finally break apart, the world hasn't ended. But something else has.
My ability to pretend.
I blink up at him. He looks surprised too. But before either of us can say anything, a voice cuts through the noise:
"Well, isn't this cute?"
Oh, for the love of plot twists.
It's Sophie.
As in, Eli's ex. The one who dumped him for a tax attorney and then came back last year to "reconnect." She's holding a glass of champagne like it's a dagger and she's here to duel.
"Sophie," Eli says coolly. But his shoulders tense.
I stand there awkwardly holding a stupid bouquet and watching as two ridiculously attractive people exchange daggers with their eyes.
"You two are... dating?" she asks, raising a perfectly sculpted brow.
Eli nods. "Yep."
"Didn't take you long to bounce back."
Okay. Ouch.
I open my mouth to say something, maybe throw in a sarcastic jab or two, but Eli steps in front of me protectively. "You left. I moved on."
Sophie sips her champagne like she's drinking poison and trying to enjoy it. "Moved on this fast? Must be serious."
"We're very serious," I chime in, wrapping my arm around Eli's waist. "In fact, we've already named our future dog. Sir Barkalot."
Eli coughs to cover a laugh. "And a cat. Lady Meowington."
Sophie just stares, like we're malfunctioning robots. "Right. Well. Enjoy that."
She turns and walks away in slow, villainous fashion, probably planning a dramatic return in a helicopter or something.
Eli exhales. "Sorry about that."
"I liked her," I deadpan. "She seems sweet."
Eli chuckles, but it fades quickly. "She messed me up, Cleo. I really thought she was the one."
I blink. Vulnerability? From Eli?
"Guess I've got a type," he adds, nudging me. "Women who pretend not to like me."
"I don't pretend," I say quietly. "I really don't like you."
And somehow, we both laugh. Because it's easier than facing the actual thing sitting between us now—that this might not be fake anymore.
---
Later that night, we sneak out of the reception. I'm barefoot, carrying my heels. Eli's tie is around his forehead like he's cosplaying as a drunk ninja. We sit on the edge of the venue's fountain, dead tired and way too full of cake.
"You okay?" he asks.
I shrug. "I don't know. My ex saw me fake kiss my fake boyfriend. Your ex tried to psychically murder me with her eyes. I caught a cursed bouquet. It's been a day."
He chuckles. "Cleo?"
"Yeah?"
"If this wasn't fake… would that be a terrible thing?"
My heart jumps. And not in a cute way. More like it falls down a flight of stairs.
"I don't know," I whisper. "Would it?"
He looks at me like he wants to say something more, but then—
His phone buzzes.
He checks it. His smile vanishes.
"What is it?" I ask, sitting up.
He looks at me. Long pause. "I… I have to go."
"Go where?"
He doesn't answer.
Just stands up. Starts walking away.
Leaves me sitting at the edge of a fountain with my heels in my lap and my heart somewhere under the wedding cake.