You May Kiss the Bridesmaid - Camilla Isley Page 0,40
these new realizations through our crowded breakfast, until Summer gets up to refill her plate and I subtly follow.
I wait until we’re near the pastry counter to lean into her body, appreciating the jolt of surprise that shakes her, and the consequent relaxation when she realizes it’s me. The food tables are all placed behind a corner and no one else is around, thus granting me a little more flirting space.
“Off to the spa soon?” I say.
“Mm-hm,” she hums.
“I feel sorry for those massage therapists.”
“Why?” She frowns, popping a bite-sized donut into her mouth.
I wiggle my fingers. “They’ll have to compete with these babies.”
“Ah, I can give you a rematch anytime you want.”
Summer piles more sweets on her plate and turns to walk back to our table. I make to follow, but, as if sensing I’m trailing her like a puppy, she stops and looks at me over her shoulder. “You’d better fill a plate with something.”
She blows me a kiss and goes without waiting for me.
I grab an empty plate and pile it with pastries from the closest tray, before returning to our table. But the moment I sit down, Logan looks up at me with a frown.
“Since when do you eat raisins?”
I stare down at my plate and recoil in horror at finding it filled with mini cinnamon swirls riddled with raisins.
“I—I don’t mind them that much lately.” And to prove my point, I grab one of the mini buns and bite half off. The pastry and cinnamon aren’t that bad, but there’s no escaping the chewy, disgusting, too-sweet taste of the raisins. There’s a ton of them, too, ruining a perfectly good breakfast treat and making me want to puke in my mouth. But I can’t, so I try to keep a straight face and, like a martyr, swallow.
Logan shrugs and goes back to eating his eggs, ignorant of the trial he just put me through, while Summer has to hide a smile behind her mug of coffee.
I make the other half of the pastry discreetly disappear in my napkin, and wash away the awful aftertaste with coffee.
***
A few hours later, I’m wandering around the spa’s indoor pool with contraband hidden in my robe’s pocket.
Spa guests are not supposed to bring phones into the relaxation area, but I’m half bored to death and my only hope for a distraction would be a text from Summer. Little chance of getting one, as I’m sure phones are also banned on the female side of the spa, but what can I say? I’m an optimist by nature.
Half an hour later, while I lie in a chaise sipping my third herbal tea of the day, a soft vibration shakes my pocket. I check the screen and see with a jolt of pleasure that it’s a text from Summer:
Not a fan of raisins, uh?
Leaning on my side to shelter the phone from view with my back, I compose a quick reply.
They’re the worst invention ever made
Why would someone in their right mind take nice grapes and turn them into shriveled down dead droppings set free into the world to ruin all the best foods?
Summer sends me an emoji of a crying and laughing cat.
I hate them only when I grab a cookie thinking it’s chocolate chips and find raisins instead
Oh, that’s the worst
How’s the spa day going?
I snuck into the locker room
I already had my massage and if I stayed in a Jacuzzi any longer I’d be sprouting gills
Can you get away unnoticed?
Why? Can you?
Say the word and I’m outta here
Let me check where my sister’s at real quick
The screen remains black for a few unbearably long minutes, before another series of texts arrive in rapid succession:
Winter is getting her massage now
Then she has a facial, waxing, and a full mani-pedi booked
She’ll be busy for hours
My room or yours?
Fourteen
Summer
The massage and spa day were relaxing, but not as relaxing as Archie taking care of me multiple times afterward.
I stretch in bed, unwilling to get up, but I must.
“I have to go,” I say.
“Mmm?” Archie raises his head from its resting spot on my chest. “Why?”
“Another lovely dinner with my parents.”
Technically, this should’ve been a meal for both the groom and bride’s families, but since Logan sadly lost his parents young, my dad will be the sole host.
“Oh, yeah,” he says, dropping his chin just below my collarbone, “it’s on the schedule.”
I look down at him. “You mean your schedule, too?”
Archie’s hands move to my sides, threatening to tickle me. “Don’t tell me