The Wedding Crasher by Mia Sosa

I should have purchased the lotion from the hotel spa and continued on my
clueless way. Instead, I’m now rooted to the landing between the second and
third floors, intruding on a private moment between the bride and a man who
isn’t the groom.
“You don’t love him,” the man says, his blue eyes overly bright and his tie
askew. Then he reaches up to caress her face.
The bride, a vision worthy of any wedding magazine layout, steps back,
easily dodging his attempt to touch her. “I never said I did.”
Good Lord. She’s not even denying the accusation? If my mother were
here, she’d gasp, place a hand across her forehead, and say, “Que escândalo!”
She’d be right too. Because this? This is an epic scandal.
“Then don’t do it,” the man urges. “You’ll regret this for the rest of your
life.”
“Give me another reason not to go through with it. One that counts.”
He gestures around them. “Where the hell is all of this coming from, Ella?”
She paces in the small space, twisting her perfectly manicured hands and
mumbling incoherently, her face scrunched up in distress. Several beats later,
she stills and takes a steadying breath. “I’m in love with you, Tyler. The
question is, are you finally ready to admit your feelings for me?”
Holy shit. Is she serious?
Not-the-groom closes his eyes and says nothing, giving her the answer she
wasn’t hoping for.
The nosy part of me wants to watch what happens next; the sensible part of
me knows I can’t stand here forever. Think, Solange. Think. Okay, okay, I
suppose I can pretend to be oblivious to what’s unfolding and slink past
them. Since the bride’s makeup was already done when I arrived, Ella and I
haven’t crossed paths, so I could make myself scarce in the dressing suite,
and she would never know her secret’s been compromised. Or I could tiptoe
back to the door on the third floor. Considering they’re totally engrossed in
each other, I may be able to leave undetected.
I eye the stairs, then turn my head and stare at the door. Decisions,
decisions. But hang on a minute. I didn’t do anything wrong. This is the
bride’s mess, not mine. And I want that fucking lotion—it’s magical. Plus, I
need time to plan my next move.
Because the apparently unlucky groom isn’t a stranger. Not exactly. Dean
and I haven’t met yet, but he’s the best friend of Lina’s boyfriend, and loyalty
to my cousin (along with basic decency) dictates that I consider whether to