And afterward, when all the women piled into several limos and headed out for the official bachelorette party, Marjorie was amongst them, doing her best to have fun. Somehow, she found a seat in the limo next to Brontë, who hugged her and didn’t say anything.

And Marjorie hugged her back, tears threatening.

They were quiet in each other’s arms for a long moment while the others chatted and drank around them. Then, Brontë leaned into Marjorie’s ear.

“I just want you to know,” she whispered, “That the manager told Logan that Mr. Cannon and his people—all of them—left the hotel earlier. You don’t have to worry about seeing any of them again.”

“Thank you,” Marjorie murmured woodenly. She knew Brontë was trying to make her feel better. And she supposed it should have made her feel better. Any more awkward confrontations were no longer something she had to worry about.

But she wasn’t any fun at the bachelorette party, and she ended up sitting at one of the back tables with pregnant Audrey, sipping water and listening halfheartedly to the other woman’s baby plans.

When she finally got back to her hotel room at three in the morning, she fell into bed and tucked her hands under her pillow . . .

Only to find one of Rob’s shirts. She’d slept in it last night and had worn it this morning to return to her room. It was a soft gray t-shirt, and when she put it to her nose, it smelled like sex and sweat and Rob.

Marjorie buried her face in it and burst into tears.

***

A wedding was no place for someone with a freshly broken heart, so Marjorie did the best she could to hide her misery. The good thing was that she never had a moment to herself. From the time she woke up the next morning, she was part of the wedding whirlwind. The bridesmaids had breakfast together again, and gifts were exchanged with the teary—but radiant—bride. Then, the women had hair and makeup done, last-minute fittings and stitchings into their gowns, and then they all took a limo to the far side of the island, where a massive white tent had been erected to shelter the wedding party as the others arrived for the outdoor wedding. The wedding itself would take place on a white pier built especially for the ceremony, with tiers of steps for the bridesmaids to stand on. A cobblestone path had been created through the sand and smoothed over for the high heels of the women, and the chairs for the guests were carved wooden benches placed in the sand with white and red umbrellas dotting the aisles.

It was a mixture of beach, extravagance, and wedding finery, and Marjorie had never seen anything like it. And yet, somehow, it fit Brontë and Logan perfectly.

Strains of Pachelbel began to float through the air, and pair by pair, a bridesmaid went down the aisle with a groomsman. First was tiny Angie with taller, lean Jonathan. Then, it was Marjorie’s turn to walk with Cade Archer, a man as gorgeous as he was kind. They emerged from the tent, Marjorie towering over him in her heels. She probably would have matched Jonathan’s height better, but for once, she didn’t care. If Rob had found her beautiful in tall heels—and for some reason, she believed that he had—then she knew she wasn’t the hideous storky monster she’d always envisioned. So when she went down the aisle with Cade, she walked proudly, her head held high, the white roses in her bouquet clutched in a hand that did not tremble.

They glided up the cobbled pathway down to the beach, then across the platform to the stairs. Cade led her to the spot where she was to stand, gave her a wink, and then moved to the opposite side to stand with the other groomsmen. Next up the aisle was sunny Maylee, white-blonde curls piled atop her head, beaming up at her fiancé, Griffin. The rest of the bridesmaids and groomsmen, Marjorie knew, were paired up in real life, and it was fun to watch them go down the aisle together, knowing they were picturing their own weddings. Maylee had a dreamy look on her face, while Griffin’s expression was carefully blank.

Next came Audrey and Reese, and Marjorie’s heart melted a little at the sight of them. Audrey was heavily pregnant, and her dress had been refitted half a dozen times before they’d given up on the mermaid skirt entirely and changed her dress to an empire waist, so her belly could expand as needed. Her shoes were flats, and she looked small and round and very very expectant. In contrast, the man at her side was utterly suave and gorgeous, his tuxedo fitting to perfection. They looked like an utter mismatch, except for the way he looked down at Audrey as she waddled down the aisle—like she was the most precious, perfect thing in the world. There was so much love shining from his eyes that it made Marjorie’s own gaze grow misty.

Then, Gretchen and Hunter appeared from the tent. Gretchen’s gown was a mirrored contrast to Marjorie’s own—white with just hints of red peeping from the skirts, and a red bouquet. The man at her side was . . . well, the kindest word was “disfigured,” Marjorie decided. One side of his face was twisted and reconstructed, and he looked extremely uncomfortable in front of the staring crowd. But as if she knew her own fiancé would be uncomfortable, Gretchen began to blow kisses, hamming it up for the crowd that laughed as she strolled up the aisle. Marjorie wondered how much of Gretchen’s obnoxious show was because of Gretchen and how much was to take people’s attention off of her man, who preferred quiet instead of crowds.

Once Gretchen swanned her way down the aisle, she gave Hunter a quick kiss and a slap on the ass before he returned to his designated spot as best man, which made the audience laugh again.

Then, the music changed, and all eyes went to the back of the path, anticipating the bride. Marjorie kept her gaze on Logan’s face—she’d seen Brontë in her all-white lace mermaid gown with a floor-length veil and a waterfall of red roses as her bouquet. She looked utterly gorgeous and serene, but what Marjorie wanted to see was Logan’s expression when he saw his bride coming down the aisle.

She knew the exact moment the bride appeared, just by watching him. Logan’s cool expression changed. His eyes lit up like stars, and then shone with pride. A small, private smile tugged at his mouth, his gaze completely and utterly focused on one woman. Marjorie felt the insane urge to cry again at the sight of it. Would she ever have someone look at her like that?

Rob did, her traitorous mind told her, but she shushed it. Rob was a liar and a horrible person. She couldn’t be with someone like that. Heart aching, she watched as Brontë glided up the aisle, and her father passed her hand to Logan’s. The groom still looked to be bursting with pride, and the bride radiant, as the minister began to speak.

For all the preparations and endless weeks of work, it seemed like the ceremony was a short one. Logan and Brontë had made their own vows, peppered in with quotes from Plato, Aristotle, and a few more of Brontë’s favorite philosophers. The rings were exchanged, and then Logan drew his bride against him in a long, sultry kiss that made Marjorie ache all over again.

Cheers exploded as the couple left the altar, hand in hand, and then everyone stirred to life once more. The wedding was over officially, but the party had just begun. And for a heart-weary bridesmaid, the day was far from done. Most of the guests returned to the resort to await the reception, but the bridal party remained for endless photo after endless photo. Marjorie’s smile began to ache and felt more and more forced. She wanted nothing more than to return to her room and hide, but this was Brontë’s day, and she was going to suffer in silence and enjoy herself for her friend’s sake.

Eventually, they headed back to the resort, where the reception was picking up steam. The beautiful, ten-tiered cake was the centerpiece of the table, and there was an open bar and a dance floor. Marjorie looked longingly at the open bar—how nice it would be to get sloppy drunk and forget her heartache!—but she skipped it and sat at her assigned table instead.