By the time I turned eleven, I’d been married a dozen times.

I’d wed each of my four best friends, three dogs from the neighborhood, two stray cats, and my two very unwilling brothers. Cam was much more unwilling than the always fun Brandon. The last of my husbands was Brooklyn James, and he married me under total and complete protestations.

All of the weddings had been planned and ranged from simple to elaborate—elopements, garden affairs, and yes, even a royal gala, which was the one to Brooklyn.

My nanny always officiated and started out with “Dearly beloved.”

I loved that.

Amid Barbie dolls and stuffed animals, I wore the same white designer dress that my mother never knew was missing from her closet. With a veil made from a white pillowcase, I clutched dandelions and wild violets that I picked in Central Park, and said “I do.”

After the ceremonies, I always took pictures to capture the special moments, and then we ate cupcakes and drank lemonade.

My grandfather attended a few of my weddings, and he used his camera, the one he eventually gave to me, and pretended to be the photographer. He was always so much fun. And like him, I love taking photos of moments that are happy, ones that will last forever after.

Who knows, maybe they are the only thing that really ever does.

The little zing in my heart as I watch the people around me smile and laugh makes me wish I were the one capturing the moments that would last forever right now.

Snap.

Click.

As the professional photographer circles around the room, taking photos of the newly engaged couple and their guests, I watch, perhaps a little wistfully, and smile as he asks them to pose for the camera.

Snap.

Click.

Full of envy that is anything but welcome, I take a sip of my white wine and can’t help but look over my shoulder to escape the atmosphere, if only for a few seconds.

The Cliff is an amazing place. The interior is like a cream-colored box of luxury, yet not overstated in the least—with exactly the right amount of sparkle to add a touch of magic to it. Outside is the real gem, though. Just like its name, the restaurant sits high on top of a cliff and overlooks the Pacific Ocean. The deck is huge and provides a view to die for. Tonight, however, we are stuck inside due to the continuing poor weather conditions.

After having met nearly everyone and eaten our way through the cheese-and-cracker trays, hors d’oeuvre table, and filet station, I insisted on people-watching while Brooklyn made the rounds one more time.

Perhaps slightly buzzed, I stare out the giant window and reflect upon the beauty it allows to be seen so clearly. The rain is still falling, and I watch as it hits the ocean like sheets of glass. As the endless drops fall, my mind wanders again to the tall, black hat Brooklyn wore on our fake wedding day and the face of disgust he made when I kissed him.

Or at least I think I was the one who leaned in first to touch our lips together. Honestly, I can’t remember. The kiss was light, of course, just a peck, and nothing sexual in nature. Yet, it was my first kiss, and he was my last husband, the wedding game having grown old by the time I reached eleven and was ready to move on to movie stars and teen idols.

Laughter jolts me out of my childhood dreams, and it’s a sound I’ve become attuned to in the strangest way.

My once-upon-a-time husband has been charming his way around the room. Chatting animatedly with the bridal party, he is making all the women laugh, and on occasion blush. It’s the way he looks at you, the way he eases close, the way his breath blows across your cheek.

Flirty by nature, I don’t even know if he realizes what those dimples do to the women he talks to.

Body language is a strong aphrodisiac, and he has it in spades.

I press my lips to the rim of my wineglass, warming it, and look up to find him striding toward me. When he gives me that flirty grin, I’m not immune to it either, and suddenly I’m somewhere else entirely. A place where my phone has stopped its incessant buzzing and my life isn’t a shattered mess.

Here.

With him.

Brooklyn has a bottle of Guinness in his hand. He’s been holding it for as long as I’ve been watching him, but I haven’t seen him take a drink from it even once. “Hey,” he says, low and slow. The sound of his voice just another reason my brother calls him the pantydropper.

“Hey,” I say, “did you meet the girl you’ll be matched with in the wedding?” I sip more wine and stare at him, waiting for him to point her out.

“Yeah, I did. She had to work late and she just got here.”

“Well, who is she?” I ask over the rim of my glass when he doesn’t elaborate.

Brooklyn bobs his head over toward the dessert table, which is completely filled with decadent-looking pastries. “She’s Gigi’s cousin. The one in the white blouse and black skirt.”

Eyeing her, then him, I give him a bland but sweet smile, and inside I’m doing a little happy dance. Glasses. Hair pulled up perfectly tight. Little makeup. Flat shoes. “She might be one of those crazy librarian types with an insane sex life that she covers up by appearing to be all buttoned up, like Batgirl on Batman.”

Slipping a hand in his pocket, he grins. “She’s an accountant, so I doubt that.”

“Oh,” is all I can say.

He shrugs as if it doesn’t matter. “Tell me again what am I looking for?” he says with that deep voice of his directly into my ear.

This, at least, makes me laugh, and then my breath catches in the craziest way when I shift a little to answer. It’s because of how he is standing. He has one arm against the glass. The crease in his pants perfect, his broad shoulders strong, and his lean waist more emphasized in his dress slacks than the board shorts I’ve seen him wearing. Once I gather my wits, I answer in a flirty tone that is not much different from his own. “The obvious hidden among the unobvious.”

“Right,” he smirks, as if it all makes sense, and then for the first time tonight, he tips his bottle back and eyes the crowd with those blue brooding irises of his. “I’m on it, the obvious among the unobvious. How hard can that be?”

I laugh and finish off my wine. We took an Uber car here. Brooklyn knew with all of his friends from his old television series, Chasing the Sun, in the same room, he’d definitely be drinking, and I didn’t offer to be the designated driver because I knew I wanted to drink.

It must be that with his social obligations completed, he’s ready to people-watch and let loose. I eye the crowd too, and begin this little game with the grown-up spin on the marriage game from years ago.

His eyes shift from right to left, looking around the room, and then over to me. I can tell he needs me to elaborate. “Okay, so,” I say, “you’re looking for who is coupling up without anyone noticing. Who is flirting with whom. Sneaking glances when they think no one is looking or stealing touches on the sly,” I go on as a waiter refills my wineglass.

In my pointed-toe gold kitten heels, meant to match the thin gold belt around my waist, Brooklyn stands a whole head taller than I do. He’s long, lean, and extremely attractive, and I find myself stealing glances at him more than I am at the dessert table. Perhaps I’m the one he should be watching. When he takes another sip from his bottle, I find myself wondering what he tastes like, and thinking it might be better than a chocolate éclair.

Except there’s one small problem with that thought.

Something happened in Brooklyn’s room today that I’m not sure I like. Somehow, I went from the forbidden-sister zone to the friend zone. Sure, I like that his moody hostility seems to have evaporated, but I hate that the sexual tension that lingered in the air seems to have gone with it.

Now we’re buddies, looking around the elegantly decorated room with crystal champagne flutes and bottles of wine practically floating in the air, and playing a game. Like friends. And just friends.

Taking my attention off my own woes, I resume the game and ignore my vibrating phone. My father has been calling, my mother, and Landon, too. Just not Cam.

Landon and I talked to each other most of the afternoon.

He is nice.

Really nice.

Really, really nice.

And yes, somehow during our two-hour phone conversation earlier today, my Mr. Maybe-Right proved he is Mr. Right material. And the only thing I had to say to myself when we hung up was yes, he is so nice.

How anticlimactic.

Exasperated with myself, I blow the hair from my eyes and find the soon-to-be-wedded couple, who are working the room—on opposite sides. This intrigues me enough to pay attention to them. Although I don’t mention it to Brooklyn, I watch, taking another slow sip of my wine.

Chase Parker starred right beside Brooklyn James on Chasing the Sun. Not only did they surf together, but they also grew up in Beverly Hills together, attended the same private high school together, and both have parents in the business.

I did a little social media snooping this afternoon while on the phone with my Mr. Right.

Chase, unlike Brooklyn, has been trying his hand at acting. He’s landed some small parts here and there, but nothing noteworthy or earthshaking. He did, however, meet Gigi when he played Gigi’s boss’s boyfriend on Where’s My Latte?

Gigi, on the other hand, is the talk of the town as the feisty assistant to the established actress who seems to be the force behind her boss’s rejuvenated rise to fame.

Chase may not be an A-list actor yet, but he is most definitely movie-star material, with his Rock Hudson–turns–bad-boy good looks. He, like Brooklyn, is tall and lean. He has a wide mouth with full lips. Dark, laughing eyes. Smooth, perfectly shaped ears, one of which boasts a diamond stud. And, unlike Brooklyn, he has dark hair that is shaved close to his scalp.

Chase catches Gigi’s stare from across the room and his lips curve into a slow, sexy smile. In a way a bride-to-be should not act, she looks away, but a few moments later she looks back at him. He waggles his eyebrows at her and blows her a kiss. Instead of catching it, she rolls her eyes at him.

Not that I profess to be Dr. Love or anything, but something isn’t right.

Laughing good-naturedly, Chase crosses the room toward her, sitting in the chair beside her. He pulls her onto his lap and appears to be punishing her with his lips.

Gigi, though, doesn’t get all hot and bothered by his affections; instead, she ducks her head away from his tickling mouth and elbows him until he lets her slide from his lap to the seat beside him.

“What are you so intrigued with?” Brooklyn’s voice is so deep that it sounds like thunder, even though he’s whispering.

Hesitantly, I lift my glass toward the happy couple. “Them.”

“What about Chase and Gigi?”

I draw in a breath.

“Tell me,” he commands, and my pulse races a little, as it always does, when the alpha in him emerges.

“It’s just I don’t think she’s as into him as he is her.”

Brooklyn frowns. “What makes you say that? They’re so much in love that they don’t want to wait to get married.”

“Really?”

He nods. “They’re tying the knot in two weeks at some undisclosed remote location that we all will be helicoptered to in order to avoid the press.”

“Or gain its attention,” I mutter under my breath, and then I raise a brow. “What’s the rush?”

Brooklyn eyes me and then gives me a shrug. Such a guy thing not to question the whole rush-to-the-altar reasoning. “I guess they want to be together. I don’t know. It’s not something I thought to ask.”

“Appearances? Awards season?” Words I should keep to myself.

His frown deepens. “You think?”

“Maybe? I don’t know. I mean I’ve only been watching them for a few minutes—what do I know.”

“But what do you think?”

I speak honestly. “That something isn’t right, on her part.”

Brooklyn finishes the bottle that moments ago was full. “For his sake, I hope she’s just uncomfortable with PDA because Chase is a really great guy, and I’d hate to see him get burned.”

Seeing the unhappy twist of Brooklyn’s lips, I point to the dessert table. “What do you say we get something to eat?”

He quirks a brow, and goose bumps dapple my skin. “You’ve been eyeing it for a while now; I wondered how long it would take you to cave.”

“Shut up! You’ve been eyeing it too,” I tell him. And then I take his hand to lead him toward the sweetness, abandoning the game that somehow turned sour. The sparks I feel upon contact cause me to misstep, but I quickly recover.

And as we walk toward the pastries, I wonder the same thing as him…how long it will take him to cave…

It’s just that my thoughts aren’t about the food.