“Don’t tell that to Grandma.” I giggle. “This is classic French steak au poivre, sir. Our chef has made this exclusively for you.” I hand him his plate all the while batting my eyelashes. “Would you like something to drink with it?”

Lukas’ mouth falls open as I stand there trying to act all cute, and then his eyes squint. “Is this how you serve dinner to all your male guests?”

“No.” I chuckle. “I don’t even do room service anymore, and I’m sure my staff is more professional.”

He swallows and then looks down at his plate. “Good. Otherwise, your guests will get crazy ideas of what more they’re gonna get tonight.”

My breath hitches at his words, wondering what idea he got.

12. Lukas

12

LUKAS

I devour the delicious food and the company.

Autumn tells me more and more about her plans for the inn, and I have a hard time thinking of her as the eighteen-year-old lanky girl I met four years back.

There’s a clarity, an excitement in her voice, though I don’t miss the occasional underlying nervousness.

“I have a big meeting in a few days,” she says after placing her plate back onto the table and picking up her beer, which is still more than half-full.

I don’t miss the way her face contorts every time she takes a sip. She might be old enough to drink, but beer is certainly not her favorite.

“With a guest?” I ask, picking up my own soda can.

When she offered me a drink while pretending to be a naughty bartender, I swear I wanted another Budweiser or even something stronger. But I shook my head, jerking my chin toward the sling, and she went inside and returned with a soft drink.

“It’s actually the bride and groom,” Autumn says slowly, and then her hands rub her arms.

My brain goes into high alert. “What is it?” Why is she suddenly tense?

“It’s a high-profile couple,” she whispers and I relax back in my chair.

She’s just nervous about the wedding.

“Have you heard the name Maya Castellanos?” she asks and I scrape through my memory to remember any common Greek friend our families could have but come up empty-handed.

When I shake my head, she asks, “Andy Bruno?”

I shake my head once again, and she asks, “Maddy?”

Before she can throw any more unfamiliar names at my face, I say, “No. I don’t know all three of these people. Are they related to us?”

She bursts into laughter. “I wish. And they are two people. Maddy is a name given to them by their fans. Maya and Andy. Hashtag Maddy.” She even puts her two fingers from one hand over the other, creating a hashtag sign.

“So they’re famous?”