“Aw.” Olivia wraps an arm around my waist. “I’m happy for you guys. Truly. Told you Greyson was a stand-up guy.”

“Just had to peel back all the growly, grumpy layers,” Gracie says.

I smile. “I don’t mind the growling.”

“Now that sounds like an interesting kink,” Olivia says.

“Almost as interesting as Charlotte’s broody kilted Scotsman kink,” I say. “I finished my fourth re-read of My Romp With the Rogue. Safe to say I’m obsessed. I don’t know how you do it, but I saw so much of myself—and my own story—in the characters.”

Olivia smiles. Her eyes twinkle, the way they always do when she talks about her books. “The magic of romance. It’s a real thing.”

“Totally,” Gracie agrees. “My Deal with the Duke was the book that gave me the idea—and the balls—to approach Luke about a little sexual deal of our own.”

I laugh. “You fell for his penis, and then you fell for him.”

“I think it happened all at once. Fortunately, there’s no separating one from the other when it comes to Luke.”

“The Luke Lady Dagger claims its last victim,” Olivia says.

We spend the morning and part of the afternoon in the suite. Chatting. Drinking mimosas (mine are, sadly, very light on the champagne) while getting fake eyelashes applied. Generally basking in our love for each other and our shared love for the happy couple.

My heart is so full and swollen it feels tender to the touch. It’s all I can do not to wince whenever I breathe.

The photographers arrive just as we’re finishing up a late lunch. Gracie and I, along with Olivia’s mom and aunt, help her into her dress and shoes.

We board a bus and head thirty minutes west of the city, to Wadmalaw Island where Rodgers’ Farms is located. I’m buzzing with excitement at the prospect of seeing Grey. I’ve been away from him for all of, what, six hours, but I miss him.

I step off the bus when we get to the farm, and there he is. The late afternoon light painting him in gauzy tones.

Greyson.

Standing by the barn door, like he’s waiting for someone. Hands clasped in front of him.

Oozing George Clooney deliciousness in a crisply cut tux. Broad shoulders filling out the jacket to perfection. Satin lapels giving his look an Old Hollywood-meets-hipster vibe. Dark hair combed in a classic swoop to the side.

Just enough scruff to make the insides of my thighs tingle. His scruff always catches me there as he makes his way down to my pussy.

Ford is beside him. A tattoo peeking out of the sleeve of his jacket as he reaches up and runs a hand through his hair. The motion reminds me so much of Greyson. The two of them are different—Ford is warmer, chiller, freer with his thoughts and emotions—but very much alike, too.

As an only child, I can’t help but be intrigued by that. Tickled by it, too.