Page 20 of Love, Take Two

"That's the most romantic thing I've heard all week. You were basically having foreplay in front of a bunch of strangers."

"It wasn't foreplay!" I protest, though my face is burning because Derek said almost exactly the same thing.

"Vada," Maya says with the patience of someone explaining something obvious to a child, "you shared food off each other's forks. You savored flavors together while standing close enough to kiss. I saw the video Erika posted—you two looked like you were in your own private world."

A soft knock on the terrace door interrupts Maya's replay.

"Come in," I call, and Emory appears wearing board shorts and a tank top showcasing exactly how much his travel lifestyle has improved his already impressive physique.

"Hey," he says, then notices Maya with obvious surprise. "Oh! Hi, I'm sorry, I didn't realize you had company.

"Emory, this is my best friend Maya," I say, watching Maya's face as she gets her first in-person look at the guy who's been causing my emotional chaos. "Maya, this is Emory."

"The famous college boyfriend," Maya says with a smile that's warm but assessing. "I've heard a lot about you over the years."

"All bad, I hope," Emory says with charm.

"Depends on what you call bad," Maya replies, and I can see her cataloging everything about him, the way he carries himself, how his attention keeps drifting to me.

"I just wanted to check if you’re ready to go," Emory says, turning his attention to me.

"Actually," Maya says with the expression of someone who's just had a brilliant idea, "I'd love to watch this beach volleyball tournament. I need to get settled in my room first. "

"We haven't actually been put on a team together," Emory says, glancing at me with something that looks like anticipation mixed with nervousness.

"But we probably will be," I add, because Erika's seating charts and activity pairings have been relentlessly couples-focused since we arrived.

"This should be entertaining," Maya says with obvious glee.

Twenty minutes later, we're walking down to the beach where the resort staff has set up a professional volleyball tournament complete with regulation nets, sand that's been perfectly groomed, and seating areas for spectators. The late afternoon light is gorgeous, and someone has clearly put serious thought into making this both competitive and camera-ready.

Erika is already holding court near the registration area, documenting everything for her Instagram Live audience with enthusiasm.

"Hey, you two" she calls out when she spots us approaching. "We're doing team assignments, and I was hoping to pair you together. You know, keep this going as cute volleyball partners!"

The way she says "cute" suggests this pairing is less about athletic compatibility and more about social media content potential.

"Sounds fun," I say diplomatically.

"Excellent!" Erika says, making notes on her clipboard. "Team Wise-King versus... let's see..." She scans the other couples with the expression of someone orchestrating maximum drama. "Team Patterson-Foster!"

Derek and Marcus, the two groomsmen who've been comically paired together, wave from across the sand with the enthusiasm of people who've been drinking since the wine tasting ended.

"This should be interesting," Emory murmurs to me as we accept our matching blue tanks that read "Paradise Cove" in elegant script.

"Define interesting," I whisper back, acutely aware of how good he looks in athletic wear and ocean lighting.

"Well, Derek's been drinking since noon, Marcus pulled his back during yoga yesterday, and we..." He pauses, like he's not sure how to finish that sentence.

"We what?" I ask, though I'm pretty sure I know what he was going to say.

"We're probably going to be ridiculously good at this," he admits with a grin that makes my heart skip.

He's not wrong. Within the first five minutes of warm-up, it becomes obvious that we move together like we've been playing volleyball as partners for years. When I set up a spike, Emory is exactly where he needs to be without any verbal communication. When he serves, I'm positioned perfectly to support whatever develops.

"Holy shit," Maya says from the sideline seating area, loud enough for other spectators to hear. "You two are like volleyball mind-readers."

Other teams are struggling with basic coordination—calling plays, bumping into each other, missing obvious setup opportunities. But Emory and I fall into a rhythm that feels as natural as breathing.

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