Page 29 of What's in a Kiss?

“The glue is dry on the programs. They’re down to fan your grandparents.”

“Liv—”

“And the replacement extension cord for the violin magically worked,” I gesture toward the band setting up behind us. “It isn’t brown like the one that didn’t work, but I think sound trumps vision in this equation—”

“Olivia,” Eli cuts in. “Yogi Dan is lost.”

I blink. “Who?”

“The officiant,” Eli says.

This was Glasswell’sonecontribution today.

“What do you mean, ‘lost’?” I say.

“Poetic, right?” Masha says, her hairline dotted with sweat. “The person supposed to guide us into the next phase of our relationship has no idea where he is. And if he’s still not here when Babushka and her rabbi show up—”

“Easy, Mash,” Eli soothes, putting an arm around her waist. “I’ll handle Babushka and the rabbi.”

“And I’ll find Yogi Dan,” I say, my eyes darting around the beach, which suddenly looks crammed with millions of people who aren’t yogis. Well, this being Santa Monica, a couple hundred probably are.

“I’ve got him.” A resonant voice slices through the tension.

I turn and face Glasswell in a tux. I try but find no fault in the sight of him. His barn door is sealed, his hair is styled differently than on his show, different than last night, and for a moment he looks like he did in high school.

“He’s at a cannabis café called Milo and Lhüwanda’s,” Glasswell says, opening a map on his phone.

“On it,” I say, swiping Glasswell’s phone and tearing off toward the boardwalk.

“What the hell!” he says, and tries to grab it back. But my adrenaline high is far beyond his reach.

“This is my responsibility!” Glasswell says, catching up.

As soon as we’re out of earshot from Masha and Eli, I do my patented Glasswell spin. “That explains why it’s completely fucked!”

“You don’t know what Yogi Dan looks like, let alone how to talk him down from Mars.”

“And you do?”

“He’s an old acquaintance,” Glasswell says. “And very hard to book for weddings.”

“All I know is he’s the one piece falling through.”

“If you want him to officiate the wedding, you’ll let me handle it.” Glasswell looks me up and down. “He’ll take one look at your energy and migrate to another plane.”

“Look back there.” I point to the beautiful, beaded wedding canopy, to the electric string quartet tuning up, to the pupusa truck emanating aromatic steam. “I did that. Just like she wanted. And what did you do? You made her cry.”

“You win the wedding, Dusk. Is that what you need to hear?”

“What I need is for you to let me fix this.”

I don’t waste time letting him answer. Life’s too short for bullshit from men. I kick off the heels I’d just strapped on and run for the shortcut alley behind the next light-blue lifeguard stand.

I’m a quarter mile down the boardwalk when a gust of wind blows my carefully crafted hair into my face. I look and see Glasswell approaching on an electric rental scooter.

“Want a ride?” he says like he thinks he’s James Bond.

“Pass.”

---