Page 36 of Beauty and the Beach

“Maggie,” Holland groans, hurrying toward me, heelsclick-clackingagainst the paved stone path. “I’m going tokillher.”

I keep my head turned the opposite direction until Holland reaches the bench, her cheeks pinker than they werethirty seconds ago. She mutters murderously under her breath as she leans down and fumbles with the jewelry case and the undergarments; I hear her shove them back in the large paper bag, at which point I finally deem it safe enough to look.

I recite the seventeen times tables until the photographer is ready for me, and by that time I’m calm, collected, and not thinking about lacy undergarments.

“Okay, groom, come stand next to your bride-to-be,” she says with a smile once we’ve relocated to a different part of the garden. It’s pretty, but flowers all pretty much look the same to me. “You guys are going to hold hands and look at each other. Both of you face forward.”

I glance at Holland just as she glances at me, and I see the faintest grimace of distaste flash over her features before she smooths her expression. I shouldn’t be annoyed, because I feel the same way, but I am; I roll my eyes and then hold out my hand to her.

She stares at it for a second, the midmorning sun turning her curls from blonde to fiery gold. I don’t know anything about makeup, but I can tell her lashes are darker and longer, fluttering as her gaze flits from my face to my hand and then back again. I wiggle my hand impatiently, until finally she takes it.

She slides her hand into mine, her touch hesitant, her skin soft. It doesn’t feel likeherat all; she’s never soft or hesitant with me.

“Good,” the photographer says, practically bouncing with energy now. “Good, good. This is great. These are going to be so great. I know we’re only doing two couple poses, but they’re going to be amazing, all right? They’re going to be so good.”

“Are we only doing two poses?” Holland says to me out ofthe corner of her mouth. Relief seeps from her words, the same relief I feel when I remember that I booked a mini session for this exact reason.

“Yes,” I say. “Two poses and then we’re done.”

Her shoulders relax slightly. “Perfect.” It would seem I’m not the only one reluctant to put on a loving act for a camera. “In that case…” Her grip on my hand tightens. “Let’s get this over with.”

I just roll my eyes, because that’s what I’ve been saying all along.

The photographer snaps photo after photo as Holland and I look at each other, fake smiles on our faces. I’m not sure anyone would be able to tell, or at least anyone who didn’t know us well—but then, one thing I can say about Amsterdam is that Iknowher.

There are no lines at the corners of her eyes, no dimples in her cheeks. That smile is fake, fake, fake.

Will she ever give me one of her real smiles? It might be nice to see one, just once. This baring of the teeth is painful to look at.

“Your eye is twitching,” she mutters as the sun rises higher in the sky and the photographer continues to call directions at us.

“No it isn’t,” I say immediately—but I think she’s probably right. I can’t keep this facial expression much longer. “And if it is, it’s just because your hand is gross and sweaty, Spinster Ham.”

“Spinster Ham?” she says under her breath, her smile fermenting into something sour. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“I know,” I say. “But you inspired me to step up my game when you called meFlamingothe other day, and I liked how it sounded.” My fake pleasant expression transforms intosomething slightly more real.

“Amsterdam, Spinster Ham, Dumpster Ma’am, Gangster Glam—you have too much time on your hands, Titmouse.”

“Don’t forgetHamster Slam,” I say.

“All right, couple, these are looking amazing,” the photographer calls, and I blink, looking at her.

I forgot she was there.

“You guys look so good. So, so good,” she gushes, looking down at her camera screen. “Ugh. So good.”

I don’t see how those photos could possibly look good; the realization makes me wince. We got carried away, but we need to stay focused and make these convincing. “My family needs to buy this,” I say to Holland, my jaw tight.

“I know,” she says, her voice grudging. “They will.”

Some of the tension leaks out of my shoulders.

“Let’s move on to pose number two,” the photographer says. “We’re going to do a really adorable cheek-kiss shot. So groom, I want you to stand behind the bride—let’s move over here, actually, because I want to get this sun coming through, good, perfect—stand behind the bride, groom, and then you’re going to wrap your arms around her waist from behind and kiss her on the cheek.”

Kiss her on the cheek?

I clear my throat. “Fine,” I say with a nod. I move toward Holland, approaching her from behind; she watches me over her shoulder, her expression blank.

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