Page 24 of The Twelve-Hour Rule
“How do you feel about crashing a wedding with me?”
He leans forward a little and grins, that lopsided, impossible smile that feels almost like a challenge.
I blink. “What?”
“You heard me. It’s way more fun if you come with me.”
I stare at him, half laughing. “You’re serious?”
“Come on. It’s Christmas Eve. You can’t just hide up here while the rest of the world is dancing.”
I press my lips together, trying not to smile. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you,” he says, leaning in closer, his voice dropping. “C’mon, Sunshine. Stop overthinking.”
He’s not wrong. Because maybe I am. And maybe, for once—maybe twice or thrice at this rate—I don’t want to be safe.
CHAPTER 12
BEN
The music startsbefore the sun fully drops, a slow rumble of bass and brass spilling across the beach. The light changes minute by minute—first gold, then amber, then that impossible rose that makes everyone stop talking for half a breath. The bride appears at the end of the aisle, barefoot, veil tugged by the breeze.
I’m standing in the back corner with Sol, her shoulder just brushing mine. Every time the wind shifts, her dress flutters against my hand, and I feel it like static. She doesn’t look at me. She’s watching the couple, smiling faintly, and the setting sun hits her in a way that makes everything else fade out—chairs, palm fronds, even the noise of the ocean behind us.
When the officiant starts to speak, her eyes soften. I can’t tell if she’s thinking about her own wedding or trying not to. I glance at her profile and tell myself to stop wondering.
The kiss comes, and everyone claps, cheering loud enough to drown the surf. The band jumps in with something upbeat, bright and unrestrained. The guests scatter—toward the bar, toward the food, toward each other.
I should join the others, but I can’t move. Sol tilts her head back, watching fairy lights flicker on one by one across thebeach. The bulbs hum faintly, the filament catching little halos of gold.
“This is ridiculous,” she says, half laughing. “I’m sure any minute now security is going to come and drag me away.”
“If they do,” I say, leaning closer until my mouth is right by her ear, “I’ll tell them you’re my emotional support date.”
She laughs, low and quiet, and her shoulder brushes mine. I know it’s all a little jest, but something about that sound—unrestrained, easy—pulls at me.
We’ve been together all day. After breakfast, we took a nap, then headed out in search for more food. The hours stretched into afternoon, and we ended up on the beach, lounging on an extra wide chair.
I brought my book, though I barely read it. She napped for a bit, her hat pulled low over her face, the hem of her coverup flapping slightly in the breeze. At some point, she shifted in her sleep until her arm was draped across my chest. I remember thinking how strange it felt, being touched like that without needing to earn it.
Now, watching her under these lights, I can still feel the shape of her there—light, familiar, dangerous.
“Okay,” she says after a while, pulling me back. “I have to admit something.”
I turn to her. “You’re secretly on the guest list?”
She smirks. “I’m glad you convinced me to crash this party. Christmas Eve is usually a big deal for me.”
“Yeah?”
She nods, eyes flicking to the ocean. “My family’s in Argentina. It’s the one time of year we all used to make an effort. No matter where we were, we’d find a way to be together. When I moved to New York, I’d still fly back—red-eyes, connections, whatever it took.”
Her voice softens. “This is the first year I didn’t.”
Something in the air shifts, the laughter from the party dipping under the sound of waves. I feel like she’s finally trusting me with this information and I want to be present, listening, to every word she’s saying to me.
“Because of the divorce?” I ask quietly.
