“It’s funny, I never cry at weddings.” I know who it is before I turn around—that voice could probably wake me from the dead—and a jolt of electricity runs up my spine. But I’m shocked at how calm I am by the time I complete the turn and clip my gaze into his—that impossible green. “Apparently I do,” I say. “Leave it to Lucy Albright to look hotter than the bride.” He raises his eyebrows. The comment, which would have, not a couple years earlier, drenched everything inside me with crack-like lust, now seems typical in a way that makes me sad.
