Page 82 of Don't Date Your Nemesis

“So,” I started, the microphone letting out a tiny, sharp squeal of feedback that made me wince.

The air in the ballroom was thick with the scent of a thousand white peonies and the expensive, bubbly tang of flowing champagne.

“Ethan asked me to keep this short because, and I quote, ‘Liam, you talk too much when you’re nervous, and we have a cake to cut before the sun rises.’”

Laughter rippled through the crowd, a warm, buzzing sound that did nothing to settle the frantic pounding of my heart against my ribs.

“He’s right. I do. Usually, it takes a whistle and a starting block to get me to shut up, so I’ll make this quick.” I looked at Ethan and Kiara, sitting at the head table. Ethan’s hand was clamped over Kiara’s like a lifeline, a sight that was strangely sweet for a guy who once tried to convince me that eating raw eggs was a valid personality trait.

“I’ve known Ethan since we were kids. We learned to swim together, got in trouble together, and I’ve spent the better part of two decades being his unofficial bodyguard, stylist, and therapist. He’s the closest thing I have to a brother, even if his taste in music is objectively horrifying.”

Ethan raised his glass, a broad, goofy grin splitting his face.

“And Kiara…” I turned to her, the sparkling lace of her dress catching the blinding overhead spotlights. “You’re the miracle who makes him better. The one who calls him out when he’s being an absolute idiot. The woman who loves him even when he leaves a trail of damp, chlorine-scented towels on the floor and forgets to text back for days because he’s busy overthinking his backstroke.”

“That’s so specific!” Kiara laughed, the sound bright and melodic over the clinking of silverware.

“Because it’s true.” I paused, the cold condensation of my champagne flute slick against my palm. My eyes drifted, almost against my will, until they found Deepika in the crowd. She was a vision in the dress that hugged every one of her dangerous curves, her dark hair a silken curtain over her shoulders. “I used to think love was about finding the perfect person. Someone who checked all the boxes on a pristine little list. Someone who never annoyed you, never picked a fight, and fit seamlessly into your life like a well-tailored suit.”

Deepika was watching me, her expression unreadable, her dark eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight from the tables.

God, she’s breathtaking.

“But watching Ethan and Kiara, and experiencing a bit of... chaos lately, I’ve learned it’s about finding the person who makes you want to be better even when you're at your worst. Even when they drive you absolutely and unbearably insane.” I swallowed hard, the dry, crisp taste of the wine lingering on my tongue. “Even when they know all your worst qualities—your arrogance, your stubbornness, your inability to admit when you're wrong—and they choose you anyway.”

Her dark eyes were glistening now, and I took a deep breath, the heat of the room suddenly feeling a lot more personal. The room had gone quiet.

“To Ethan and Kiara.” I raised my glass high, the liquid shimmering. “And to second chances. To the kind of love that starts as hate and turns into something real.”

Applause erupted around me, and glasses clinked.

I drank, not tasting the champagne, and watching Deepika wipe her eyes, smiling with her cousins.

After the first dance of Ethan and Kiara swaying to some Sinatra song that had half the room crying, the wedding party joined in.

I extended my hand to Deepika, and she took it without hesitation.

We had practiced it for hours in my living room, both in sweatpants, stepping on each other’s toes until we figured out the rhythm. She had complained the entire time, threatening to give up, but we both kept practicing it until we got it right.

Now, dancing under string lights with the smell of roses everywhere, it felt effortless.

“Our contract ends after the San Diego wedding,” I said quietly. But I don’t want it to end.

She looked up at me and whispered, “It does.”

“What if it didn’t?”

She took a sharp breath. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying this doesn’t feel fake anymore.”

My jaw clenched when I saw the look on her face. Is it pity? Sadness?

“Forget I said anything.”

I stepped back, breaking our dance, and walked away before she could respond.

I grabbed a champagne flute from a passing server and downed it in one swallow.