Page 81 of Edge of Stars

“But it didn’t,” I inject before scooting against Maximus with mushy affection. I kick out my back heel, ensuring that my gown’s small train is accentuated: a move that Veronica taught me years ago. The crowd surges forward, their swoony awwws layered over a new flurry of flashbulbs to capture head-to-toe shots.

“Fortunately, there was an experienced mariner who happened to be on site,” Maximus explains, somehow managing to ignore the small snicker that Kell and Jesse share. “And that individual quickly shuttled us to safer ground.”

Mistress Radio France absorbs that with a knitted brow and a glance at her smart pad. “There are many ceremony guest accounts, monsieur. None of them mentioned this mighty hero of yours.”

By the skin of my teeth, I hang on to neutral composure as Maximus regards her like a student who’s debating the social relevance of Dickens.

“Curious,” he returns, still going for the you’re-stepping-in-it-more-than-me bearing. “But maybe it had to do with people being afraid for their lives and all. I mean, just a theory.”

As the journalist obviously opts for holding her tongue, another hand goes up off to our left. The man it belongs to is swarthy and stylish enough to likely be from here or Athens, but his question bears a London accent.

“And, as you are certainly well aware, all the guests are now accounted for, save both your mums. Any flint for that fire, eh?”

My husband’s gaze takes on a new flare. Though he disguises it well, flipping on the switch for a larger smile, others have probably noticed his hitch if I already have. Media loves the minor stuff. Yet another Veronica-ism to make me long for her in more ways than I ever thought I would.

“Sorry,” I offer, almost too cheerful about my own front. “No flint at all, I’m afraid. The steel’s not much either. Veronica Valari and Nancy Kane are both…resting.” I’m able to look as many of them in the eyes as I want. It’s a stretch, but not a lie.

“Exactly.” Maximus thanks me in the best possible ways, with a comforting constriction at my waist and a sincere stare of his own. “Most of you know that things were a whirlwind before the wedding. And then, with the day itself making a NASCAR crash look like a fun alternative…”

Quiet but nervous laughs join the rustles of the Mediterranean winds through the palms and cypress trees. The Brit is kind enough to assure, “We can all only imagine. Please accept our collective wishes for their comfort and continued vitality.”

“We’ll relay that,” Maximus says, tipping his head with sincerity. “Thank you. Honestly.”

“As long as we’re on that subject…”

I hinge away from him to reach for the microphone now, summoning the boldness from one more golden nugget from my mother. When there’s a real point to be made, don’t be afraid of your megaphone.

“We want to again convey our thanks to all of you,” I state, making sure the amplification is on. “I see a lot of familiar faces here, because you were so supportive and happy about everything despite Maximus and me going for that NASCAR speed record on our courtship.”

After everyone indulges in some volume with their laughter this time, I conclude, “Since the wedding was probably…ermmm…a little tricky to write about, we wanted to make up for it by inviting you all to share in a little of the honeymoon instead. We hope you’ve had a chance to sign up for some of the activities tomorrow, though you only get Maximus and me for the reception and dinner tonight. It’s still a honeymoon, after all!”

More rounds of happy cheers are in order, and a good part of the crowd salutes me with upheld glasses. But when their free hands shoot up too, demanding they be next pick for interview questions, Kell strides over to take the mic from me.

“Mingling time now, ladies and gentlemen. My big sister was trying to phrase it more tactfully, but the dakos is screaming my name.”

I lead the legions in applauding her for the honest humor but am amazed she means every word, down to flagging down the nearest waiter and the appetizers he bears.

“Yesss. Efcharistó.” She beams an enchanting smirk at the already smitten server while loading up a napkin with the bruschetta-style mini toasts. “How many does everyone else want?”

“Load me up, starfighter,” Jesse says, instantly giving me a new fixation—my sister’s flustered flush—in place of at least half the sharp twinges along my nervous system.

But only half.

The other ones still grab me with frequent fire, but I don’t try to fight them. I need the heat more than ever now. The prods that remind me this part is only the beginning of our plan. The setup of our fight.

The bait we’ve placed in the trap.

Luckily, chomping down some appetizers, as delicious as they smell, is not a requirement for this to work. Even Kell gets that after downing only two of the cheese- and tomato-covered toastettes, opting to give hers away to some willing reporters as we move through the crowd for more gripping and grinning with everyone.

“Ugh,” she utters in my ear. “I was ready for those all afternoon. Why do I want to throw them up now?”

I give her a sympathetic glance. “Because you’re discovering that stress eating isn’t as fun as they all say?”

“Valid point.” The feedback is from Jesse, who rolls up next to us on a stretch of the patio overlooking the resort’s amphitheater and yoga lawn. “Unless Flamin’ Funyuns are part of the mix.”

Kell loops a tight frown at us both. “Stressed isn’t a usual part of my vocabulary.” Though she looks like it’d feel better to snarl it, she leans into the contemplation with a thoughtful sip from the flute she grabs off another grinning waiter’s tray. “I don’t think I like it very much.”

“One out of ten stars,” I drawl. “Would not recommend for daily usage.”