Vacation Wars

by Meghan Quinn

Genres: Romance; Contemporary Romance; Friends to lovers

Synopsis

From USA Today and Amazon Charts bestselling author Meghan Quinn comes a fun, sexy story about the family dynamics that can stand in the way of rekindling a romance.

Prepared for a good time, Tessa is thrilled to spend the weeks before her sister’s wedding at their family’s favorite vacation spot: Santorini. Sandy beaches, stonewashed houses, attractive men—it’s heaven.

But Tessa’s idea of a girls’ trip comes to a screaming halt when her sister thinks it’s high time Tessa finds some love herself. Unfortunately, Tessa forgot about the deal she made back in high school: she has to find her soulmate before her sister’s wedding. Or else.

As she dodges suitors and her sister’s pranks, Tessa finds an ally in the oh-so-dreamy Myles, her childhood crush who just so happens to work at the resort. But Myles is dealing with some family conflict of his own. He’s elated at being reunited with Tessa, but his father’s refusal to acknowledge his interest in the family business and relegating him to only grunt work casts a dark cloud.

As Tessa and Myles help navigate their way through their families’ antics, they begin to realize that their past feelings may have a future—if only they can turn their island fantasies into something real.

 

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Release date: April 18, 2023

Publisher: Montlake

Print pages: 427

Sample

PROLOGUE

Hey.

I have a story to tell you.

A story of untapped love.

I know this might be an unconventional way of beginning an epic love affair, but sometimes we storytellers must break up our formulaic narratives. Don’t worry, though; you’ll get up close and personal with the main characters quickly.

But as the author, I need to lay the groundwork first because this story is different.

Ever heard of the Greek gods Zeus and Hera? Some might say theirs was a legendary love affair, and sure, if they weren’t siblings who married, maybe I would agree. But this love story I’m about to get into is greater than Zeus and Hera.

Greater than Hades and Persephone because it didn’t involve a kidnapping against a woman’s will, then dragging her to the fiery underworld, where she was forced to live with her pitiless husband and the souls of the dead.

And dare I say . . . greater than Poseidon and Amphitrite? Shape-shifting into a dolphin to convince the love of his life to spend eternity with him, not needed—although man-dolphin does have an odd appeal to it.

This couple were like Penelope and Odysseus. They didn’t need the fancy things like a sibling connection or a slippery porpoise to convince them they were meant to be. Yup, I said it.

Eternal love.

Long-distance romance.

Obstacles in their way.

Unwanted suitors knocking at Penelope’s door.

A bitch named Helen who is trying to ruin it all—technically the bitch isn’t named Helen in this book, but you get the idea.

This story clocks all the way back to 1999. Whoa, I know, ancient times, am I right? Word on the street is people suffered through dial-up internet back then. How they survived we’ll never know. But this is when our main characters, Tessa and Myles, saw each other for the very first time.

You see, Tessa lives in America: New York City, to be exact. She’s your run-of-the-mill wallflower with a heart for all things numbers—can you say data nerd? She has a relentless penchant for reading—fantasy lover, this one—and has spent her entire life supporting her twin sister’s endeavors, which includes assisting in the following: a run for class president (won), Little Miss Darling of New York (won), and multiple tries at holding the Guinness world record for bouncing on a pogo stick (never, ever beat the record, not even close).

And then there’s our hero, Myles. A Greek citizen, but quite the traveler, bouncing between America and Greece. A single child who’s been homeschooled his whole life, he’s full of worldly knowledge, has a deep desire for hummus, and has been improperly known as “the Bulge” by our heroine and her sister. His family owns Anissa’s Palace Beach Resort in Santorini, the same resort where Tessa’s family vacations every year.

Can you see where I’m going with this?

They’ve crossed paths more than once. Let me give you a quick-and-dirty breakdown.

In 1999, they were six, and this was the first sighting. Tessa was playing tag with her sister on the beach. Myles was collecting seashells for the mosaic coffee table project he was helping his mom with. Their eyes connected, the wind whipped around them, waves crashed, and . . . nothing happened. They moved on with their lives.

Then the summer of 2004 came along. Hormones started revving up, and even though they’d seen each other every summer, they’d never really thought about one another—until Tessa stepped out on the beach in a hot-pink one-piece bathing suit. Myles noticed her. Tessa noticed Myles. Hearts floated from their eyes and into the air. It was a sight to behold. And that, my friends, is when the crushes developed.

Summer of 2006, they had their first real interaction. Now, this is not to say they hadn’t been watching each other from a distance, but this was the first time they’d spoken to each other. It was a blustery day on the island of Santorini. An avid kite flier, Tessa was attempting to get her frog kite in the air, the very kite she brought with her every summer. As she was winding the kite string back up, a gust of wind knocked her straw hat off her head. Nimble, with catlike reflexes, Myles snatched the hat from the air before it could take off into the Aegean Sea. He held it out to her and said, “Your hat.” She blinked. She snatched. She ran.

Fast-forward to 2008, the year Tessa had food poisoning. Fresh from the plane, the family stopped by a quaint food truck on the side of the road on the way to the resort. Tessa settled for the chicken gyro, but the gyro didn’t settle well with Tessa. Bound to her room for half the trip, she ordered room service while her family was out enjoying the pool. A living zombie in a holey shirt—the only thing that offered her comfort—she answered the door to a bright-eyed Myles and a wheely cart. Our hero had started a new job, but little did he know, the woman of his dreams would be on the other side of the door, looking like she’d just survived a postapocalyptic attack. Naturally, Tessa was horrified, while Myles wheeled in her room service cart. “Nice day,” he said.

“I . . . I . . . I have to stay close to the toilet,” she replied. He smiled. She considered stuffing her head in a pillow.

And, of course, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the day Tessa discovered . . . the bulge. It was the summer of 2013. A fresh twenty-one-year-old on the prowl for her next mixed cocktail, she was buzzed and gearing up for a dreamy day of reading, drinking, and enjoying the sea breeze. And then, Myles approached. Golden tan skin, muscles for days, in tight red swim trunks, he was a sight to behold. Tessa’s heart pittered. Tessa’s heart pattered. Tessa’s libido shot straight to the crystal-blue sky. And like she’d seen in many a movie, she was the woman on the lounger, lowering her sunglasses while the object of her affection walked in front of her. In that moment, Mother Nature chose to blow her biggest breath right at Myles’s crotch. Now, reader, I don’t want to sound crude, but it needs to be said . . . that gust of wind, the one aimed directly at Myles’s nether regions? It not only made his swim trunks conform to his crotch but defined his crotch. Length, girth, mass . . . some have said the earth shook that day. And when Myles turned to see Tessa, staring right at him, hunger in those twenty-one-year-old eyes, all he could do was say, “Hi.”

She replied with a lick of her lips and a drawn-out “Helllll-o to you.”

It went on like that for a few years—minor interactions, but no significant moments to further the monotonous, humdrum continuation of nothingness. Well, not until the kiss of 2015.

Yup . . . a kiss, but I’m not at liberty to tell you how it went down. I’m going to leave that up to Tessa and Myles.

Like I said, I’m just here to lay down the foundation, to let you know this journey between them has been going on for years. Their mutual crushes have been master classes in patience. And the moment they finally, and I mean finally, let each other know their feelings—well, reader, it’s one for the ages.

Are you ready? Are you comfortable? Are you mentally prepared for a whirlwind of embarrassment? Good.

Let’s start this off with present day . . .

CHAPTER ONETESSA

“Get down, get down, he might see us,” I whisper-shout as I shoulder-check my twin sister into the cooling sand.

“What the actual hell, Tessa,” Roxane says as she adjusts her skirt that has flipped up toward her belly button, giving a free show to the elderly couple enjoying the setting sun a few feet away.

I drop to the ground as well, curl my arm around Roxane’s waist, and army crawl through the sand, dragging her with me a few feet until we’re shielded by an overturned boat.

I heave a heavy breath. “That was close.”

Sand clinging to her arms, sunglasses askew, and her dress wrinkled up her thighs, Roxane gives me a murderous glare. “Explain yourself, now.”

Brushing sand off my legs, I whisper, “It’s him.”

“Who?”

“You know . . .” I waggle my eyebrows.

“No, I don’t know.”

“Roxane.”

“Tessa.”

“Urgh, it’s the Greek-god guy, you know, Mr. Red Shorts.”

Recognition dawns across Tessa’s face as she peeks her head up past the boat, acting like a meerkat staking out its territory. “Where? I don’t see him. Are you sure you saw him?”

“Yes, I saw him.”

“Could have been someone who looked like him. Did he have the bulge we’ve talked about?”

“I didn’t get a close enough look, not that his bulge is the man’s defining characteristic.”

“Tessa, that bulge is any man’s defining characteristic.” She looks around some more, but out of pure fear he might spot her bobbing head, I yank her down by her shoulder. “Hey, stop manhandling me,” she protests.

“I don’t want him seeing you.”

“He doesn’t even know us. We could walk right by and he wouldn’t know the difference. He’d just think we’re two ladies on a girls’ trip, headed to the bar, which, you know, is exactly what we’re doing. Now get up, I’m not spending my first night in Greece burrowing my body into the sand because the Bulge might see us.”

“Don’t call him the Bulge!”

“Whatever, come on.” She tugs on my hand, but I remain seated. “Tessa, seriously. Come on.”

“He’s not supposed to be here,” I whisper.

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve been coming to this resort for how many years now? Over twenty? He hasn’t been back for seven years, Roxane. Seven! And now, all of a sudden, he’s back again. What’s that about?”

“Uh, maybe he started a new chapter in his life and worked somewhere else for seven years. What does it matter? You’ve never truly had an interaction with him past one sentence . . .” She pauses; her brow quirks up. “Unless . . . you’re not telling me something.” I glance away, which of course is a huge mistake when you’re attempting to hide a secret. A secret that you’ve kept from your twin sister for seven years. Roxane pushes at my shoulder. “Oh my God, Tessa. Did something happen with you two that you never told me about?”

Yes, in fact, something did happen.

Something . . . magical.

To someone else, it might seem small, but to a girl like me, a shy, introverted girl who enjoys reading a good book alone rather than downing a massive margarita at a raucous bar, the “something” that happened feels huge in my head.

Enormous.

Often fantasized about as one of the most heroic and overly romantic moments in my life.

Because . . . well, because I’ve crushed on “the Bulge” ever since my little romantic heart can remember. When he was a scrappy boy with a mop of curly hair on the top of his head, I would watch him play on the beach during the summers, and as we both grew, my attraction toward him only grew as well. I watched him transform every year, from a playful boy to a steaming heartthrob that canvassed the resort, offering assistance to whoever needed it.

When we would pack for our annual trip to Greece, I always thought . . . What would I look best in? in case I ran into him. What would I say? What would I do? Would this be the year that we said more than one word to each other? Would this be the year that he held my hand? Would this be the year that somehow, he noticed me?

Well, it happened, seven years ago. He noticed me, and it was . . . *sigh* it was magic.

“Tell me.” She shakes my hand.

Do I want to tell Roxane about my magical moment? Not really, because Roxane has a way of bringing my romantic notions back down to reality with a snarky, yet realistic comment. She’s never wrong—she’s just stating facts—but it still stings. And this occasion will sting even more, not just because I’ve liked this guy for quite some time, but because these minor “stings” have been building up over the last few months. Tensions are high with the wedding around the corner, and ever since overheard a fight between her and Philip, her fiancé, the tension has skyrocketed, which means being her sister, I get the brunt of that tension. But, unfortunately, knowing Roxane and her need to focus on anything other than what’s giving her anxiety—*cough* the wedding—I know she won’t drop it, so unfortunately . . . as Rafiki from The Lion King would say, “It is time.”

“It was . . .” I take a deep breath, and the words pour out. “It was stupid and nothing really. He probably doesn’t even remember. I’m not very memorable, and it was seven years ago, so I don’t know why I’m freaking out, but you know, after the ‘something’ happened, he never came back to the resort, and I always looked for him, but he was never here, so I thought that I might have scared him away, which very much could have happened, since I’m not the most outgoing person, extremely awkward actually, and—”

“Oh my God, Tess, just say it.”

“He kissed me on the cheek.” I wince as heat travels up my legs.

That’s right, he pecked me, dead on the cheek. No hesitation, just a light, feather-like smack-a-roo on my face. I can remember the exact moment his lips pressed against my skin. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, my stomach felt like it endured a twenty-rotation flip on a trampoline, and the light-headedness I withstood rivaled even the greatest g-force any pilot has ever experienced.

The boy I first saw that fateful summer when I was in the second grade had turned into a toned and tanned man in red shorts. He kissed me on the cheek, and if I had a motor attached to my bum, that motor would have been revving, ready to run.

“He . . . wait, what?” Roxane blinks a few times. “He kissed you on the cheek? That’s the ‘something’ that happened? The grand thing that you are worried about? A kiss on the cheek? I thought you were going to say you hooked up in a closet or something.”

My cheeks burn with embarrassment. Hook up in a closet? Good God, could you imagine?

“Do I look like someone who hooks up with a random stranger in a closet? For heaven’s sake, I still can’t part with some of my granny panties from college. I’m not the type of philandering woman who endures arduous sex in public spaces.”

“But you made it seem like it was off brand for you. A kiss on the cheek, that’s nothing.”

See, I told you she’d knock me down a few pegs.

A peck on the cheek truly does mean nothing to her. You see, Roxane is the outgoing twin who has no problem leading a flash mob into a Beyoncé-themed dance—she’d own the lead role, flip her hair with pizzazz, and do that knee-breaking squat move that Beyoncé is known for.

I, on the other hand, would be the girl fumbling with her phone, attempting to record it so my sister could post it later, on her thriving social media. See the dynamic?

She’s the wild free spirit who throws caution to the wind.

And I’m the one on the sidelines, calculating the probability of her actions ending in pregnancy, jail, or death.

“It wasn’t just nothing,” I mutter. “He was . . .” I dreamily look up toward the sky. “He was an unexpected but much-needed savior. I was trapped by a sleaze at the restaurant bar, and Red Shorts just got off work from lifeguarding the pool, saw that I was cornered, and pretended to be my boyfriend. The timing was impeccable. His kiss was . . . well, it was more than memorable.” I think about it every so often, but I’ll just keep that to myself. “After he apologized for being so brazen, I mumbled something about his lips being soft, or maybe I said luxurious—”

“No, you didn’t.”

I tap my chin, trying to look casual. “I’m pretty sure I said luxurious—actually, I’m positive I said that because he looked confused. I guess it’s not every day someone says your lips are luxurious. In the moment, I thought it was the ultimate compliment, but I think it scared him away because he awkwardly thanked me with a pinch to his brow and then took off without looking back. Ever since my compliment, I hadn’t seen him around the resort. Seven years, Roxane. I’m the reason he didn’t work here for seven years, because the crazy lady called his lips luxurious. So, excuse me while I—”

“Yassas,” a deep, rich voice says, greeting us in Greek before switching into perfect, unaccented English. “Is there something I can help you with?”

That voice.

I know that voice.

Roxane’s eyes go wide like saucers, buffoonery twitching on her lips as she glances over my head at the man behind me. It’s obvious whose shadow is cast over me—from her reaction alone, I know it’s *gulp* the Bulge—I mean . . . no, I’m not calling him that, he’s Mr. Red Shorts.

Mr. Luxurious Lips.

Do you feel the secondhand embarrassment for me?

“Uh, hi,” Roxane says, waving her fingers at him while I stay seated in the sand, stiff as a board. If I don’t move, maybe he won’t notice me. “We’re just, uh, searching for an earring.”

Oh, good one. I never have the panache to think that quickly on my feet. Roxane does, though; she always has. I just freeze in place, like I currently am.

“An earring? Well, let me help you. What does it look like?” he asks.

Help is not needed, sir. What is needed is for you to walk away. Keeping my eyes directed at only Roxane, I stare daggers at her while using our twin telepathy to make her aware of my visible discomfort and to divert the Bulge—I mean the man—divert the man away from us.

Thankfully, she hears me loud and clear and says, “Oh, you know what, I found it.” She jabs her hand into the sand, picks up a pebble, and flashes it at him. “All good, thanks, though.”

“Well, let me help you up, at least.”

No one asked for a gentleman in these parts. Move along, man.

But it’s too late; his chivalry is already on display as he lends his hand out to Roxane. Naturally, she takes it, and he helps her to her feet. So much for sending him away. When it’s my turn, I hide behind my shoulder-length brown hair as his hand floats in front of me. It’s been seven years—will he even recognize me? We shared a fleeting interaction, a reaction so small, I’m sure it doesn’t even register in his memory. He’s probably come to the rescue of many damsels in distress while working at Anissa’s. I’m just a blip in the sea of women he runs into day in, day out, vying for his brown-eyed attention. Who’s to say I made an impression?

Trust me, I didn’t.

As Harold Flaketon said in fifth-period algebra back in high school, I’m the less interesting twin. Even though I’m a semithriving thirty-year-old now, that kind of comment still hovers over me like a dark cloud.

So, it’s doubtful Red Shorts remembers me, but even still, the temptation to swat his hand away and yell at him to “begone” is quite appealing, on the off chance he might remember.

But thanks to the rules of society, such brazen rudeness on my end isn’t well received by the masses, so I slip my fingers against his. And oooh, boy, mistake, ladies. Big mistake. I hate to sound like a lovesick stripling whose beloved just glanced their way, but the warmth of his palm feels like a perfect sunny spring day. The type of day where the birds are crooning a resplendent aria while the sun’s rays fill your day up with hope and meaning.

There’s no other way to describe the feel of his palm other than . . .

“Sun-kissed,” I mutter as I stand.

“What was that?” he asks as he leans forward to look me in the eyes.

My gaze floats up to his, and oh God, he’s too close. Way too close.

I can smell him.

I can see the dark hair on his tanned chest—every trimmed strand.

And those lips . . . *gulp* they’re mere inches from my view, a grandiose display of luxury.

What kind of ChapStick is this man using?

Out of sheer panic that he’ll recognize me as the girl who called his lips luxurious, I snap away from him, my hair floating in front of my reddened cheeks, blocking my vision as I attempt to stomp away toward the bar, as fast as I can retreat.

Unfortunately for me, I’ve forgotten one important detail.

I’m still holding the Bulge’s hand.

Like a yo-yo being dangled by a five-year-old, I’m pulled toward him. Between the unstable sand and my threadbare espadrilles, I stand no chance as I lose my footing and fall on my ass with a flop.

From the sheer momentum of my fall, my shoulders are propelled into the sand, followed by the back of my head, my freshly blown-out hair tangling in the soft grains. When my gaze shoots straight up to the sky, it’s eclipsed by a pair of red shorts.

Oh, dear heavens . . . the bulge. Right there, in broad daylight—well, technically in broad night . . . light? Is that a thing? Either way, there it is, all bulgy and round and . . . wow, I want to touch it.

Don’t, Tessa!

Do not reach out to touch it. That would make this moment way worse.

His eyes intent on mine, he squats down. “Whoa, are you okay?”

It’s a noble question, and I hate to be so snarky, but does it look like I’m okay?

I’m a freaking bumbling mess who is infatuated with a man who has barely spoken to her. This is me, the girl who says men’s lips are luxurious—the least interesting, butterfingered buffoon of a woman.

And then there he is. Deep-brown irises, so dark they fade into his pupils, leaving no hint where they start and where they end. His hair is clipped short on the sides, with a pile of waves on top, all perfect in that messy sort of way. And that jawline, chiseled from stone, a line so sharp that I wouldn’t be surprised if the restaurant shaves gyro meat on it.

He’s so handsome that just looking at him makes me feel not only like I’m staring at the sun—his sexiness practically blinding me—but also like if I stare too long, I’ll be hypnotized into some sort of Santorini vortex where olives are constantly swirling around us as the winds whip open his white linen shirt, revealing what I can only imagine would be an expertly carved physique. Women would appear at his feet, presenting mounds of baklava on sterling silver plates, grappling for his attention as he props one leg up on a marble stone, the bulge on full display—

“Miss, are you okay?” he repeats, knocking me out of my haze.

“Uh, she’s fine,” Roxane says, now bending at the waist and helping me up. “She had champagne on the flight. Little tipsy, this one.”

“I’m not tipsy,” I whisper as I stand up.

Returning the whisper, but through a clenched smile, Roxane says, “Would you rather him think you were knocked over by your inability to be a mature adult around handsome men?”

“Good point.” Act tipsy; that will dispel any sort of awkward opinion he might have of me. Smart, Roxane. She might be honest, but she’s always there for me. Putting on a show, I spin around and wave my hand in the air. “To the tops of my toes and to the bottom of my head,” I slur out, “I’ve had too much to drink, so take me to bed.”

His brow crinkles as I realize what I said.

God, maybe I am drunk.

“Uh, I mean, not you take me to bed, not like . . . you know, like that.” His brow intensifies even more. “Uh, like . . . sex. I wasn’t offering sex. I was just, you know . . .” I swallow. “Wow, ha, this is weird, huh?” I swipe my hand over my forehead. “You see, the thing is, well . . . boy, it’s hot here, isn’t it hot?”

“It’s lukewarm,” Roxane says, making me want to jab her in the ribs.

“Do you need some water?” Red Shorts asks, his voice so smooth, yet devoid of any accent. “I’d be more than happy to grab you some.”

“No!” I shout. “I mean . . . no,” I say more calmly. “I don’t need water . . . although all humans need water.” Roxane tugs on my arm, encouraging me to just drop it, but Red Shorts looks so confused that I feel the need to clear the air. “I know this is weird, and you probably don’t come across people like me who don’t know how to stop talking, but you know what, I’m just going to be honest with you.” I lean forward as if we’re sharing a secret. “I was pretending I was drunk because I fell on my butt in front of you, and let’s face it, that’s embarrassing. But if I told you I fell because I just happened to be clumsy, that makes me look all . . . ahhh!” I make a crazy face and shake my hands at him. When a horrified expression crosses his face, I realize I’m losing him, and quickly, so I try to giggle it off. “Um, so, yeah, I’m not drunk, just insane, apparently. So, thanks for helping us find our pebble, I mean earring. Thanks for finding the earring, and the hand hold—I mean, the holding, of hands, hand holding for help, I mean . . . God.” I point my finger at him. “You have soft hands.”

“What my sister is trying to say,” Roxane interrupts, “is that we’re headed to the bar, where I’m sure she’s going to get for-real tipsy now because there’s no doubt in my mind she’ll replay this interaction over and over again until she passes out, only to relive the embarrassment tomorrow morning at breakfast.”

I pat my sister on the hand. “Yes, that is accurate. So, please excuse us.”

I offer him a curtsy because it’s one of those days and turn on my heel. Hand in hand with Roxane, I pull her toward the bar as utter humiliation beats up my spine.

“Well, that went well,” Roxane says.

Sarcasm at its finest, am I right?

“Let’s just hope today is his last day at the resort, or this is going to be a very long three-week vacation.”

“I don’t know, feels incredibly entertaining to me.” Roxane shoots me a mischievous grin. “I don’t think I could have picked a more charming way to start my wedding extravaganza.”

I could, and it doesn’t involve babbling in front of the Bulge.

***

“Roxane, remember what we talked about.”

With an eye roll for the ages, Roxane says, “I know, I know. We’re not discussing the Bulge, what just happened with the Bulge, or any feelings you might have toward the Bulge being back after seven years.”

“Promise?” I beg her as our friends approach the outdoor pool bar.

“Promise.” She squeezes my hand tightly, letting me know she means it and putting me at ease. We decided to start our evening outside to enjoy not only the sea breeze but the ever-beautiful Santorini sunset.

“Are we ready to get this night started?” Clea says as she places her clutch on the outdoor bar top and gives us each a hug.

“I’ve had three drinks already,” Lois, our other best friend, announces before blowing kisses in our direction. “Mommy is kid-free, and she will be drinking very heavily.”

“Good, because we ordered drinks for everyone,” Roxane says just as the bartender brings over four pink drinks. He hands them out, offers a wink, and then turns to help another customer.

I take my drink in hand—a drink I’m hoping helps me forget what happened ten minutes ago—and hold it up. “Here’s to a fun week with my best friends.”

“To the girls who have been there for me through thick and thin and stressful wedding planning,” Roxane says.

“To the bond that will never break,” Clea adds.

“And to the sisterhood that will last forever,” Lois finishes off.

We tap our glasses together and then take a sip.

“This reminds me of the time we went to that lake house up in the Adirondacks,” says Clea. “Remember how the owner greeted us?”

“He offered us massages,” Lois says. “Personal massages by him.”

“And we were so freaked out that we secured all the doors with chairs under them and slept in the one tiny bedroom we were convinced didn’t have cameras watching us,” Roxane says. “How does this remind you of that?”

Clea laughs. “Because we’re together.”

“We were together at Katz’s just last week, didn’t get lake-house vibes there,” I say.

“No, but I sure did get the meat sweats.” Clea brushes her hand over her forehead, causing us all to laugh. “Okay, maybe not lake-house vibes, but how about the time we rented that cabin in the Hamptons.”

“That was the smallest piece of real estate I had ever seen. The bunk beds were clever, though,” Roxane says.

I take a sip of my drink and add, “Too bad they offered a view of the single toilet in the space.”

“That’s when I demonstrated how my vagina expanded during birth,” Lois says with a lopsided grin.

“Please . . . please tell me we won’t be reminiscing on that again,” Roxane asks.

“Depends on how drunk I get.” Lois winks and takes a sip.

“Just not too drunk, like the night before Bethany’s wedding, where we had to roll you down the hallway after the rehearsal dinner. That was unpleasant,” I say. “Your boob kept falling out of your dress.”

“That’s what happens when you give birth, the knockers no longer belong to you.” Lois gestures to the expansive night sky. “They belong to the world.”

“Do they belong to the world tonight?” Clea asks and then nods at Lois’s low-cut shirt.

“Perhaps. Only time will tell.”

I chuckle. “Well, here’s to creating new memories and to Roxane’s wedding extravaganza.” I turn to my sister, my heart full. “I know there are times where we butt heads, where we don’t agree, or we completely misunderstand each other, but I couldn’t imagine a day without you in it. I love you, Roxane, more than anything. You’re my best friend, my partner in crime—very limited crime because you know I would never survive in jail—”

“She doesn’t have street cred,” Roxane says.

“And you are my confidante. Thank you for always being there for me, for pushing me out of my comfort zone—”

“If it were up to Tessa, we all know she’d never go for the things she wants in life. She would never leave her apartment and spend countless hours coming up with number puns.”

“Guilty.” I raise my hand. “So, to that, thank you for never letting me settle. I love you.”

Roxane reaches over and pulls me into a hug. “Love you too, sis. Now, let’s get drunk!”