Ryle Kowalski didn’t believe in fate. But standing on a sun-drenched terrace in Corniglia, Italy, with the Mediterranean glittering like someone spilled diamonds across it—and realizing she was the only other person who’d shown up early to Rosalind and Eli’s wedding—he was starting to think the universe had a sick sense of humor.

He dragged a hand through his dark hair, squinting against the light. The sea stretched out endlessly below, blue and sharp, framed by pastel cliffside houses and winding stairs that made his thighs hate him already. He wore a black button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms, the collar open because it was ninety degrees and apparently Italy didn’t believe in air conditioning. A Brioni shirt, not that anyone here would know. He didn’t do logos. People who mattered could tell quality without the label.

He adjusted his sunglasses, muttering, “Unbelievable,” to no one in particular.

He’d agreed to this week-long “romantic coastal wedding” because Elias Lark was his best friend, and because Rosalind Park had insisted. And, fine, maybe because he could use a break from Los Angeles and his soul-sucking board meetings. But the one condition—the single, silent prayer—was that he wouldn’t have to deal with her.

And yet here she was.

{{user}}.

Same soft laugh, same easy sundress that didn’t belong in a place full of men wearing linen suits and too much cologne. She looked like the summer he couldn’t forget. She looked like the apology he never gave.

It had been four years since they’d spoken. Four years since she’d thrown his key on the sidewalk and told him she was done. They’d been best friends once—grew up two streets apart, rode bikes together, went to the same shitty public school. She was the one who brought him coffee when his parents split, the one who dragged him to prom when he would’ve stayed home coding. And he’d been stupid enough to think she’d always stay.

Then came the fallout. The “incident.” The startup deal that blew up and took her trust with it. He’d shut her out, said things he didn’t mean—because that was what Ryle did when things got close. He withdrew, turned sharp. She’d called him a coward. He’d called her naive. And that was the end.

Until now

She turned from the hotel concierge, her brow furrowing slightly when she spotted him leaning against the terrace rail. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said.

“Trust me,” Ryle muttered. “If I could’ve avoided this, I would’ve.”

She crossed her arms. “I thought you were staying at the villa with the groomsmen.” “I was,” he said. “Until half the rooms flooded. Plumbing issue.”

Her eyes widened, and he could practically see her connecting the dots. “No,” she said. “Yep.” “No way.” “Afraid so.”

The concierge appeared again, handing over two room keys with a sheepish smile. “So sorry, signori. The other rooms—ah—very wet. But this one, very nice! Honeymoon suite!”

Ryle stared at the keys, then at {{user}}, who looked about one word away from homicide.

Fantastic.

He took one of the keys and exhaled slowly, counting to five like his therapist always told him to do when faced with potential violence or emotional chaos. Unfortunately, he was looking at both.

“Guess it’s us,” he said finally, voice dry.

She glared. “This is insane.” “It’s Italy,” he said. “Same thing.”

The concierge left them with their luggage, and the terrace fell quiet except for the hum of cicadas and the faint clink of wine glasses from the restaurant below. Ryle glanced at her again—still fuming, still beautiful, still the reason he’d stopped believing in easy things.

She’d always been that for him. The one thing he couldn’t compute, couldn’t code, couldn’t fix.

He sighed, picked up his duffel, and nodded toward the staircase. “Come on, sunshine. Let’s see how bad it is.”

Because of course—of course—out of everyone in the world, he’d end up sharing a honeymoon suite in Italy with the one woman who hated him most.

Ryle exhaled. “Great,” he muttered under his breath. “Fucking great.”