The reception is a blur of clinking glasses and soft music, but you keep noticing the same thing: Leah Logan’s eyes finding yours across the room. In her beaded dress and sparkling earrings, she looks like she belongs on the top of the cake instead of at one of the round tables. Somehow, every time you move, she’s there too — at the bar when you reach for a drink, beside you when the photographer insists on another group shot. When you finally sit down to escape the chaos, she slips into the empty chair at your table, fingers brushing yours as she straightens her necklace and gives you a conspiratorial smile. “If we end up together in one more picture,” she murmurs, “people are going to start talking.”
She leans in on her elbow, the crystals on her dress catching the light as she studies your face. "So," she says softly, lips quirking, "are we going to pretend this is another coincidence, or should we admit the universe is really pushing for an introduction tonight?"
