His fingertips hover beside my cheek, close enough that the heat radiates against my skin without contact. Goosebumps race down my arm.
“Bea.” My name scrapes from his throat, rough as sandpaper, and touches every single part of my body.
I sway forward. My lips part. The rain stops. The wind dies. The waves below fade to white noise.
A sharp crack of thunder startles us both, and his pupils contract, a flash of something dark—recognition? regret?—crossing his face. Then he jerks back, the space between us suddenly turning cold.
“Fuck.” He drags his fingers through his hair, leaving it standing in dark spikes. Then his demeanor changes: the smirk from the lobby returns, lips curl up on one side, and eyes harden. “This isn’t happening, princess.”
My stomach drops. I cross my arms over my chest to hide the trembling in my fingers.
“What the hell?” The words come out like a rough shriek. “You’re the one who got all cozy out here.”
He barks a laugh, no humor in it. “Cozy? You’re my brother’s fiancé.” He gestures between us. “Or did that detail slip your mind while you were batting your eyelashes at me?” His voice becomes ice. “Save it for my brother.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks, turning them the same shade as my dress, and I realize picking this color was a bad idea. I jab my finger into his chest, the impact sending a jolt up my arm.
“You leaned in, asshole.” My finger meets something solid beneath his shirt—a wall of muscle that makes my next breath catch before I can recover. “Don’t you dare pin this on me.”
His fingers circle my wrist, gentle but firm. The pad of his thumb rests against my pulse point, which betrays me with its rapid flutter.
“Keep telling yourself that, little mouse.” When he releases me, his fingertips drag across my skin and his upper lip curls. “But we both know what was about to happen.”
I step back, my heel wobbling on the wet stone.
“You think too highly of yourself.” My voice cracks on the last word. His mouth curves into an infuriating half smile, one that makes a tiny dimple appear on his left cheek.
The space between us vibrates like a silent plucked guitar string. But it’ll be ready to sing all hallelujah once I get myself together and show that Krav Maga I promised him before.
“Stay away from me,” I say, turning toward the doors where a gust of wind practically pushes me inside.
“Gladly.” His voice follows me, wrapping around my spine. “But you followed me out here, princess.”
I grit my teeth to avoid biting into the flesh of my mouth again. My hands shake as I fumble with my clutch, nearly dropping my phone when it buzzes. The screen illuminates with a weather alert—not Maeve’s name. Just storm warnings and ferry delays glowing blue in the darkness.
I open the one-sided thread with Maeve. It reads,“Message not delivered”beneath my fifth text to her. I swipe to calls—seven to my sister. All went straight to voicemail. My thumb hovers over Maeve’s name again when I feel Noah’s stare burning between my shoulder blades.
“What is it, Bea?” His gentle voice is closer than I expected.
I spin around, clutching my phone against my chest. “Go play hero for someone else,” I snap, brushing past him into the almost empty dining room.
My heels click against teak as I circle the abandoned table. Wine glasses with lipstick smudges, a napkin crumpled where my father sat, the chair my mother vacated still pushed back at an angle, as if she couldn’t leave fast enough.
I press redial. Straight to voicemail.
The red fabric of my dress catches on a chair as I pass. I yank it free, a thread snapping, my self-control right along with it. I squeeze my hands into fists, feeling my nails digging deep into my skin.
My reflection in the darkened window shows smudged mascara beneath my right eye. The woman staring back looks nothing like the perfect fiancé that’s been promised, but surprisingly it’s the most I’ve ever felt like myself.
I head to the bar near the lobby and drop into a chair, the stiff boning of my bodice digging into my ribs. This dress feels lessand less like a weapon I can use and more like a torture device used against me.
I hang my head low as my mother’s voice rings in my ears.Problem child. Unmarriageable. The incident.The words settle into familiar grooves, worn paths they’ve traced since I was old enough to disappoint my parents.
My fingers trace the pulled thread on my dress and dig to pull it more. Maybe if I ruin this seemingly perfect dress, I’ll feel better. I don’t.
I should be looking for Maeve. I should be worried about my groom’s whereabouts. But instead, I’m wallowing in this pity party for one.
4
