EMERY
One moment Weston is staring at me as if he wants to gobble me up like his favourite dessert—tiramisu, because I remember inane trivia like that—the next a crazy wind is tearing through the kitchen, sending napkins scattering and rattling the dishes stacked on the bench top.
I run to the door to close it but I can’t, the wind is that strong, and Weston’s there in an instant, shoving it shut with one of his oh-so-broad shoulders. But not before I glimpse a sky so dark it’s almost charcoal and palm trees bending to horizontal.
“I’m guessing that’s a no to my walk along the beach proposal,” he says, pointing at the small window set high above the bench. “Looks like the cyclone has veered towards us rather than away.”
“Cyclone?”
I sound like an idiot, but I don’t want to tell him I never watch the news because it’s inevitably bad, and seeing maimed soldiers or missing kids or teens committing unspeakable crimes on old people makes my chest ache.
“Your brother’s getting married, and you haven’t monitored the weather?”
“I’ve been busy cooking.” I fold my arms, defensive. “Though I mentioned the chances of tropical islands in this region getting summer cyclones when Tom first told me the news and he laughed at me.”
“Hopefully this is just the tail of it, and we won’t cop the eye.”
He sounds reassuring, but as he slides his phone out of his pocket and glances at the screen, a groove bisects his brows.
“What?” I ask, glad to focus on something as mundane as the weather and not have to think about what he’d implied by that swapping fronds for mistletoe comment.
Does Weston want to pick up where we left off that Christmas night four years ago?
Back then, his reaction to our aborted make-out session left my poor impressionable heart bruised and secret crush in tatters.
I don’t care how many egg nogs I consumed that night; I’d been lucid when I made a move on him. A long overdue move, considering I lusted after him for years.
That night, I thought I’d seen an answering gleam in his eyes, a knowing glint he felt a spark too. Turns out, I’d been wrong.
“An urgent warning has been issued for Ceto Island,” he says, his expression grim. “The cyclone has swung this way and we’re in the firing line.”
“Hell,” I mutter. “Does that mean we move the wedding indoors?”
“Depends on how fast this cyclone veers away.” He shakes his head. “It didn’t seem to be heading our way. When I landed the storm clouds looked ominous, but I didn’t expect the winds to pick up so fast, which means they can clear just as quickly.”
He gestures around the kitchen. “In the meantime, we’ll need to batten down here until we know more.”
My first thought is of Tom and Pauline, and the intricacies of cancelling a wedding if the cyclone doesn’t abate.
My second?
I’m stranded with Weston Spade.
6
WESTON
As a commercial pilot, I’ve flown through storms all around the world.
One of my jets has been hit by lightning twice. I’ve guided planes through the worst turbulence. I’ve bypassed typhoons.
But cyclones terrify me, for the simple fact my father and grandfather died trying to foolishly brave one.
My chest tightens and my breathing turns shallow as I stare at the radar. Thankfully, Ceto Island isn’t directly in the eye's line, but we’re close enough, meaning we’re about to cop a battering.
I hope Linc, Kai, and Walker are battened down, before realising it’s a stupid wish. My brothers know this island as well as I do, and they’ll be prepared for this. It’s not the first time we’ve faced a cyclone, and it won’t be the last.
But it’s the first time I’m stuck here waiting for it to pass.
