Page 6 of Meant to be Mine

“Hardly. Most of this stuff is all planned out of the New York office. I just handle the stuff that happens on the ground here. Like today.” I exhaled. “Which, between you and me, I’m not totally built for. I am not organized enough for this kind of thing.”

“You’ll be fine,” she said with total confidence.

The valet at the club took my keys. I came around to open Kensey’s door before he could get to it. She climbed out and then went very still as she looked up at the building in front of us. It had a clean white façade and every shrub and blade of grass was expertly manicured so that nothing looked out of place.

“Drew.” She leaned in close, voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m not dressed for this. They’re going to think I snuck in off the beach. Homeless person crashes country club, news at eleven.”

“You look great.” I meant it without even having to think about it. “And if anybody in there has anything to say about it, I will personally sit them down and teach them some fucking manners.”

That got a small laugh out of her. The tension in her shoulders eased a little. I put a hand in the small of her back, just briefly, guiding her toward the entrance, and told myself it didn’t mean anything beyond making sure she felt okay walking in.

The general manager, Walter, met us just inside the doors. “Mr. Blackwell, welcome,” he said and shook my hand like we were old friends.

I supposed in a way we were, given how many calls we’d had setting this up. A server appeared out of nowhere with two flutes of champagne on a tray. I took one, handed the other to Kensey, who arched an eyebrow at me before taking a sip.

I winked at her and sipped mine. She grinned.

“Right this way,” Walter said, leading us through the lobby. “Let me show you the space.”

The dining room opened up ahead of us. It was a large room with windows that faced the ocean. Glass doors opened onto the patio that ran straight out toward the sand.

“This is where we’ll set up the majority of the tables,” Walter said, gesturing. “Indoor seating here. Then we extend out onto the patio for additional seating and a standing bar area.”

“And the wardrobe setup?” I asked, trying to stay focused even though Kensey was a few feet away making a goofy face. I knew that look. She thought this was over the top. It was, but it was what people expected if they were going to drop three thousand dollars on a pair of pants.

“Side room just off the kitchen corridor,” Walter said, walking us toward it. “Racks, mirrors, steamers, the works. We use it for bridal parties normally, but it’ll work just as well for your wardrobe team.”

I nodded, glancing at the room, mentally checking it against the list they had sent me from New York.

Kensey drifted up beside me as Walter started explaining the menu, which included caviar and calamari.

“Oh, darling,” she said, just loud enough for me to hear, “this venue is simply divine. One does so love a good seaside soirée, don’t you think? Please tell Jeeves I only eat beluga caviar.”

I bit down on a laugh. “Stop.”

“I simply must ask, darling.” She fanned herself with one hand. “Will they be serving the eighty-nine Chablis? I cannot possibly drink any other wine.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I am exquisite,” she said, and the accent slipped entirely as she grinned at me, delighted with herself.

I grabbed a folded napkin off the table and flicked it at her. She caught it with a laugh, giving me big eyes and jerking her head. The universal sign we were busted.

“Mr. Blackwell.” Walter’s voice cut in. I felt twelve years old again.

“My apologies,” I said, fighting to keep a straight face while Kensey absolutely lost it next to me, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh.

He launched back into his presentation like nothing had happened, sweeping one arm toward the glass doors. “Shall we step outside and review the patio layout?”

“Please,” I said, with as much dignity as I could scrape together.

Kensey fell into step beside me, perfectly composed now, hands clasped behind her back like a woman touring an art museum. I didn’t trust it for a second.

We stepped out onto the patio and the ocean hit us immediately. Salt air, the sound of waves, a breeze that lifted Kensey’s hair off her shoulders. Walter was pointing toward the far railing, explaining something about tents and bartenders. I was doing a reasonable job of paying attention until Kensey drifted to my left and bumped her hip against mine.

Hard enough to knock me half a step sideways.

I planted my foot and kept my eyes on Walter. “Wind off the water,” I said, nodding seriously. “What happens if it’s a strong wind?”