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Mick snorted out a chuckle. “You thought I was going to play fair?”
Owen looked down at his hidden toenails, now painted the most shocking shade of neon pink. “I thought I was going to lose. You had that look on your face that says I am so fucking good.”
“Hey.” Mick mock pouted. “I don’t have a look that says—”
“Yes, you do, brother.” Owen threw a quick sideways glance at him. “You very much have that look. But still, how is it I won the poker game and yet end up with my toenails painted bright pink?”
Mick shrugged. “Retaliation. It’s a word. Look it up. Besides, that’s what you get for dozing off this morning after Angus made us breakfast.”
“Hey, don’t drag me into this,” Angus protested with a low chuckle from Mick’s other side, adjusting the cuffs of his suit’s jacket. “I didn’t paint his toenails. You did.”
The celebrant scowled at them all again, before shooting the sand at Owen’s feet a curious look.
Owen let out a ragged sigh. “Neon pink.”
The celebrant raised his eyebrows. “An interesting look, to be sure.”
Angus chuckled again. Mick grinned.
Finding Owen asleep that morning on the deck Mick had booked at the luxury resort for the wedding day and night, hands crossed on his chest, bare feet up on the railing, had been too good an opportunity to pass up. The sod had beaten him at poker at his bachelor party, after all. He’d bolted to the closest cabin—a good twenty meters away—where a family with at least three young teenage daughters were holidaying. Knocked on the door. Turned on the charm and asked if he could borrow the brightest nail polish they had.
After a few dubious frowns, he’d explained the situation: his brother was getting married today on the beach. He was his Best Man. Owen had beaten him in poker a week ago. Revenge was due.
The mum, God love her, had laughed and told him he was a brave man and a woeful brother, but she hadn’t stopped her youngest daughter handing over the neon-pink polish.
“Remember,” the mum had called as he’d started running back along the path to his own far-more secluded cabin. “Revenge can go both ways.”
It was true of course. Owen would get him back for this. But that hadn’t stopped him painting Owen’s toenails. Nor did it stop him hiding Owen’s dress shoes. The ones he would put on after the beach ceremony.
“Just let it be known,” Angus muttered, tugging at his collar as if he’d never worn a suit before, “that I’m innocent in all of this.”
Owen snorted. “For once.”
Angus grinned. “Oh, and when the time comes, Owen? I have no clue where your shoes are.”
“Traitor,” Mick gasped around a laugh.
“My shoes?” Owen looked confused. And horrified. “Fuck a duck, Mick. What the hell have you done with my…”
He trailed off, his stare locked on something, or someone, over his shoulder, a heartbeat before Chloe Blackthorne—world famous cellist and Owen and Mick’s second cousin—started playing…something Mick didn’t recognize but was probably romantic and soppy.
“Oh boy,” Owen whispered, his AWOL shoes no doubt forgotten, his face going just as soppy as the music. “Oh boy.”
“Here we go,” Angus intoned, twisting a little to look behind them.
“So she didn’t do a runner, after all?” Mick grinned, giving Owen’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Guess she truly does love you, mate.” He tossed a look over his shoulder, to check out the bride.
And forgot how to breathe.
Holy fuck, she looked gorgeous.
Not the bride, although Bria did look incredible.
Not Elisa either, who glowed with pregnant beauty.
Zeta.
Zeta looked gorgeous.
