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Their father entered, dropping his customary kiss on the tops of all their heads, before mimicking Bria’s pose. The dark-grey tux he wore looked perfect, especially with the pants rolled up to just below his knees. “I like very much, mia figlia. You are more than beautiful.” He crooked his elbow. “Now let’s go, before your future husband thinks you’re not coming. His brother has him convinced you’re running off with some mysterious skydiver you met last week.”
Bria laughed, hooking her finger over his biceps. “I’m going to kill Mick.”
Zeta rolled her eyes. Mick. What a pain in the ass. Perhaps she’d accidently kick him in the shins during the bridal waltz?
She’d thought about wiping that smug grin off his face more than once since meeting him. In fact, he’d popped into her mind often, ruining her day, making her grumpy. Making her wish she could see him again so she could prove to him just how insignificant and inconsequential he was.
Tilly snorted. “Everyone wants to kill Mick at some point. It’s his superpower. That and the fact he’s so damn loveable when he wants to be.” She wrapped her knuckles on the doorframe. “Ready?”
Bria nodded. “Ready.”
“Shit,” Zeta burst out. Pain in the ass Mick had almost made her forget what was about to happen. “Wait.”
Everyone stopped and looked at her.
She pulled a face at them and toed off the sneakers she’d pulled on way back at seven a.m. to go to the resort’s hairdressers. “Sorry. Wrong shoes.”
Hurrying to the bag of supplies and other wedding paraphernalia she’d dumped on the bed on arriving at the beachside resort, she dug around in it and yanked out what she needed.
Gold rubber flip-flops, complete with gold glitter on the straps. “Got ‘em. Sorry.”
Grinning, she dropped them to the floor and shoved her feet into them. You had to love Bria. Getting married on a beach really made for far comfortable footwear.
* * *
“I’m gonna kill you, Mick,”Owen muttered under his breath, tugging at his tie.
“Your fault, big brother.” Mick tried to keep his grin under control. The celebrant was scowling at them both, the gentle coastal breeze flapping the old guy’s combover about in a way that made Mick want to laugh. Behind him, the pristine beach and surf connected to the remote luxury resort where Owen and Bria were getting married stretched on forever. “You’ll think twice about beating me in poker again.”
“But bright pink?” Owen shot a look at his feet, currently buried almost to the ankles in the beach’s cool, white sand. “Really? Bright pink? On my wedding day?”
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 saysI am so fucking good.”
“Hey.” Mick mock pouted. “Idon’thave 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 itIwon the poker game and yet I ended up withmytoenails 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. “Ididn’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 the bachelor party, after all. He’d bolted to the closest cabin—a good sixty meters away—where a family with at least three young teenage daughters were holidaying. He’d 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 the 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.”
