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"And that’s why Isla agreed to marry you, hmm? You struck a deal with her, I presume? Something along the lines of ‘you help me get my inheritance’ and ‘I’ll help get your wedding planning company on the map’?"
"Shut the fuck up," I snap.
Thankfully, this entire circus isn’t in a church, which is the only consolation. It’s being held on the lawn by the beach. Our close family and friends have already gathered on either side of the flower petal strewn aisle. On the far end, Declan, who is recording this event in his role as our ‘celebrity photographer’ holds up his thumb.
In addition, the professional photographer and videographer are in attendance. They’ll be sharing exclusive snippets, subsequent to our approval, with the influencers and the media.
I spot the rest of the Seven who confirmed their attendance, with their wives. On the other side of the aisle, Michael is seated with Karma. He has his arm around his wife, but his attention is on Sinclair, who scowls back at him.
In front of them are my mother, my sister Kirsten, and her husband and kids. Next to them are Isla’s mother and brother. Their Great Dane Tiny is on a leash. Even from this distance, I can tell his gaze is fixed on the conservatory where the post-wedding reception is going to be held. It can’t be because of the glasses of champagne that are, no doubt, being poured in readiness for the dinner that will follow soon. Jeez, does that dog have a problem, or what?
"Liam, what’s he talking about?" Hunter’s voice cuts through my thoughts.
"Ignore the twat; his mind is full of romantic fantasies. It’s what happens when you’re pussy-whipped."
Weston laughs. "Typical defense mechanism. When you don’t have a rejoinder, strike out at your opponent so you can distract them.FYI, bro, it ain’t flying with me."
"Go fuck yourself," I grumble.
Behind me, the official who’ll be conducting the wedding shifts his weight. Clearly, when he agreed to solemnize the marriage, he didn’t expect such colorful language to be used. Not that it matters, considering he’s going to be handsomely compensated for his efforts.
Then the strains ofLadyBirdby Nancy Sinatra and Lee Hazlewood begin to play.
Amelie steps onto the flower-strewn path and the crowd grows silent. As she walks up the aisle, she beams at Weston.
My brother, for his part, has eyes only for her. Amelie tilts her chin up and puckers her lips at him. My brother puckers up his lips right back at her. I think I just threw up in my mouth. They’ve been married a few months, but the two still act like they’re on their honeymoon. If he thinks I’m going to turn into a googly-eyed, douche-canoe like him then he’s sadly mistaken. Amelie comes to a halt on the opposite side of the aisle.
Summer steps onto the aisle and approaches us.
“Isn’t she gorgeous?” Sinclair says softly from his position in line behind me.
Summer glides over to stand on the opposite side of us and beside Amelie, and then it’s Zara’s turn.
Next to me, Hunter stiffens. I shoot him a sideways glance to find him following her progress. His jaw is stiff, and a nerve throbs at his temple. I turn to find she has her head held high, and she glances right past him to the officiant. She flashes him a smile, then walks past us to take her position next to Summer.
Hunter curls his fingers into fists at his sides, as if to stop himself from using them on something or someone. Or from reaching out to pull her into his side.
The hair on the back of my neck rises. A thrill runs down my spine. Even before I turn, I know she’s walking up the aisle.
28
Isla
He turns his head toward me, our eyes hold, and my breath leaves me. He rakes his gaze down the length of my body from my features to my chest, down past my hips, to my skirt clad legs, to my crystal-embellished Manolo Blahnik's. A pair I found when I returned to my room this morning. I really need to speak to him about his shoe fetish. That, combined with his hinted penchant for erotic electrostimulation, paints the picture of a very complex man.
He raises his gaze back to my face, and my entire body feels like it’s on fire. A surge of what seems like thermonuclear radiation sizzles between us. He’s the fisherman reeling in the catch. The magnet against which I have no defense. The calm at the eye of the storm that’s enveloped me, pulling me toward him, inch by inch. Then I’m a few yards from him, then a few feet away.
He holds out his hand, and I place my palm in his. His is warm, mine freezing cold. I’m trembling like the chords of a guitar that’s been dropped. He squeezes my fingers. The band around my chest loosens. I draw in a breath and my head spins.
"Easy," he murmurs. "Easy, LadyBird, I’ve got you."
His voice rumbles across my skin. My blood begins to pump again. My arms and legs feel weak, but I manage to pull myself together.
The music fades away and we turn to face the official.
"Thought we weren’t going to have any music," I murmur.
"I changed my mind."
