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I’m not sure I like surprises.
The front yard at the Demachis is pristine and wedding-worthy. There’s a marquee of sorts up against the garage, and tables and chairs are arranged inside. The place has scrubbed up well. Yesterday, we’d all had a hand in putting up the white netting that was donated by one of Alessia’s aunts. The ceiling of the garage is now swathed in gossamer and fairy lights. And it looks quite lovely. Romantic even. There are fairy lights on the walls and clusters of lights at each of the plastic tables, which are all covered in linen. The Demachis have done well—given the time. They’ve hired a few patio heaters for the marquee, and there’s a sizeable wood-burning stove at one end of the garage, which I’m assured will be lit, so hopefully, our guests won’t freeze.
The DJ, Kreshnik, one of Alessia’s cousins, has set up a little booth in the corner of the garage. His gear is old school: a laptop and humble Numark Mixtrack pro DJ decks. I haven’t seen one of those for years. He’s plugged them into a couple of speakers, and the sound is surprisingly warm and crisp.
“Great sound.” I give him a thumbs-up and a broad smile. He grins back, and I know he hasn’t understood a word I’ve said.
“Maxim!” Alessia calls.
I smile. She probably wants me to taste something delicious. The aroma from the kitchen has been enticing all day. Demachi turns from piling wood in the corner of the garage, ready for the wood-burning stove and flashes a quick grin. “Ajo do të të shëndoshë!” he calls, laughing, but I have no idea what he’s said.
Thanas joins me, chuckling. “He says, ‘She’s going to make you fat.’”
Amused by the banter, I begin to jog backward. “Tell him ‘I hope so.’” Turning, I hurry back into the house, take off my shoes, and head to the kitchen. I lean against the arch and quietly admire my future wife. She’s standing over the stove, stirring a large pot and swaying her hips to the music blaring via a speaker from her new phone. Her hair is tied back in a swinging ponytail, and she’s wearing tight jeans with one of the tops we bought in Padstow and a pretty, flowery apron. She looks young, beautiful, and in her element—every bit the domestic goddess. All trace of her trauma has disappeared. No bruises. No grazes, and I’m beyond grateful she looks so well.
Shpresa is also jigging about in time to the music and kneads a large mound of dough.
Man, she has such energy.
The song they’re dancing to is Albanian pop. It’s a tune. A female vocalist with a great voice.
Alessia grins when she sees me. “Here.” She holds up a wooden spoon dripping with an aromatic meaty concoction. When I reach her, she flashes me a smoldering look and eases it between my lips, watching me closely—her eyes darkening as the spicy morsel melts in my mouth.
It’s succulent and with a hint of garlic and something piquant.
Delicious.
“Mmm,” I respond as I swallow.
“You like?”
“You know I do. Very much. And I like you.”
She grins, and I give her a swift peck on her lips.
“Tavë kosi?”
“You remembered! My special recipe.” She’s delighted and swings her hips in time to the music, her dark eyes full of promise as she stirs the pot.
Oh, baby.
Soon.
She now has a brand-new passport, so we can leave whenever we want.
Thank heavens.
“Hey!” There’s a call from near the front door.
“Joe!” I exclaim to Alessia and dash in my socks out of the family room into the hallway.
Joe stands on the threshold, looking his usual dapper self in a tailored dark blue suit and navy overcoat. As soon as he sees me, he opens his arms. “Trevelyan! Mate.”
I run into them and hug him.
Fuck, it’s good to see him.
“Mate.” I sound hoarse as a sudden swell of emotion chokes my throat. He hugs me hard, then leans back, studying me.
“You okay?” he asks.
And I’m too emotional to do anything but nod.
Fuck. I do not want to break down right now. I’ll never live it down.
“You look good, Maxim,” he says with a wide grin. “Luggage is in the car. Brought your suits, the rings, and…” He turns, and behind him, standing by the car, is my sister.
Maryanne.
Shit.
Behind her, wearing an expression that may turn me to stone, is my brother’s widow.
Caroline.
Fuck a duck.
Chapter Five
I glance at Joe, who shrugs apologetically as Maryanne steps over the threshold and throws her arms around me.
“Maxie,” she whispers. “You found her then.”
“I did.”
“Something you want to tell us?” she adds, sarcasm dripping off every word as she cocks her head to the side—and I know she’s apoplectic but keeping a taut rein on her temper.
Oh no.
Caroline waltzes in behind her and offers me a cheek to peck. No hug. “We had to fly economy,” she snaps.
