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It’s him.
Dorian.
Recognition colors his teal-green irises, and his lips begin to move, but before he can say a single word, I manage a quick “It’s wonderful to meet you, Dorian.”
He slides his hand into mine, sending a shiver of goose bumps throughout me the moment our palms touch.
“Likewise,” he says with a cruel, knowing squint. His perceptive stare falls to my left hand, where my glimmering five-carat diamond can’t be missed. “Couldn’t possibly imagine what you see in my brother, but I guess we’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?”
“Dorian,” Redmond says with a huff that turns into a coughing fit. He reaches for his water, choking down the last drop before the natural color returns to his face. When he’s finished, he staggers to a standing position and thumps a trembling fist against the table. The silverware bounces and the children gasp. “There’ll be no more of . . . this.”
His angry sneer moves from Nicola to Burke to Dorian. Gone is the cheerful-grandfather type who carted us from the dock to the door with pleasantries and enthusiasm and the winds of joy in his sails.
“We’re going to enjoy these next eight weeks. Do you understand me?” There’s a crazy look in his shaky eyes, one that sucks all the air from the room.
His question is met with palpable silence.
“Do you understand me?” he asks, louder this time, enunciating each syllable. “Have I made myself crystal clear?”
“Yes,” the three of them say with averted eyes like scolded schoolchildren.
I’m beginning to understand why Burke said there’d be no exceptions to his father’s no-working-while-on-the-island rule. He doesn’t seem like the kind of man who takes no for an answer.
Focusing on my glass of water and the empty wine goblet beside it, I’m acutely aware of the weight of Dashiell’s stare from the other side of the table. Perhaps he’s gauging my reaction to see if I have what it takes to marry into a family like this one.
Fortunately, none of us will ever know.
A parade of servers with plates covered in stainless steel cloches enters the room in a single file, breaking up the tense silence with their accidentally perfect timing.
Another staffer, wielding a crystal pitcher, refills Redmond’s water glass before uncorking two bottles of wine and making her way around the adult part of the table.
“Welcome to the family.” Dorian leans close, his voice so low it tickles my eardrum. I think he’s being sarcastic, but I don’t dare laugh.
Burke takes my hand on the other side, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
I swallow my doubts with a mouthful of wine and pray we make it through these next two months.
An hour ago, I was certain it’d be a piece of cake.
Now I’m not so sure.
CHAPTER THREE
BRIAR
One Year Ago
Dorian drinks his water as the song changes to the Bruno Mars number about doing something dumb tonight and getting married.
“Vivi definitely requested this,” I say as the wedding-bells echo plays. “She’s loved this song since middle school.”
“It sounds exactly like something a middle schooler would love.”
“Whatever. It’s catchy. Admit it. If you were in a better mood, you’d be cutting a rug right now.”
“Cutting a rug?” He cracks another semblance of a half smile—second one of the night. “Who says that?”
“I think you secretly love this song.” I razz him again to get him to loosen up a little more. “I can see it in your eyes. They’re practically twinkling.”
“Is that right?” He sips his bad-luck water, keeping his hypnotic gaze focused on me. “Sorry to say, but you’re wrong. I hate it.”
“Hate’s a strong word,” I say. “Maybe your feelings are more hate-ish?”
“No, it is pure hatred.”
“How do you know?”
“When you know, you know.”
While the rest of our group is dancing and singing along with the obnoxious-yet-fitting tune, I make the fatal error of accidentally catching Vivi’s eyes. She motions for me to join her, but I’m a couple of shots away from being dance floor drunk, and my feet are still on fire, so I shake my head no. Fortunately, she moves on, linking arms with two of her girlfriends. That’s the thing about my cousin; she’s not going to waste a single second of her favorite song.
“You sure you don’t want to join in on that?” Dorian asks. “I can save your seat.”
“I’ll go if you go,” I say, but I don’t mean it. Blisters and sobriety aside, I was born with two left feet. Not literally. But I can’t dance to save my life, and it’s not from a lack of trying. My mom stuck me in every dance class under the sun until I was twelve, hoping one day it would eventually stick. All those recitals, all those costumes, all those hours practicing, all that money . . . it was all for nothing. “I bet you’ve got some moves.”
