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Rosalie stops on the beach. “But there’s something else. Something you’re not telling me.”
I shrug.
She grips my forearm. “You met someone.”
Taking my silence as affirmation, her smile broadens. “Oh, I’ve always wanted to meet the future Mr. Rosalie at a wedding. Or in a coffee shop. On the beach. At my store where he orders a bouquet and then gives it to me. Wouldn’t that be romantic?”
“You’ve thought a lot about this.”
“Every day.”
“And yet you go on a date just about every week.”
“And each time I get closer and closer to the one.” She winks.
I don’t think Rosalie has commitment issues so much as high expectations. She’s gorgeous and the kind of woman who knows her worth yet hasn’t met a man who sees her for more than a pretty face.
“And you? Tell me about this mysterious matrimony man.”
I shrug. “It was no big deal.”
Oh. But. It. Was.
And given that simple—no, that very complicated truth—I cannot keep it to myself. I tell Rosalie how I sent Magnus a text asking him to marry me and then how it turned kind of flirty. The awkwardness when we met in person at the rehearsal dinner, then how I fell in the pool and he rescued me. “There was a mix-up with our rooms. My last name is McGuiness and his is McGregor and—”
She squeals which sends the dogs barking. “You shared a room?”
“Kind of. I mean yes, we did. But there was no funny business. He took the bed and I took the chair. Then we made a pillow barricade when I kept sliding off. He remained on his side of the California king and I was on mine, but we stayed up talking half the night.” Clearing my throat, I say, “Actually, almost until dawn.”
Now I’m afraid I went too far when I called him a monster for not liking cake.
“That’s amazing. The start of a real love story, a—”
I cut Rosalie off before she can say more. “But in a cruel twist, the next day he acted like we hadn’t shared secrets and dreams. We went our separate ways.”
Just as I want to forget about the wedding, he’s already forgotten about me.
Rosalie, crouched down and petting one of the dogs, looks up sharply at me. “Wait a minute.” She gets to her feet. “Back up.”
I do, because even though I tower over her by about six inches, she’s intimidating.
“I don’t mean to literally back up. You said your last name, McGuinness, and his. What was it?”
“McGregor.”
“McGregor?” Rosalie repeats.
At the same time, I notice the dog she’s petting isn’t one of ours. I have Madame de Pupadour and General MuttArthur. She has Roo, a min pin mix who hops around on three legs. But this is an elderly white German Shepard. I rub the dog’s flank and then take a good look at him—occupational habit.
“Where’d he come from?” I ask.
“Such a beautiful dog,” Rosalie says.
“A retired working dog, I’m guessing. And a little spoiled.” I turn to the K-9. “I bet you’re thirsty and like cookies. Do you like cookies?”
“Who doesn’t?” Rosalie asks.
“Dog treats,” I say.
