Page 64 of Sucker For You

“I appreciated that,” she clarified, for the sake of honesty more than God. “No one asked me to choose table arrangements or colors. To test flavors. Fabrics. Karen Meyer already knew the right vendors. I didn’t. She managed them. She managed everyone. The consultants. The family. Friends. It was easy. But—”

“But?”

“She asked about food allergies. She never asked whether I wanted octopus appetizers.”

“The catering company didn’t ask you, either? Seriously?” Shaking his head, Wes retrieved his phone. “They should know better. It was your wedding! Then one of their servers actually fucked Chase at the event? Yeah, I’m calling to complain.”

Maybe the catering company should have asked for her preferences. But would she really have told them anything that contradicted Chase’s or Karen’s plans?

She knew the truth about herself:no.

“It wasn’t Perfect Pairing’s fault that their staff—”

“Phone number for Perfect Pairing Catering.” A voice search on his screen overrode a scroll of Monaghan texts. He jabbed the dial button:

Calling Perfect Pairing Catering

“No—” Scrambling to end the call before it connected, Isabel snatched his hand and his phone, startling the seagull into the air.

Startling herself, too.

Silence.

Call Ended

She didn’t release him. “I don’t want to call the catering company. I don’t want to make a complaint.”

“But—”

“I know.” If voicing her frustration had been safe, she would have screamed. At Perfect Pairing Catering, at Karen Meyer, at Chase. It wasn’t. Loud behavior was dangerous, volatile. Attention-grabbing. Plaingrabbing. After another slow exhale, she explained, “None of it mattered. You know why I was there at the yacht club on Friday night, why I wore the ring. I didn’t care about flowers. Or even about most of the hors d’oeuvres.”

“Or. . . Chase?” Wes’s voice was suddenly very soft. No more protests. Just a murmur.

“Or Chase,” she confirmed.

But the heat rising into her ears at that admission wasn’t shame. Not when her heart was fluttering, pulse drumming in her throat while she kept her grip on Wes’s hand, while his breath ghosted over her lips in the fading light, while a blush suffused his own cheeks where her fingers had brushed away crumbs and sand. In contrast, her guilt was muted. A stale, cold, and distant thing. While this—this. . .

His mouth was mere inches from hers.

His gaze dipped. “Isabel?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“I. . .”

Keow-keow!

The seagull dive-bombed them.

13

Racing back through driftwood spars on the beach, the Nice to Sea You! gate smacking closed behind them, they burst into the bungalow together.

“Jesus, cheese, and crackers!” Laughing, Wes collapsed into the basket chair.

Isabel switched on a lamp. She perched on the arm of the couch, hugging their picnic towel while rocking in a golden glow spilling from the light, laughing with him—and,God, her laugh was wonderful: bright as sunshine on sea foam, musical as a wind chime, sprinkled with ticklish huffs through her nose. How could he complain that the gull had interrupted their teetering, tender moment by the shore, when she was laughing like this?

He almost didn’t care that the bird had made her laugh, not him.