Kissing The Bride (Stewart Island Series) Page 4
“Are you drunk? Or just outta your goddamn mind?” He rubbed his hands up and down her arms.
“I’m not dr-drunk.” She turned her full-power, stare-down chef’s glare on him, which was ineffectual due to the constant trembling and the dripping strands of hair falling over her face. “Or cr-cr-crazy.”
“Debatable,” Del said, half under his breath. “You risked hurting yourself when you couldn’t see what was beneath you—”
Shaye stabbed a shaky index finger skyward. “Hello, m-m-moonlight.”
“Not to mention hypo-bloody-thermia or getting a chunk taken out of your ass by a great white cruising by looking for a midnight snack.” Del tucked Shaye’s waving finger back under the towel and wrapped his arms around her.
She wriggled, but bugger it. He squeezed her tighter and pressed his lips to her forehead.
“Goddamnit, Shaye. You scared the hell outta me. Didn’t you think about…?” His voice cracked, and he clamped his mouth shut for a moment. “Never mind. You just scared me.”
Shaye stopped fighting to get away and melted into him—melted so far as her chilled body would allow. They stood like that, wet, cold, and clinging together like bloody Rose and Jack on that ridiculous Titanic movie Shaye made him re-watch a couple of weeks back. And just the thought of that, of his woman curled up against him in bed with a tissue jammed under her nose and making snivelling noises while he manfully pretended he did not have tears in his eyes, loosened the iron fist squeezing his chest. She was okay. She was completely insane, but she was okay.
“Jessica,” she said after another couple of heartbeats had thudded by. “Oh, God. I didn’t think—really, I wouldn’t have for one moment—crap. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay, baby.” He rubbed her back, guyishly noting her nipples stilled poked into his upper stomach like two hard pebbles. “Let’s get you two back to Due South and into some dry clothes.”
He glanced over his shoulder to where Ford had a bundled up Holly in his arms. Ford acknowledged Del with a chin lift and eyebrow arch which translated to, “I’ve got my lunatic; you got yours?”
Del released her, stepping back far enough that he could cup her face in his hands to steal a kiss.
“Raincheck on the kiss,” he said after her lips parted. “It’s like pashing a fish straight out of cold storage.”
Shaye snorted out a laugh and punched his arm. “Rude! And I suppose you’re going to go all caveman on me like Ford there and drag me back to the hotel over your shoulder.”
An arrow of heat zipped through Del at the thought of throwing Shaye over his shoulder and dragging her back to their bed. But he crinkled his nose instead.
“And wreck my back right before the wedding? Hell, no.” He shot a grin at her narrowing eyes and turned around, crouching a little. “Piggy-back’s the best I can do. Hop on.”
Shaye sighed and stepped forward, flinging her arms around his shoulders. She clambered onto his back, and he straightened, shifting her weight until she was wrapped snuggly around him like a damp backpack. He trudged over the soft sand to the spot where he’d kicked off his shoes and slid them on.
“I truly am sorry,” she murmured close to his ear. “I wasn’t planning anything for a change. I was just trying to be flexible and impulsive.”
“How about you save the impulsive flexibility for bed?” He chuffed out a laugh and strode toward Due South’s welcoming lights. “Sounds safer and warmer than jumping off the wharf, cupcake.”
Chapter 4
2 days before the Big Day and counting…
Boris was back.
Shaye stood on the front deck of her and Del’s little house and eyed the sea lion sunning himself on the beach, only thirty meters or so away. His tail flipper—or whatever it was called—flicked up a plume of sand as he twitched. Likely to rid himself of a pesky fly. Boris looked as grumpy as Shaye felt. She’d screwed up big time last night, and all her apologies hadn’t even begun to make up for it.
She sighed, craning her neck to try to spot Del’s moped puttering back home from Due South after the lunch service. He’d insisted he was fine when he’d left for work this morning, but Shaye couldn’t erase the memory of the stark terror in Del’s eyes as he’d plunged into the water to grab her.
“I’m such a dumbass,” she said.
Boris lifted his enormous head off the sand, swivelled it in Shaye’s direction, and barked.
“Yeah, yeah. Everyone’s a critic.” She whipped out her journal from under her arm and flicked through the crinkled pages until she got to the bookmarked “2 Days to Go!” page.
Pack honeymoon suitcase. Done and dusted—including the embarrassingly funny crotch-less panties.
Subtly remind darling Del to pack his suitcase. She’d left an empty suitcase open on their bed with an A4 sheet of paper inside after he’d left for the day. The paper said: Fill me, and you can fill your wife-to-be. Wink, wink. Subtle enough? Shaye thought so.
Confirm Sebastian Clark has arrived; make sure he’s happy with everything. Another neat check by that one.
Ethan Ward, arrogant jerk though he could be, had offered to fly in one of the runner-up chefs from last season’s Ward On Fire show to cater Shaye and Del’s wedding reception. All expenses and food paid for.
“Call it a wedding present from the man who helped get you two lovebirds together,” Ethan said.
Tactful enough not to point out that Ethan was one of the reasons she’d nearly lost the love of her life, Shaye gratefully accepted his offer. Gift-horses, and all that.
Bake one hundred white-wedding cupcakes! That was her current job.
Sweating it out in their tiny kitchen, surrounded by plastic containers of seventy-six vanilla-almond flavored golden cupcakes so far. Cupcakes Erin would pick up tonight and decorate with white chocolate frosting on Saturday morning. Much as it’d galled Shaye to allow her friend to take over any edible part of her wedding day, she’d finally conceded it’d be impossible for her to do it alone.
The kitchen timer buzzed. Shaye turned away from Boris—who’d flopped down on the sand and appeared to be snoozing again—and returned inside.
Focused on the busywork of removing cupcakes from the oven and spooning batter into the cute silver paper cups, Shaye started at the sudden rattle of the sliding door. She whirled. Del had his back to her in the living room as he slid the glass door shut. He turned, brow crinkled with concern.
“Gotta keep the door shut when Boris is around, remember?” His gaze skimmed over her. A decidedly lukewarm gaze, unlike his usual I can’t wait to get you naked, blisteringly hot stare. “We don’t want a repeat of Ar-Mac-geddon.”
A referral to the time, a few years back, when the MacDonalds—neighbors farther along Shearwater Bay Road—had gone for a walk and left their doors open, only to find Boris trashing their living room when they returned. The “wee beastie” had made himself quite at home, and it took three Department of Conservation workers to convince the sea lion to vacate his new bachelor pad.
“I forgot. Sorry.” Shaye slid the cupcakes into the oven, her nape tingling, certain she could feel Del’s tepid gaze on her skin.
It wasn’t as if they hadn’t experienced couple-fights during their engagement. Oh hell, yeah—they’d fought. The whole range, from stupid arguments over coat-hangers—yep, coat-hangers—to more serious issues about Del returning to work after donating a kidney to save his father’s life. They’d even argued briefly over wedding stuff, until they’d reached a compromise. Shaye had things exactly how she wanted because Del loved her but truly didn’t give a crap about seating arrangements or whether they should have paper napkins or linen ones.
This was different. This was two-freaking-days before their wedding. And for the first time, insidious little twinges began to pinprick her gut that maybe Del was getting cold feet.
Shaye straightened from shutting the oven door, turned and bumped into a sun-warmed leather chest.
“Hey,” the leather
chest rumbled.
She kept her eyes locked on Del’s Adam’s apple, at the stubble turning into scruff on his jaw as he hadn’t shaved for three days. But as if they had a mind of their own, her hands found their way to his hips, resting on worn-soft denim just below his leather jacket. She hooked her fingers into the front pockets of Del’s jeans, swayed toward him and rested her forehead on his shoulder. God, he smelled so good. Leather and coriander-from-lunch-service and salt and sunshine and just…her Del.
“Are you okay?” Fingertips under her chin tilted her face upward to Del’s cool-blue eyes.
Shaye held his gaze a few beats longer, until his eyebrows drew into a vee, and his eyes crinkled in the corners.
“Or are you going to get all weepy, cupcake?”
“No!” Had she only imagined the heat in Del’s gaze had plummeted a few degrees? Little prickles started in her sinuses, and her cheeks felt hotter than the baking cooling on the oven top. “Yeah,” she said.
Del’s hands went to her arms and tugged her closer until they were boobs to leather chest, hips to sizable erection.
Oh.
“Maybe,” she amended. “Depends on whether we’re okay.”
“We’re good, I think.” He gave her a crooked smile. “Real good.” Then the smile slipped a notch to expose the vulnerability beneath the surface. “And not just because of this…” He snugged her hips more in line with his. “But because you’re still my salt, sweetheart; the one thing this chef can’t live without. That’s why I over-reacted when I saw you hit the water. Why next time I want you to include me in your crazy, flexible-impulsive schemes.”
“You’d have jumped in with me?” she asked.
Del boosted her onto a clear spot on their kitchen counter, stepping between her spread legs. Shaye hooked her ankles across his butt and wrapped her arms around his neck.
“After I pushed you off first—sure,” he said with a wink, and then more seriously, “You know I’d never ask you to jump into the unknown alone. I’m right here with you, Shaye. Every, damn, step.”
The heat in her face slipped farther south, and she wriggled on the countertop. “Cinnamon sticks!” She pulled a hand away from Del’s neck and swiped it over her cheeks. “Now I’m weepy and horny. Quite the appealing combo.”
She laughed—cut off with a sigh as Del dipped his head and kissed her thoroughly.
“So, no cold feet?” she asked when he pulled away to strip off his leather jacket.
“Nope.” He dropped the jacket then hooked the back of his tee shirt and hauled it over his head.
“No doubts about marrying a woman who’ll drive you nuts with lists and notebooks and superior organizational skills?”
“Nope.” His gaze shot to the right, and in a swift movement he snatched her All Things Nuptial journal off the countertop and tossed it into the living room. “Not one. Unless your list making will prevent you from getting naked in the next thirty seconds.”
Shaye shivered—but in a good way. She’d definitely been mistaken about how he’d been looking at her, because right now, she felt like one of her cupcakes—golden and delicious and waiting for Del to lick off her frosting.
“No, chef.” She popped open the first button on her shirt. “I’ll be naked in half of that.”
And she was.
***
Day before the Big Day and counting…
Toasts made, X-rated jokes laughed over, numerous ball-and-chain jibes tolerated and too-many-to-count “remember when we…” stories retold, Del leaned back in his chair at Due South’s pub and took a sip of his non-alcoholic beer. Counted himself lucky by only being the butt of a few jokes instead of blindfolded and tied up somewhere on the Rakiura Track. Considering West and Ben had organized his stag night, Del had gotten off lightly.
Speaking of his big brother…
“Where did West go?” Del asked Ben, who slouched beside Del, also nursing a non-alcoholic beer.
His brother and mates, knowing of Del’s previous issues with alcohol abuse—not to mention, he functioned with only one remaining kidney—were considerate with their drinking around him. But they didn’t coddle him either, which he appreciated. Tonight, however, Ben, West, Kip, Ford, and Harley had been threatened with dismemberment from their women if they came home smashed, so all of his mates watched their booze intake.
“Dunno.” Ben picked up his glass and drained it. He swiped a wrist across his mouth then gestured over his shoulder toward the back corner, where Ford was fiddling with the mic stand. “But it looks like Ford’s gonna serenade you.”
A screech of feedback sounded from the mic, fingernails-on-blackboard loud. “Sorry ‘bout that.” Ford’s amplified voice filled the pub. “Kia ora, everyone. As you know, the youngest Westlake’s tying the knot tomorrow afternoon—”
Whoops and hollers and feet-stamping erupted throughout the pub, which was predominantly filled with wool-jersey-and-gumboot-wearing males with a few wide-eyed, late-in-the-season tourists sprinkled amongst them.
“Yeah, yeah. Pipe down,” Ford said. “So how could me and the guys not organize something special for a man who’d once called Hollywood home?”
Del rolled his eyes. That he’d actually lived in Venice Beach made no difference to his mates; he’d always be Hollywood to them.
“Even though we promised his beautiful wife-to-be that we’d keep tonight’s entertainment family friendly…” Ford continued.
Del’s stomach plummeted to the soles of his boots. Oh shit. This didn’t sound good.
“Guys, give a big hand to the South’s sensationally seductive strippers!”
Someone flashed the pub’s lights on and off a few times, and the instantly recognizable “stripper” music blared through the sound-system. The door between pub and hallway flung open, and octogenarian Mrs. Taylor swept through the entrance. Dressed in a sleeveless purple-and-black dress that looked like a costume out of a roaring twenties movie, she wore a matching feathery purple boa draped across her skinny shoulders. Trailing after her, wearing similar attire, were her two closest pals, Mrs. Brailsford and Mrs. Randal—and following them was…his dad, who wore a gigantic, lacy bra on the outside of his shirt plus a bright-pink boa flung artfully around his neck.
Oh. Dear. God. Laughter bubbled up in Del, and he doubled over, his sides aching. He was absolutely going to kill his mates for this.
The pub crowd erupted into laughter as the “strippers” wound their way through a sea of mobile phones clicking photos. The trio and Del’s dad stopped at a couple of tables, tickling noses with their boas, and those who could, doing the odd bump and grind against the whooping locals. Mrs. T. reached Del first, swinging her boa at him and fluttering her purple-painted eyelids.
“Come ‘ere, big boy,” she shouted to be heard over the music.
With a snort, Del stood and opened his arms, giving his favorite elderly woman a hug and a kiss on the cheek—and yeah, the old cougar managed to slip in a squeeze of his ass during their embrace.
“This was your idea, wasn’t it, Betsy?” he asked.
“Bloody oath, it was,” she said. “Most fun I’ve had in ages. I’m thinking of starting a burlesque troupe.” She gave him a saucy wink. “Wanted to give you a hint of what you’re missing, Hollywood, now that you’re almost off the market.”
“Mrs. T., if you start a burlesque troupe Due South will have a full house every night.”
Mrs. T. gave a girlishly high giggle and snagged Del’s tee shirt, pulling him forward and planting a couple of kisses on his chest—leaving behind the traces of her crimson lipstick.
“There,” she said. “That’ll keep Shaye on her toes.” Then she patted his cheek and hobbled aside to let Del’s dad pass.
Bill gave a little shimmy and side-step-shuffle as he approached, cupping his big, blunt hands under the bra cups stuffed with paper towels sitting high on his barrel-like chest. Del chuckled and allowed his dad to haul him in for a father-son hug and back-slap.
His dad’s ruddy-with-good-health face broke into a Cheshire Cat grin. “Who the hell do you think sourced this brassiere, boy?”
That shocked a belly laugh from Del, and he gripped his dad’s shoulder. “She knows about this?”
“’Course she does. Nothing gets by my girlie—except, perhaps, what you’ve been getting up to during the day while you’re meant to be working.” Bill gave him a sly glance and mimed zipping his lips shut. “How’s that going, you sneaky bugger?”
“Better,” Del said. “And thanks for taking over my services without giving anything away to Shaye.”
An arm hooked around his neck, and knuckles scrubbed against his scalp, low, dirty laughter sounding beside his ear.
“Who would’ve thought that tomorrow you’d be standing in front of a preacher and kissing your bride?” West released Del and danced back a couple of steps out of his reach.
“Not me.” Bill held up his palms. “I’m still surprised the woman’ll have ya.” Then he tilted his chin at the bar. “I’m gonna grab me another cold one while the bar is free. Don’t kill your best man while I’m gone.”
“Yeah, Delly”—West offered Del a fresh bottle—“don’t kill your best man—or, at least, don’t get your ass kicked trying.”
“It’s Del.”
But Del accepted the beer and twisted off the cap. He held his bottle, and West clinked his against it.
“Love you, little bro,” West said. “You know I’ve got your back tomorrow and every day.”
A huge smile twitched at the corners of Del’s mouth. “Piss off, you big muppet.”