A Crush at Christmas (Love on Ceto Island #1)

Chapter 1

EMERY

I ’ve always known Christmas is for suckers.

Eggnog makes me barf. Carols hurt my ears. And whoever invented ugly sweaters… just no.

But this year, I have to hide my antipathy, because my favourite person on the planet is getting married on Christmas Eve. And I’m determined to ensure the wedding goes off without a hitch.

Tom may have been a major pain in my arse growing up, but my brother is the only family I have, and he deserves to be happy.

Though I hide my reservations about him marrying Pauline, the massage therapist he’s known for six months after meeting her on a hike in Byron Bay, and swallow the questions I want to ask.

Why rush into marriage?

Why not live together for a year and see how it goes?

Are you sure she’s not pregnant?

Because I’ve never seen my brother smile so much and when he’s with her, he’s a different person.

Besides, it’s not my place to interfere. I’m not exactly an expert in the love stakes. A grand total of two boyfriends who lasted a few months apiece does not make me a romantic. I don’t believe in love at first sight, like Tom. And at twenty-eight, I’m too cynical to marry someone I barely know.

But Tom wanted me to cater his wedding on Ceto Island off the coast of northern Queensland, and that’s what I’m doing. I’ve been here two days and have commandeered the small kitchen attached to an open-air beach shack.

I’m keeping the menu simple but on theme. Cranberry topped turkey tarts. Lemon salmon skewers. Five-spice honey-glazed ham. Slow roasted lamb. Shaved fennel salad. Parmesan crusted roast potatoes. Mango pavs. Mint ice cream puddings. Cherry Eton Mess.

The main prep is done and I’m waiting on the gourmet triple smoked ham being "own in today. As long as the pilot doesn’t deliver it personally, I’ll be fine.

The last guy I want to see before the wedding is Weston Spade.

Weston may be my brother’s best friend, but that doesn’t mean I have to like him. I don’t. He’s arrogant, accomplished, and cocky.

And he’s the mistake I almost made one drunken night four years ago.

Christmas night, to be exact.

I blame Tom’s lethal sangria and that damn mistletoe. There’ll be none of either at this wedding.

I’ll make sure of it.