Accidentally Marrying the Biker (Accidentally Marrying #9)

Chapter 1

MELISSA

The sexiest biker I know is coming out of his stateroom across the hall.

Wade “Duck” Clifford is also the only biker I know, but I can’t imagine there are hotter ones out there.

I don’t get to enjoy seeing him often, so I don’t waste the opportunity.

As always, the man looks fine. But today, instead of the blue jeans and leather riding jacket I’ve become used to, he’s in a sharp suit, including a tie and matching pocket square. “Bond? James Bond?” I ask.

“Goddammit, Trouble, you just can’t help yourself, can you?” he replies. He doesn’t crack a smile, but I can hear one in his voice.

“No, I can’t. Especially after seeing you in that suit.”

I see him eyeing me in my shiny, pastel pink, floor-length gown with its puffy skirt and lace-up corset. I look like a prom queen. This time he smiles for real. “Nice dress. It looks familiar.”

“It should. I wore it at Josh and Joanie’s wedding.” Two decades ago. I’m both stunned and impressed that it still fits.

“It’s the same dress?”

I twist my hips to make the skirt swing like a bell. I know how far it’s fallen out of fashion. But what can I do? “The things we do for friends, right?”

“You look terrific. Pretty in pink.”

“Shut up, Wade.”

“Why are you the only person who doesn’t call me “Duck,” Melissa? It’s your fault that everybody else does.”

“Why would I, when I can drive you even more nuts by calling you by your name?” This is an old conversation. We laugh and I take the arm he offers. I’m a couple inches shorter than him in these heels. “Come on. We have time to stop at the bar on the way to dinner.”

“How many bars are there on this floating hotel?” he asks.

“I don’t know, but we should make it a point to find all of them.

” We are aboard the Tropical Wave on a four-day, three-night cruise of the Caribbean to celebrate my best friend’s twentieth wedding anniversary.

I was her maid of honor back in the day.

Wade was the best man and a navy buddy of the groom.

“Let’s get going. I don’t want to miss the pre-dinner cocktails. ”

“Shouldn’t we wait for Bob?”

I guess he hasn’t heard. It makes sense; we only see each other every five years or so at a Klein anniversary party. “Bob’s not here. He had a heart attack last summer.”

Wade freezes, but I give his arm a tug and steer him to the stairs leading to the Emerald Deck where the restaurants are. I always enjoy putting him on the spot, but when he so sincerely says, “I’m sorry, Mel,” I have to let him off the hook immediately.

“I’m not.” My expression must betray me because Wade’s face morphs from sympathetic to horrified to confused. “Bob isn’t dead. He had it when he was fucking one of my bosses at the restaurant. She called the ambulance for him,” I elaborate.

“This sounds like a tequila story,” he says.

“No, it’s a bubbles story.” I grin when his eyes widen in fear.

“In fact, I think I need to drink away the memory. You’ll have a bottle of sparkling wine with me to celebrate taking that cheating asshole to the cleaners, won’t you, Wade?

” I flutter my brown eyes at him, not even trying to hide my grin.

“Absolutely not. Let’s go, Trouble.”

The ink dried on my divorce decree six months ago.

It was no consolation to know Bob’s affair wasn’t just a fling; I discovered Paula Pruden now Overbridge had an engagement ring on her finger the day he had me served with the papers.

I got shitfaced with Joanie and wished the pair all the luck and happiness they deserved.

Then I went no-contact and had my lawyer bleed him for all he was worth. I got everything I’d asked for.

Bob didn’t argue because he didn’t want me going public about Paula’s behavior.

Not only had she slept with my husband, she’d then turned around and fired me over the other owners’ objections.

I walked away and didn’t look back. I did hear that Bob had invested all the assets he had left into Paula’s share of the restaurant, making the two of them co-owners of twenty-five percent of Martinique.

Wade’s touch on my elbow brings me back to the present as he guides me into the late supper seating.

The dining room is massive, filled with beautiful people making small talk with the strangers they’ll be eating with for the next three days.

The carpeted floors absorb some of the noise from a hundred different conversations going on at the same time.

The white tablecloths and white fabric chairs add an extra level of elegance that augments the massive crystal chandeliers overhead.

I spot Josh and Joanie and the rest of the wedding party just ahead of us when a man sitting at the table to my left calls my name. “Melissa?”

Wade stops when I do, then waves the waiter away since we’re practically at our destination. “Friend of yours?” he asks quietly.

“Business acquaintance,” I whisper back. “Marcus, what a surprise. How are you?”

Marcus Melbourne resembles an accountant the same way Christian Wolff does: they’re both smart, quiet, and have the ability to move in a way that feels dangerous, even if you don’t know why.

He has been a favorite client at the restaurant for years.

“Missing your penne a la vodka.” He looks at my dress and smiles. “Here for a party?”

“A wedding,” I say. “Marcus, this is Wade Clifford, a friend and restaurant owner from North Dakota. Wade, let me introduce Marcus Melbourne, investor and pasta connoisseur. He was a regular at Martinique when he lived in Chicago.” I turn to Marcus. “I think you’re in Los Angeles now, aren’t you?”

“Most of the time. Like you, though, I’m on vacation at the moment. I’m here for a wedding celebration too. My parents’ fortieth anniversary.”

I look around his table and see a family resemblance among the three other brown haired, blue eyed men sitting with the senior couple. “How lovely! What an accomplishment.”

“They raised four boys. You have no idea,” he says with a laugh. “I’ll let you get seated. Good to see that you’re doing well, Melissa.”

“You too, Marcus.”

I jump a little when Wade puts his hand on my back to guide me to our table. “He’s an investor? Did you invest with him?”

“No, but he did give me a couple of stock tips in exchange for my penne a la vodka recipe.”

We finally arrive at our table, where Joanie is already seated in a clingy, floor-length ivory gown, and Josh is beside her in a sleek black suit.

Tammy Depp and Michael Reyes, in an appropriate gown and suit, round out the original bridal party with their respective partners also in attendance.

“Hey, hey, the gang’s all here,” Michael says in greeting.

“The party may now begin,” I intone seriously. That lasts all of a second before everybody starts laughing. The six of them already look three sheets to the wind. Wade and I have some catching up to do.

The waiter can’t keep pace with our drink orders.

The food mitigates our consumption, but only partially.

By the time dessert rolls around, I’m pretty sure that the deck is stable and I’m the one who's weaving on my feet. I don’t care.

It’s the first time since my divorce that I’ve had the opportunity to really cut loose.

I’m among friends; they will dump me in my room and lock the door behind them if I get too shitfaced.

But I’m not there yet. I’ve hit utterly happy, on the verge of telling everybody how much I love them.

It’s the perfect level of tipsy to maintain for a vow renewal.

I allow myself another half a glass of champagne before I cut myself off.

It’s for everybody’s safety. Especially mine.

I don’t need to drool across the table at Wade.

He’s always been hot. I would have hit on him the first time we met but Joanie had warned me that he had a serious girlfriend.

That same weekend, I saw him in dress whites standing beside Josh at the front of the church.

I didn’t stand a chance. The sight of him seared itself forever into my brain.

Now that Bob is out of the picture, I’m free but I don’t know if Wade is seeing anybody. I need to find a minute to ask Joanie about him. Even after a bottle of bubbly, I know that I can’t make a move until I find out if he’s single.

The waiter refills our champagne flutes and that last half glass goes down much too easily. A realization hits me: we aren’t in grade school. I don’t need to pass a note to Joanie to see if Wade is a free agent. I can ask him myself.

I lean my elbow on the table and prop my chin on my hand. I wait for a pause in the conversation between Wade and Josh. Then I make my move. “So, Wade, you know about Bob. What about Ashley? Wasn’t she able to get time off?” I’m pretty sure I have the name of his last known girlfriend correct.

“Ashley? That ended years ago. I’m not seeing anybody right now.”

“Excellent!”

“I think you mean “I’m sorry to hear that?”, don’t you, Trouble?”

“No, I’m pretty sure I don’t, Wade.”