Chapter 1 Mila
Chapter 1
Mila
Just think of the sunshine.
There’s something about it that just puts a positive spin on the glummest of days. Not that I’m glum. I can’t be glum. I’m on an all-expenses-paid trip to an exclusive island resort—and I’m getting paid for being here!
It would be rude to be anything other than grateful, I remind myself as I pick up my iPad and check off another few items from my checklist. Then drop the pen because I’m not used to these gel nails.
“Slippery little ...” Got it. Beauty is pain, so they say, and chewed nails are just icky.
Where was I? Ah.
Chairs 12 Perfectly aligned and suitably swathed.
Dais Appropriately dressed.
Not that I expected anything less. This resort has more stars than I have fingers on one hand. Nope. Not doing it, I think, firmly ignoring the reflex to glance at the band of pale skin where my engagement ring once sat. I’m not thinking about today’s date either. So what if this is the day I was supposed to get married myself. Who cares? Not me.
Back to my iPad and list.
Lanterns Two per pew. Evenly spaced.
Carpet aisle of rose petals rather, she’s employed by the hotel. As well as signing a watertight NDA, I agreed to manage the wedding without the involvement of my staff. In fact, the bride and groom, Oliver and Evie, insisted on it. I thought it best not to mention that I don’t actually have a staff, thanks to a recent ... restructure. Yes, let’s go with that.
“We’re just waiting for the florist.” I gesture to the wedding dais as I pull the silver chain away from my neck and stealthily use my thumb to wipe away a trickle of perspiration.
“The flowers arrived ages ago. They’re in one of the kitchen’s cold rooms.”
“Oh. Why didn’t you say?”
“I did.” Sarai frowns and points to her face. “Didn’t you just hear the words come out of my mouth?”
Not for the first time since I arrived, I find myself thinking Sarai and Ronny, my next-door neighbor, would get along like a house on fire. They’d probably run rings around me.
“Why didn’t you tell me when they arrived?”
She shrugs. “You weren’t around.”
Sarai definitely isn’t cut out for the service industry.
“Well, I might go and take a look.” Because a few minutes in a large, cold box sounds so tempting right now.
“But you can’t leave. The bride and groom are on their way here.”
“Already?” As I pivot to face her, the heady scent of frangipani travels on a passing breeze. “They’re not enjoying the resort’s welcoming signature cocktail?”
“They don’t look like they’re in the cocktail kind of mood.”
“What do you mean?”
“That they don’t look like I thought they would.”
I frown. Evie and Oliver are such a good-looking couple. They’re exactly the kind of people you expect to find sipping cocktails in a six-star hotel. And this is such a perfect place to get married. The resort is so achingly stylish—think dramatic hues and dark volcanic stone, private pools and terraces with endless views of azure sea and sky. It has every amenity a wealthy guest could expect, but what makes it ideal for this wedding is the level of privacy offered. Not only because we’re on an island with very limited access but because the resort also sits high on a cliff.
I get their need for privacy because their wedding plans have been the talk of London for months. The press made its desperation to discover the details so obvious.
“What I mean is they don’t look happy,” Sarai adds.
My stomach sinks. The couple seemed so in love. But then, I thought the same about the Myers-Smith wedding until I—and the bridesmaids—stumbled in on the bride and the best man in a compromising position.
But this couple is different. There’s no need to fret about their wedding not going ahead.
Is there?
“Maybe they’re just hangry—I mean, hungry,” I say. “It’s a long flight from the UK, and in-flight meals aren’t great.” Though I suppose they weren’t flying economy.
“The food served on a private jet is bussin’.”
“Is it?” I suppose that means good. And of course they’d fly private.
“Five stars and personal chefs all the way.”
“Yes, you’re probably right.”
“No probably about it. I flew back to the States with F—with Mr. DeWitt after the holidays. Like I said, the food was bussin’.”
I give her an uncool thumbs-up, not sure what else to say. The resort is part of the DeWitt chain of hotels. But Sarai can’t be more than twenty. So Mr. DeWitt must be ... the grandson, maybe?
“They’ve been here before, you know? The bride and groom.”
“Yes, Evie said.”
“That’s why I said they don’t look happy like they usually do.”
“Getting married can be stressful,” I reply. “And who knows—maybe their flight was turbulent. Or their helicopter connection unpleasant.”
“Or maybe they’ve changed their minds.”
Under my iPad, I cross my fingers and send a silent plea to the heavens. This wedding must go ahead.
“Mr. DeWitt did mention they’re under a lot of pressure, that they’re living in a hotel because they’re having the private apartments of their country home refurbished.”
“He said that, did he?”
“Yeah. Do you know they own a safari park?” she adds, clearly enjoying her insider knowledge.
“Yes, I did know that.” Thanks to an online article I read before I got to meet them. It detailed how they met, and then I watched the viral Pulse Tok video of Evie hightailing it out of her first wedding ceremony. Poor love, she’s so sweet and kind, I felt awful for watching it. But I was scoping them out, I suppose, while hoping they wouldn’t do the same. And they mustn’t have, or else I wouldn’t be standing here today. “How old is Mr. DeWitt, Sarai?”
“I don’t know.” She gives a flick of her shoulder. “Younger than my dad. But I’ll tell you something,” she says, pressing her forefinger and thumb together. “The man is fire .”
Sarai’s dad is the general manager of the resort. It’s probably a good thing she’s only on the island during her university breaks.
“Look. Here they come now.”
My gaze glides past her to the trio emerging from the canopy of lush greenery. Oliver Deubel’s unmistakable broad-shouldered silhouette, and Evie walking next to him, her hand in his hand. Their third—Mr. DeWitt, I assume—strolls alongside, the sun glinting from a head of dark-gold hair.
“Do I look okay?”
My attention snaps back as Sarai pulls on her blouse. The hospitality staff wear a corporate version of the traditional kebaya outfit, though in much more subdued tones: a wrap blouse, an ankle-grazing sarong, and a cotton cummerbund. With her clear skin and luminous dark eyes and hair, she looks like a picture from a glossy travel advertisement, right down to the pink lotus flower pinned to the back of her head.
“Mila?”
“Sorry. You look lovely.” I pull my attention away as a niggling sense of unease pokes at me. I slide my hand over my hip, cursing my choice of dress. Linen might be good for the climate, but it currently resembles a dish towel. “Do I look okay?”
“You’ve got satay sauce here.” Sarai taps her sternum.
“What?” My stomach dips, my eyes along with it. “Ah, hell.” I put my iPad down, lick my finger, and frantically rub the nonbudging stain. “Why didn’t you say so earlier?”
She shrugs, but I only see it in the periphery of my vision as the happy couple steps into the shade of the pavilion, leaving their friend just beyond.
“Mila.” A smiling Evie slides her sunglasses to the top of her head as Sarai dashes out the other way, pausing only to greet the pair with a traditional but hurried prayerlike sembah greeting. A bit like a namaste. “How are you?” Evie’s tone is warm as she offers me her hand.
“Wonderful, thank you.” I keep one hand over the stain as we shake hands. “How was your flight? Flights?” My attention briefly follows Sarai, taking in her animation and her gesticulating hands as she advances on the other man. Tall and fair, he’s dressed for the office, not the climate. He slips off an expensive-looking suit jacket and throws it over his shoulder, using his finger like a hook, all ease and supreme confidence.
Just imagine the penis on that, a little voice whispers in my head. The weight—the girth! For some reason, the voice sounds suspiciously like Ronny’s. It’s the kind of observation she’d make, anyway. But I know what she— I —mean, because he has big dick energy written all over him.
“There was a little weather.” Evie’s voice pulls my attention back, and I fix on my go-to professional smile. “But we’re glad to be here. Right, Oliver?”
Her fiancé makes a noise of agreement, though he barely looks up from his phone as he thrusts out his hand.
“Mr. Deubel, it’s good to see you again.”
“Oliver,” he corrects, not for the first time.
He’s just so intimidating, it’s what my brain seems to reach for every time he’s near. But as Sarai’s laughter carries, his attention shifts.
“What is he doing?” he murmurs as he slides his phone away.
“What he does best.” Evie’s eyebrows seem tellingly raised. “Charming the female population.”
Someone definitely needs to have a word with Sarai’s dad.
“Mr. DeWitt is the owner here. Do I have that right?” I keep my tone mild. My job isn’t just about bringing the bride and groom’s dream wedding to reality. It’s also to be a friend. A paid friend, yes, but a friend nonetheless. And friends care. And wedding friends care about the tiniest details, the things that only the couple (the people paying my fee) give a stuff about. Like, are the aisle markers uniform? Are the decor accents in line with their vision and color scheme? I also care enough to keep any eye on potentially troublesome characters. Those who might impact the couple’s big day, because no one gets in the way when I plan a wedding day.
“Major shareholder,” Evie says with a vague wave. “I think it’s a family thing.”
“Fantastic.” Rich and entitled and abusing his position. I’ll be watching you like a hawk, Mr. DeWitt.
“He and Oliver are partners in Maven Inc. He’s also Oliver’s best man.”
“Some might take issue with the title,” Oliver grumps, eyeing the rows of tastefully festooned chairs.
It’s my experience the title best man often brings out the worst in the male of the species. Not every man and his inner dog, but enough of them.
“It’s not his fault women adore him,” Evie says.
Like he doesn’t even encourage it, I think cynically. But I say nothing. Which is sometimes the best thing a wedding friend can say.
“When are the rest of your party getting here?” Because you’re cutting things a little fine.
Evie pulls a face: all scrunched nose and discomfort. “I’m afraid that’s another story.”
“Oh?” I inquire airily. Meanwhile, something inside my head screams Aaaaa-rgh! They can’t be calling this off. They just can’t!
“There’s been a slight change of plan,” Oliver intones, all brusque business and no-fucks attitude as his fiancée’s expression softens with something that looks worryingly like an apology.
“Wait till Fin gets here, honey. We can explain then.”
Fin? The name pokes at me like a sharp pin. I glance Sarai’s way to find Mr. DeWitt’s long, confident strides carrying him toward us. He has a fluid kind of grace, and poor Sarai can’t take her eyes off him.
Stepping into the shade, he slides off his sunglasses and pushes his hand through a tawny mane. By my sides, my fingers rub together as though experiencing some kind of tactile memory. Everything inside me seems to tighten in anticipation as my brain seeks to make sense of what I’m seeing.
Or maybe that should be who .
“Oh, fuck!” My heart slams so hard against my rib cage, I’m surprised I don’t topple over with the violence of it, my hand flying to my mouth a split second too late.
Fin. Gorgeous, kind, hot-as-hell Fin. The man who found me in the coat closet and wiped away my tears. The man who made me feel things I hadn’t felt in forever. He shouldn’t be here and shouldn’t be smiling at me like that!
Like the cat who licked the cream and is thinking, Hello, second helpings.
Also, double fuck, because I cursed in front of clients. That’s like breaking one of the wedding planners’ ten commandments!
Best wedding friends are supposed to be the calm voice of reason, not the ones losing their shit. They’re categorically not allowed to get caught up in their own dramas, even if their dramas follow them to the other side of the world!
“I am so sorry,” I begin, as professional Mila is sucked back into my body. I’m a problem solver, not a problem causer. I am calm, collected—a master of restraint!
“It’s a reaction Fin often elicits,” Oliver murmurs, unbothered.
“It wasn’t at all appropriate, not to mention uncharacteristic, because I never, ever swear.” On the job, I mentally amend.
“Never?”
That voice. So smooth and deep. And usually reserved for my special alone times. My stomach flips as, against my better judgment, I glance Fin’s way.
His expression flickers, like a lion twitches its tail just before pouncing. “Because I seem to remember otherwise.”