Chapter 14
Tyler
The hike back to the lodge the next morning feels longer than it should.
We stick to the shortcut Mia swears she remembers from childhood—she leads, Marcus and I follow, both of us still a little sore and definitely not as put-together as we should be for a wedding weekend.
My boots crunch over icy roots and half-melted snow, and my head is a mess.
I keep thinking about last night. Not just the sex—everything.
How natural it felt to touch Mia, to hold her, to wake up with her pressed between us like it was always meant to happen.
For the first time in years, nothing about it felt wrong.
I can’t tell if that should scare me, or if it’s the most honest thing I’ve felt in a long time.
By the time we reach the edge of the property, we’re dirty, flushed, out of breath, and—at least in my case—completely unwilling to care.
When the main entrance is just ahead, Mia stops and lowers her voice. “Let’s go through the kitchen. There are too many guests out front, and if Mr. Beattie spots me, he’ll probably report I was missing all night. I’d really rather avoid that conversation.”
Marcus nods. I follow her as she leads us around the side, boots crunching on old snow. But something is gnawing at me. Last night wasn’t just fun for me. Sure it’s something that happened naturally, we were drunk, but touching Mia, being touched by her in turn, felt nothing short of divine.
I reach for Mia’s arm and she slows, turning to look at me. Marcus hangs back, giving us space.
I lower my voice. “Mia, wait—I know we’re about to get swallowed by all this wedding stuff, but…we should talk. About last night. About us.”
She meets my eyes, something soft and conflicted in her expression. “Can we do this later?” she says quietly. “Just—not here. Not now.”
I want to say more. I want to pull her close and tell her what I feel, but she’s already moving toward the door, Marcus following.
Mia pushes open the heavy kitchen door and we step straight into the fire.
Chaos. Staff running everywhere. The smell of garlic and roasting meat, the slap of knives on cutting boards, trays of glassware clinking and teetering on the edge of disaster.
People shout orders, flowers and napkins fly, and someone’s running past with a wedding cake on a cart like the building is on fire.
A chef spots us and does a double take, probably because we look like we’ve been camping in the woods. Which, I guess, we have.
Mia’s hand is still in mine. Her hair is a mess, cheeks pink from cold and maybe from something else. Marcus blends into the chaos better, disappearing off to the side, already scoping the exits.
We barely make it three steps before someone shrieks my name—“Tyler!”—and a tray of plates almost clips my shoulder. Mia is grabbed immediately by the wedding planner, a woman in a headset with a clipboard and murder in her eyes.
“Maid of honor, where the hell were you? I’ve been looking for you all morning and you’ve been hiding here in the kitchen? You need to change. We have a walk-through in fifteen minutes, and the band is still missing their set list—don’t you dare disappear again!”
I watch Mia vanish into the crowd of servers and flower arrangements, shaking my head.
Marcus comes up beside me. “Do you think she”—he nods after the planner—“clocked what happened?”
I snort. “Please. That woman wouldn’t notice if her own hair was on fire unless it was scheduled in the wedding timeline.”
Marcus laughs under his breath, but then his face goes serious. He calls out, “Wear green tonight! It’s my favorite!” Mia laughs over her shoulder, rolling her eyes.
I lean toward Marcus, shaking my head. “She’s not going to wear it. You know that, right?”
He just grins, unbothered, as Mia disappears into the fray.
We walk out of the kitchen, heading toward the room, and Alexander appears in the corridor, looking furious—jaw tight, suit rumpled, like he hasn’t slept.
He blocks our path, eyes narrowed. “Where the hell have you two been?” he demands, voice low but sharp.
“You disappeared all night. Nobody could find you.”
Marcus shrugs, completely unfazed. “Long story. Got stuck in the woods.”
Alexander glares at me. “And you didn’t think to check in?”
I hold up my hands. “It’s fine, man. We’re here now. Save the lecture for after the rehearsal dinner, alright?”
“Then why can’t you tell me what you were up to?” he says.
“Christ, let it go,” Marcus mutters.
I watch Alexander glowering at us, arms crossed, not letting this go.
I decide to needle him a little. “Are you worried about us, or where we were? Or more importantly, who we were with?”
His eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I shrug, trying to act like it’s no big deal, but my jaw’s a little too tight and I know he can see it. “Nothing. Just asking.”
He stares at me for a second, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s going to push. But Marcus steps between us, changing the subject, and Alexander finally lets it drop—at least for now.
But the truth is, I’m still twisted up inside. Yeah, last night was incredible—hot, real, the kind of thing you don’t forget. Mia was so into it, so into us. But the more I think about it, the more something stings.
Because I saw Mia first. Deep down, I want her all to myself.
But my brothers? They’ve clearly got other ideas.
And as much as I try to play it cool, I know my jealousy’s showing.
“Mia is bad news,” Alexander hisses as Marcus and I walk away. “You do remember she’s Jarrod’s daughter, right?”
I stop and look him dead in the eye. “And she’s a human being, in case you forget. An adult. Not just someone’s kid.”
Alexander just shakes his head, muttering something I don’t catch, and disappears into the crowd.
Later, I’m in my room, trying to get ready for the rehearsal dinner.
My shirt’s halfway buttoned, suit jacket thrown across the bed, but I can’t focus on anything except Mia.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her—her hair fanned across the pillow, her legs tangled with mine and Marcus’s, her face flushed, lips swollen from kissing.
The way she moaned my name when she finally let go.
But it’s more than her sinful body, more than the sex, though that would be enough to keep anyone up at night. There’s something else under my skin now.
She laughs at my jokes. She doesn’t take my bullshit. She looks at me like she sees past all of it—straight to the heart of who I am.
Nobody’s ever done that before.
Nobody’s ever made me want to stick around for more than a weekend, let alone a future.
I stare at my reflection, wondering if this is how it starts.
I head downstairs, hands shoved in my pockets, feeling like I didn’t spend nearly enough time getting ready.
I step into the main hall and everything slows.
Mia’s at the edge of the crowd, wearing a deep green dress that hugs every curve.
The color is rich, jewel-toned, and makes her eyes look impossibly bright.
My stomach flips. I remember Marcus joking—wear green, it’s my favorite—and realize she actually did it. And now all I can think about is her in that dress, and out of it.
Before I can get to her, Marcus appears at her side, confident as ever.
He slides an arm around her waist, his hand settling on her hip, and leans in to whisper something in her ear.
She laughs, turning slightly so her body presses against him, comfortable and relaxed like they’ve always belonged together.
Jealousy burns in my chest, sharp and immediate. I want to pull her away, claim her, remind her that I was there first. But at the same time, I can’t look away. The way Marcus touches her, the way she lights up for him—it pisses me off, but it also sends a jolt of heat straight through me.
Something about the idea of sharing her, of both of us wanting her this much, is so wrong it’s almost right. It’s possessive and filthy and real.
I watch her, Marcus’s hands on her hips, and all I can think is that I want her too—maybe even more now that I know I have to fight for it.
Marcus’s phone buzzes as he stands with Mia, his hand still on her waist. He glances at the screen and sighs. “Sorry, sweetheart—work calls,” he says, squeezing her hip before stepping away and answering, already lost in conversation as he disappears into the crowd.
The second he’s gone, I spot Mia slipping away from the main room, heading toward the kitchen.
I follow, trying to act casual, but my pulse is already pounding.
I find her alone at the prep table, the kitchen empty except for the clatter of distant dishes.
She’s fiddling with a tray of pastries, her back to me.
I come up behind her and she gasps, spinning around, eyes wide. “What are you doing here?”
I give her a half smile, leaning back against the counter. “I could ask you the same thing.”
She laughs softly, still a little breathless. “Cokie wanted me to double-check that everything’s ready for the rehearsal dinner. I’m on pastry duty, apparently.”
I edge closer, just a little, letting my hand drift across the cool stainless steel between us. “So…Marcus calls you sweetheart, huh?” My voice comes out teasing, but there’s an edge I can’t hide. “Aren’t I sweet too?”
She raises an eyebrow, half-amused, half-dangerous.
We’re standing way too close, the tension so thick I could cut it with a knife.
Every nerve in my body is screaming to pull her in and kiss her, to take what I want right here.
But there’s something else too—a pull I don’t fully understand, too strong to ignore.
Before I can make up my mind, she grins suddenly, grabs a cream puff from the tray, and smashes it straight into my face.
I blink, shocked, as frosting drips down my chin. She laughs, bright and clear, the tension snapping like a rubber band. I can’t help but laugh too, licking a bit of cream off my lips as she leans back against the table, eyes shining with mischief.
“Now that’s sweet,” she says, daring me to make a move.
For a second, all I can do is grin, knowing she’s the only one who can disarm me so completely.
I wipe the cream off my cheek and give Mia a look that’s half challenge, half pure mischief. “Oh, you want to start something?”
She laughs, taking a step back, but she’s grinning wide. “I already did.”
I grab a handful of whipped cream from a nearby bowl and toss it straight at her chest. She squeals, dodges, but it hits her shoulder and splatters down her dress.
She grabs a spoonful of raspberry filling and flings it at my tie—dead center.
We both burst out laughing, barely able to breathe, making a mess of ourselves and the prep table.
Then, together, we look around at the wedding pastries, the trays of hors d’oeuvres lined up, the careful towers of desserts waiting for their big reveal.
Mia’s eyes go wide. We’re both thinking the same thing.
Sabotage.
For a second, the game shifts. We nod at each other, wordless agreement, and suddenly it’s no longer just play.
I sweep my arm across the table, sending a perfect row of petit fours crashing to the floor.
Mia grabs a whole tier of macarons and dumps them in the sink, running the water.
I grab a cake server, carve deep into the centerpiece cake, and smear the icing across the stainless steel.
She’s giggling, reckless and wild, tearing apart stacks of eclairs, mashing them into an unrecognizable pile.
Frosting smears her cheek. I reach out, swipe it with my thumb, and suck it off, locking eyes with her. She grabs a handful of chocolate mousse and presses it to my lips, and I lick it clean, never breaking eye contact.
We move together through the kitchen, hands everywhere—on food, on each other—flinging, smashing, crumbling, demolishing. Pastry shells litter the floor. Caramel drips down the counter. My shirt is ruined, her dress is streaked with chocolate, and neither of us cares.
By the time we stop, the entire kitchen is destroyed. We’re both panting, flushed, laughing breathlessly, frosting and sugar covering our skin. The rehearsal dinner is finished—and there’s no way the wedding will happen on schedule now.
We’re standing in the wreckage, faces inches apart. I want to kiss her, hard and deep, right here. But for a moment, we just look at each other, catching our breath, the secret thrill alive in both our eyes.
Sabotage never felt so good.
My heart’s pounding. I look at Mia—her hair wild, cheeks flushed, frosting streaked across her lips—and all I want is to tell her how much she’s gotten under my skin.
I step closer, reaching for her hand. “Mia, I—” The words are right there, raw and real. I almost blurt out everything—how good last night felt, how much I want her, how it’s more than just this wild, stolen moment in the kitchen.
Before I can finish, the door bangs open.
Sarah bursts in, cheeks bright red, eyes wide as she takes in the scene. There’s cake on the walls, cream on the floor, ruined pastries everywhere. She looks from me to Mia and back again, her jaw dropping.
“What is going on here?”