Chapter 3
Bea
The balcony railing digs into my palms as I press my weight into it. Five feet away, Noah leans against the stone wall and stares at the shore.
I can’t look directly at him because it evokes feelings I’m not allowed to feel toward my future brother-in-law. The wind carries salt and a whiff of his cologne across the space between us, making me swallow saliva pooling in my mouth.
“Why did you do that in there?”
“Do what?” His voice is low, almost lost in the crash of the waves below and the wind whipping toward us.
“Defend me. To my parents.” The question tastes sour on my tongue. I’ve been standing alone against the world for so long that having someone step onto my side feels odd. “Nobody does that.”
He shifts his attention to study me. Under his eyes, my dress suddenly feels too tight in the humid air. So I stare at the ocean, trying to avoid catching sight of him.
“Your parents are assholes. No one should be treated that way,” he says simply. His voice is quieter out here, rougher. Gone is the asshole I met in the lobby; instead, I’m talking to a regular human. Well, maybe not regular, but a very attractive one. “Your father reminds me of my father.”
I laugh, and the sound comes out sharp and unexpected. “That’s your reason? Shared daddy issues?”
When I finally look up, his eyes are darker than before, and I take a step back, nearly stumbling, because in them, I see the same interest I feel.
The rain that teased the roof earlier is returning with more resolve.
“We should go inside,” I say, but neither of us move, letting the drops cool our skin against the warm, thick air.
He pushes off the wall and rises to his full height, six-foot-something of shadow against the dark sky. The top of my head barely reaches his shoulder, and I suddenly feel tiny.
The muscle in his jaw twitches once. Twice.
“We should,” he agrees simply. “But to answer your previous question, I just didn’t like you getting hurt.” His voice scrapes lower with each word, rough as the waves breaking against the cliffs below.
“I wasn’t getting hurt.”
“Weren’t you?” He finds my gaze and holds it.
The wind turns the rain into swirling mist around us. One remaining patch of stars overhead, encircled by angry clouds, focuses in on us in this tiny space on this balcony. The railing digs into my lower back as I lean away, but for every inch I retreat, the heat from his body advances.
His words hit too close to home, and the embarrassment of him noticing something so intimate chases all common sense away.
“You like playing knight in shining armor?” I attack because I can’t afford feeling sorry for myself. Or worse—letting him feel sorry for me. “Maybe I like being cornered and didn’t need your help. You don’t know me.”
His eyes flick down, lingering on my mouth for three heartbeats. Four. The collar of his shirt has come undone, revealing the hollow at the base of his throat. Cedar and whiskey cling to him, mingling with the sea air.
My teeth sink into my bottom lip while my fingers itch to grab his collar. To push him away or pull him closer—I can’t decide yet. But the thick neck behind it has become the bane of my existence.
“Maybe I want to know you,” he murmurs, the words barely audible above the sound of the ocean and the approaching storm. His warm exhale is suddenly close to my cheek.
He leans in. His palm lands on the railing beside my hip, not touching me but blocking any escape. The balcony shrinks to nothing but his shoulders eclipsing the torchlight.
My lungs actually forget how to work because I start sipping breaths. I tilt my chin up, and the distance between our mouths narrows to inches. Then less. His breath warms my lips, smelling of whiskey and mint. A pulse throbs in his neck, rapid and unsteady. Like mine.
His fingertips hover beside my cheek, close enough that the heat radiates against my skin without contact. Goosebumps race down my arm.
“Bea.” My name scrapes from his throat, rough as sandpaper, and touches every single part of my body.
I sway forward. My lips part. The rain stops. The wind dies. The waves below fade to white noise.
A sharp crack of thunder startles us both, and his pupils contract, a flash of something dark—recognition? regret?—crossing his face. Then he jerks back, the space between us suddenly turning cold.
“Fuck.” He drags his fingers through his hair, leaving it standing in dark spikes. Then his demeanor changes: the smirk from the lobby returns, lips curl up on one side, and eyes harden. “This isn’t happening, princess.”
My stomach drops. I cross my arms over my chest to hide the trembling in my fingers.
“What the hell?” The words come out like a rough shriek. “You’re the one who got all cozy out here.”
He barks a laugh, no humor in it. “Cozy? You’re my brother’s fiancé.” He gestures between us. “Or did that detail slip your mind while you were batting your eyelashes at me?” His voice becomes ice. “Save it for my brother.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks, turning them the same shade as my dress, and I realize picking this color was a bad idea. I jab my finger into his chest, the impact sending a jolt up my arm.
“You leaned in, asshole.” My finger meets something solid beneath his shirt—a wall of muscle that makes my next breath catch before I can recover. “Don’t you dare pin this on me.”
His fingers circle my wrist, gentle but firm. The pad of his thumb rests against my pulse point, which betrays me with its rapid flutter.
“Keep telling yourself that, little mouse.” When he releases me, his fingertips drag across my skin and his upper lip curls. “But we both know what was about to happen.”
I step back, my heel wobbling on the wet stone.
“You think too highly of yourself.” My voice cracks on the last word. His mouth curves into an infuriating half smile, one that makes a tiny dimple appear on his left cheek.
The space between us vibrates like a silent plucked guitar string. But it’ll be ready to sing all hallelujah once I get myself together and show that Krav Maga I promised him before.
“Stay away from me,” I say, turning toward the doors where a gust of wind practically pushes me inside.
“Gladly.” His voice follows me, wrapping around my spine. “But you followed me out here, princess.”
I grit my teeth to avoid biting into the flesh of my mouth again. My hands shake as I fumble with my clutch, nearly dropping my phone when it buzzes. The screen illuminates with a weather alert—not Maeve’s name. Just storm warnings and ferry delays glowing blue in the darkness.
I open the one-sided thread with Maeve. It reads, “Message not delivered” beneath my fifth text to her. I swipe to calls—seven to my sister. All went straight to voicemail. My thumb hovers over Maeve’s name again when I feel Noah’s stare burning between my shoulder blades.
“What is it, Bea?” His gentle voice is closer than I expected.
I spin around, clutching my phone against my chest. “Go play hero for someone else,” I snap, brushing past him into the almost empty dining room.
My heels click against teak as I circle the abandoned table. Wine glasses with lipstick smudges, a napkin crumpled where my father sat, the chair my mother vacated still pushed back at an angle, as if she couldn’t leave fast enough.
I press redial. Straight to voicemail.
The red fabric of my dress catches on a chair as I pass. I yank it free, a thread snapping, my self-control right along with it. I squeeze my hands into fists, feeling my nails digging deep into my skin.
My reflection in the darkened window shows smudged mascara beneath my right eye. The woman staring back looks nothing like the perfect fiancé that’s been promised, but surprisingly it’s the most I’ve ever felt like myself.
I head to the bar near the lobby and drop into a chair, the stiff boning of my bodice digging into my ribs. This dress feels less and less like a weapon I can use and more like a torture device used against me.
I hang my head low as my mother’s voice rings in my ears. Problem child. Unmarriageable. The incident. The words settle into familiar grooves, worn paths they’ve traced since I was old enough to disappoint my parents.
My fingers trace the pulled thread on my dress and dig to pull it more. Maybe if I ruin this seemingly perfect dress, I’ll feel better. I don’t.
I should be looking for Maeve. I should be worried about my groom’s whereabouts. But instead, I’m wallowing in this pity party for one.