Marrying the Accidental Groom

Chapter 1

JULIANA

Juliana stood at the top of the airplane steps, clutching her leather-bound itinerary to her chest. The humid air of Tealua’s tiny airport hit her like a wall.

Why had she expected a jet bridge? Not that anything was going according to expectations this week anyway. With a sigh, she tried once again to push aside the thoughts of the disaster she’d left behind in Seattle.

Teetering on her platform sandals, she stumbled down the steep steps of the jankier-than-advertised plane that had delivered her from Tahiti to the remote island of Tealua.

The tiny island was known for its romantic resorts and for being a hub for extreme sports fans.

While she’d been drawn to Tealua for the breathtaking views and crystal clear waters of the romantic resorts, her fiancé had gone on and on about the surfing, mountain biking, and cliff diving.

Because nothing says romance like flinging yourself off a rock into the ocean.

Ex-fiancé, she corrected herself as she surveyed the single building with a thatched roof that passed as an airport. It appeared to be a glorified tiki hut with delusions of grandeur.

It turned out that while she’d been carefully curating wedding favors and finessing the seating chart, Leo had been curating a new relationship—with her best friend. How could she have been so blind? With just twenty-four hours to go until her wedding, Leo and Ivy had sent Juliana a video message.

From Paris.

A previously recorded video so she didn’t even have the opportunity to respond.

Ivy had waved with her freshly manicured fingers while Leo delivered his gutless monologue about how he “couldn’t lie to himself anymore” and “deserved to be happy.” As though he was the real victim here.

He spouted insincere apologies, explaining that he had tried but just couldn’t love her.

Ivy cooed and petted his hair like he was a wounded puppy, and Juliana had sat frozen on the floor of her overpriced bridal suite, watching her world implode in high definition.

All that was definitely not on the wedding weekend agenda.

And she should know. She’d spent fourteen months building that itinerary with the precision of a NASA launch coordinator.

The entire wedding had been perfectly planned—from the menu to the cocktail hour playlist. And now?

Ruined. Along with her honeymoon. Her best friendship. Possibly her capacity for human trust.

A dark-skinned woman in a colorful wrap top and a flower in her hair tried to put a lei around Juliana’s neck as she reached the bottom of the stairs. She jerked away from the lei like it might bite her. Too festive. Too welcoming. Too . . . wrong.

She sighed again and headed toward the only building in sight. What was she even doing here? She’d asked herself the same question a hundred times on the flight.

A non-refundable honeymoon had been a no-brainer. After all, Juliana Emerson didn’t change plans. Ever.

When the college she had selected had ended the Hospitality Management program during her freshman year, she’d marched herself down to Dean Martin’s office and convinced them to let her finish her degree.

She’d spent months planning a tasteful twenty-first birthday weekend in Napa Valley—winery tours, dinner reservations, a spreadsheet of suggested dress code for each day, and even color-coded Uber schedules.

The night before the trip, her best friend got food poisoning, her sister’s flight was delayed, and a freak storm washed out part of Highway 29.

Most people would have canceled. Juliana had rerouted everyone’s flights to Sacramento instead of San Francisco, paid a premium for a charter van, called the wineries personally to reschedule every tasting to fit the new timeline, and convinced the bed and breakfast to switch all their brunch reservations to “afternoon tea” just so her weekend stayed on theme.

When one friend dared to suggest they just “go with the flow,” she smiled tightly and handed out laminated copies of the updated itinerary.

Which meant even though Leo was long gone, Juliana was going to follow the schedule. Because the schedule was the only thing that made sense right now. Who said you couldn’t do a honeymoon by yourself?

So here she was, already baking in the sun, surrounded by straw roofs and blooming hibiscus and bougainvillea. She flipped open the leather folder and checked the first page, even though she’d looked at the pages so much on the flight that she knew it by heart.

Air Tahiti TN 51 from Seattle Tacoma International Airport to Faa’a International Airport. Departing at 10:35 p.m., arriving at 4:05 a.m.

Air Tahiti TN 4311 from Faa’a International Airport to Qalani Tealua Airport. Departing at 10:30 a.m. and landing at 12:31 p.m. Local time.

She checked her watch, already adjusted for the time change. It was 12:47, she noticed with annoyance. But she wasn’t delusional enough to assume she could control air traffic. Next on the agenda was the shuttle she’d booked to the resort. 1:45, just to be safe.

Plenty of time to grab her bag and find the shuttle pickup zone.

Stepping under the roof, Juliana scanned the interior with dismay.

It looked less like an airport and more like a tiki hut with a check-in desk.

There were no monitors, no intercoms, and no air-conditioning—just wicker furniture, an unmanned snack bar, and a faded Welcome to Tealua banner strung crookedly from the ceiling.

Large electric fans created a whisper of a breeze through the open-air building.

Still clutching her itinerary like a life raft, she made a beeline for a woman behind a narrow desk labeled Welcome Center, who was peeling a mango with practiced ease. For several long moments, Juliana waited to be acknowledged, but the woman kept her attention on the fruit in front of her.

Juliana’s gaze wandered around the space, drawn immediately toward a man leaning against a pillar across the building.

He looked like a vintage surf poster had come to life—bearded, tan, tossing a well-worn backpack from shoulder to shoulder like it weighed nothing. He probably thought deodorant was optional and owned more hammocks than shirts. The look worked for him though, she had to admit.

She looked away before he caught her staring and returned her focus to the mango-wielding gatekeeper, her irritation growing.

“Hello, I’m looking for the shuttle to the Tealua Haven Resort.

It was scheduled for 1:45 p.m. and it’s already 12:53.

I’d like to confirm the driver’s name and whether they’ll be on time. ”

The woman smiled, still slicing. “Maeva! Welcome, Miss . . .?”

“Emerson. Juliana Emerson.” She opened her folder and produced a printout of the shuttle reservation. “It’s all here. Confirmation number, arrival time, contact number for the resort, and the original booking email, just in case.”

The woman glanced at the page but didn’t take it. “Oh, yes, they usually come sometime after lunch.”

Juliana blinked. “Yes. That would be 1:45. I chose that time deliberately to allow for baggage pickup and unexpected delays.”

The woman nodded agreeably. “Mmm. Island time.”

Juliana paused. “I’m not sure what that means,” she admitted.

“It means they come when they come,” the woman said, unfazed. “Could be 1:45. Could be 2:15. Last week, Makoa didn’t show up at all one day.”

Her stomach sank. “He just didn’t come?” What kind of a business was this Makoa guy running?

The woman shrugged and slid the mango peel into a little compost bin beneath the counter. “He saw a mynah bird cross the road from left to right. Bad omen.”

Juliana blinked. “I'm sorry—what?”

“Mynah bird,” the woman said again. “Left to right. Everyone knows that means your journey is fated for bad luck.”

“So . . . he canceled an entire shuttle because of a bird crossing the road?”

The woman gave her a patient look, as if explaining gravity to a toddler. “It’s not just a bird. It’s a warning. When a mynah crosses like that, you pause. You wait. You listen to the island.”

Okay. She wouldn’t scream. Wouldn’t throw the folder.

Wouldn’t mention how in Seattle, people barely paused when a pedestrian crossed the road, let alone a bird.

Juliana stared at her, struggling to find a polite way to respond that didn’t involve the words superstitious nonsense. “Is there a manager I can speak to?”

“You’re looking at her,” the woman said brightly. “I’m Lani. La ora na. Hello.”

Of course.

Juliana pressed her lips together and glanced at her watch.

1:02. She could already feel the sheen of sweat forming at the base of her neck.

If the shuttle didn’t show by 1:40, she’d give it five more minutes.

Then she’d contact the resort directly. Or hire a car.

Or commandeer a bicycle from that hammock guy in the corner.

“Miss Emerson?” The woman tilted her head. “You seem tense.”

“I’m not tense,” Juliana lied, adjusting her grip on her leather itinerary folder.

The woman gave her a warm smile and gestured toward a fan blowing weakly in the corner. “There’s iced hibiscus tea at the snack bar. You should sit, relax, and let the island greet you.”

Let the island greet her?

Juliana inhaled through her nose. She didn’t want to be greeted. She didn’t want tea. She wanted to be transported. Preferably by a man who didn’t consult barnyard omens before operating a vehicle.

But the air was thick and still, and the relentless stress of the past several months still pressed down on her shoulders.

And it seemed like she couldn’t do anything but wait.

With a sigh, she walked across the room to the snack bar, grabbing a stool as Lani followed and slipped behind the counter with the unshakable calm of someone who’d never even heard of an Outlook calendar.

She accepted the chilled glass the woman handed her. The hibiscus tea was surprisingly tart, with just enough sweetness to make it drinkable. Juliana took a small sip, setting the glass down carefully on the rough-hewn counter.

She was supposed to be arriving in Tealua as a newlywed, smiling beside a man who had promised forever.

Instead, she was alone, overdressed, and fighting the urge to take control of something—anything.

Her color-coded travel folder stuck out of her bag.

Her high bun hadn’t moved an inch despite the gentle island breeze, and her sandals were already collecting sand from the rough floor.

She wasn’t here for spontaneity or soul-searching.

She was here because canceling the trip would’ve been wasteful—and Juliana Emerson never wasted anything.

Her eyes drifted to a couple approaching the welcome desk, laughing and leaning into each other as they toyed with the leis from the welcoming committee. For a moment, she let herself imagine what this trip might have been, what it should have been if Leo had been sipping hibiscus tea with her.

A sharp ache curled behind her ribs, fast and uninvited.

But no. She didn’t want Leo back. She wanted the version of herself who hadn’t picked him in the first place.

Juliana sat up straighter, pressing her palms to her lap. She could put healing on the itinerary, right between the sunset catamaran and the reef snorkeling. She could schedule recovery, one checklist box at a time.

She uncrossed her arms, unfolded her meticulously organized itinerary, and scanned it again, willing the minutes to pass faster. The clock ticked on. The shuttle might end up being late—just as she feared—but if anyone could make a plan work, it was Juliana Emerson.

If “island time” didn’t drive her insane first.