Chapter 12
TWELVE
West Young in tactical gear was dangerous.
West Young shirtless playing volleyball was distracting.
But West Young in a navy suit with his hair actually styled and his jaw clean-shaven—that was downright devastating.
It didn’t help that his words right before he’d kissed her kept playing in her head. I think it’s too late for me.
Yes, yes, yes!
Britta sat in a white wooden chair on Winchester Marshall’s private beach and tried to focus on the ceremony. Because she also couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss, and all she could think was: I want that. I want him. I want my own happy ending.
The kind Scarlett was about to have.
The beach stretched perfect and pristine. White chairs arranged in eight neat rows. An aisle down the center dusted with red rose pedals. The ceremony arch stood where sand met ocean—white draping wrapped around wood, roses and peonies woven through, greenery cascading down the sides.
The Atlantic provided the backdrop. Waves rolling in steady rhythm. Water sparkling under late-afternoon sun. Sky a cerulean blue, cloudless. Just beauty and promise and the kind of day that felt destined for happiness.
The music of a string quartet floated across the gathering, the strains catching in the breeze.
Britta sat three rows from the front. Selah beside her—already crying and the ceremony hadn’t even started.
The Marshall family sat on the other side of the aisle.
And the Minnesota crowd had flown back in for the redo—Wyatt and Coco, and one of Wyatt’s teammates, Conrad and his fiancée Penny, and Britta couldn’t believe it when billionaire Declan Stone showed up with yet another sibling, a woman named Austen.
“Miss White. I haven’t seen you since…well, New York City.” Declan was magazine worthy with a tan, wearing a linen suit. “You look like the beach agrees with you.”
Yeah, she attributed her glow more to the man she’d met on a runaway day that started at an airport, but, “Thank you, Mr. Stone. I hear you’ve been busy working down in Mariposa.”
“Still cleaning up after the tragedy there. But we’re making progress.” His hand settled on Austen’s waist, and he guided her to the groom’s side of the aisle.
Frankly, the Marshall extended family filled most of the rows on the groom’s side.
Winchester sat with his sister Daisy—blonde braid down her back, her sundress showing tan shoulders.
She’d been surfing this morning—Britta had watched from her window.
The woman was fearless. Paddling out into waves that would terrify most people.
Riding them in with the kind of confidence that came from years of practice.
Beside Daisy sat Hawkeye—tall, lean, military bearing even in a casual suit. He’d given Britta a wink when he entered, and then he’d introduced her to his brother, Abe—darker skin, adoption obvious in a family of pale Scandinavians, but just as handsome and charming as the rest of the family.
Even Her Highness Princess Imani had shown up, with her boyfriend Creed and her detail—Fraser Marshall and his wife Pippa.
Scarlett’s side was filled with the Jones, Inc., family.
And West, who’d met Britta at the stairs leading down to the beach with an outstretched hand. It had taken her a second to realize he was an usher.
“You clean up,” she’d said, which just might have been the understatement of all time.
He’d leaned into her ear as he ushered her to her seat. “You look gorgeous.”
Then he’d sat her down next to Selah and given her a smile that said Last night was real and I meant every word and We’re going to figure this out.
And that had been it.
She could think of nothing else.
They would figure it out. Somehow. Together.
Secret Service agents stood at strategic points around the gathering. Mitchell near the house entrance. Patterson and Chávez at the beach stairs. Martinez scanning the perimeter. Dark suits, all of them, sweating through the heat. Earpieces. Eyes never still.
Watching her specifically.
She could just imagine the report to her father. Your daughter developed an attachment to the man who rescued her. Young maintained appropriate boundaries, but the situation bears monitoring.
Yeah, that would be a fun father-daughter conversation.
Unless she told him first. Unless she made it clear that this was her choice. Her decision. Her future.
And she was twenty-six. Time to live her own life
The music shifted to the processional, “A Thousand Years.” Everyone stood. Turned toward the house.
The wedding party emerged. Bridesmaids in sage-green dresses. Groomsmen in light-gray suits. They walked down the aisle in pairs. Smiling. Relaxed. The kind of wedding party that actually liked each other.
Then Scarlett appeared.
She stood at the top of the beach stairs. White dress flowing in the ocean breeze. Simple. Elegant. Romantic without being overdone. Her hair styled but natural. Flowers woven through. Face glowing with happiness that needed no makeup to enhance it.
Winchester stepped up beside her. Offering his arm. Playing the role of family. Brother figure. The movie-star charm dialed down to genuine affection.
They descended the stairs. Reached the aisle. Started the walk toward Ford.
And Ford.
He stood at the altar watching his bride, wearing the kind of look that said You’re everything and I can’t believe you chose me and I’m never letting you go.
This. This was what Britta wanted.
Not the ceremony specifically. Not the beach or the dress.
But the choice. The commitment. The standing in front of everyone and saying This person, this love, this future—I choose it all.
Three years. Just three years.
The officiant began. Words about love and commitment and choosing each other despite obstacles. Words about building lives together. About partnership. About the kind of love that endured through trials and came out stronger.
Britta tried to listen. Tried to focus on the ceremony.
But her gaze drifted over to West.
He stood away from the chairs, behind the groomsmen, as if still on duty.
But looking at her too.
Their eyes met. Held. The ceremony faded. The gathering disappeared. Just West, and his gaze holding hers with an intensity that stole her breath.
Scarlett and Ford exchanged vows. Exchanged rings.
The officiant: “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
The gathering erupted at the kiss. Scarlett and Ford walked back up the aisle. Married. Grinning. Holding hands and laughing at something only they could hear.
The wedding party followed. Guests stood. Mingled. Congratulated. Moved toward the cocktail area, where the reception would be set up.
Britta lost West in the crowd.
Caterers appeared immediately. Teams moving in, chairs being repositioned. Tables carried out. The transformation from ceremony to beach reception happening in real time.
Britta stood. Stretched. The sun already hot on her shoulders. The ocean breeze pulling at her dress. Her hair coming loose from the style she’d attempted that morning.
And right then, West materialized beside her. Close enough to touch but not touching.
“Hey,” he said, his voice just for her.
“Hey, yourself.”
Chávez appeared. Professional. Polite. “Miss White. The reception area is being set up. Would you like to freshen up inside while we wait?”
Translation: Secret Service needs to reposition. Please move so we can do our job.
“Sure. Thank you.” Britta looked at West. “See you at the reception?”
“Yeah.” His gaze held hers. Said everything he couldn’t say out loud. “I’ll be there.”
She walked toward the house. Through the gathering. Past congratulations and laughter and the Marshall family chaos. Up the beach stairs. Across the pool deck.
The French doors stood open. Britta entered the main living area, the cool air-conditioning welcome after the beach heat.
The house was buzzing, catering staff moving in and out, working fast, coordinating reception details. Music from speakers. The controlled bustle of event preparation.
Britta headed down the hallway toward the guest bathroom. Her room was upstairs, but this bathroom was closer. She just needed a minute to fix her hair. Reapply lipstick. She pulled her lipstick case from her purse and reached for the bathroom door handle.
“Miss White.”
Britta turned.
A man stood in the hallway. Dark suit. White shirt. Conservative tie. Earpiece. Sunglasses despite being inside.
Secret Service.
Except not one of Mitchell’s team. Not Martinez or Chávez or Patterson or any of the agents she’d seen positioned around the property all morning.
Someone new.
“Yes?” Her voice came out steady. Polite. The president’s daughter responding to security.
“Your father sent me.” The man’s voice was professional. Calm. “It’s time to go.”
Britta’s brain stuttered. Stopped. Restarted.
“What?” She blinked. Processed. “My father isn’t here. We’re not connecting until tomorrow.”
“Change of plans.” The man stepped closer. “Security concerns. He’s at the local airfield now. He needs you there immediately.”
Nothing about this made sense. Her father would have called. Chávez would have been notified. There would have been coordination. Protocol. Not just one agent appearing in a hallway.
Britta’s instincts screamed. Wrong. This was wrong.
“I need to tell someone. I need to find—” She looked toward the patio. Toward where Chávez should be. Where West was. Where anyone familiar was.
“Ma’am, we need to move, now.” The man’s hand came up. Reached for her arm. “It’s urgent.”
Britta stepped back. Her shoulders hit the wall. “I don’t know you.” Her voice shook. “You’re not part of my team. I need to verify—”
The man moved fast. One hand clamped over her mouth, a cloth there, a chemical smell hitting her nose. The other arm clamped around her waist, pinning her arms and lifting her slightly so her feet barely touched the ground.
Britta tried to scream. The sound muffled against his palm.
She thrashed. Grabbed at his wrist with both hands. Pulled. Clawed. Tried to break his grip.