Unexpected Bossy Vows (The Silver Fox Situations #4)

1. Chapter 1

Chapter one

~DECLAN~

The groomsman's name is Todd.

I already know his name. But if I didn’t, it wouldn’t be hard to figure out — his name is embroidered on his beach bag: Todd, in navy cursive, right above a little anchor, because Todd, the groomsman, is the type of man who monograms his luggage.

He’s also the type of man who needs to be told twice that a woman saying “no” is not a negotiating position. Or an invitation.

Unfortunately for Todd, I told him this twice.

Then I told him with my fist.

Now “Todd the Monogramming Groomsman” is in his room with an ice pack and a significantly revised understanding of the evening, and I’m in the corridor outside the resort bar at eleven P.M., trying to find somewhere to put my bloody knuckles that isn’t my ruined jacket.

The jacket is silk, or at least it was—Armani, if we’re keeping score. And, of course, I am keeping score, because Todd is going to be receiving a very specific, possibly unaffordable invoice from my assistant for this jacket first thing Monday morning.

I close my eyes, trying not to think of Monday morning, and focus on only today—or rather, tonight.

Pushing open the bar door, the wall of warm Tulum air hits me along with the faint sound of the welcome party still going on by the pool.

My younger brother Quinn—the soon-to-be groom—is laughing at something; the gentle collision of glasses and a tropical playlist mingle in the background.

The oblivious bastard is getting married tomorrow, which means he doesn’t have time to “handle situations.”

But I do.

And after handling this last situation, I need ice and a Scotch, in that order. I also need to find the Tulum property contact's number before the weekend is over.

What I don’t need is another problem.

"You."

I turn; the problem is already storming toward me.

She’s twenty feet away and closing fast, dark wavy hair loose around her shoulders, hazel eyes burning gold in the low light, the skirt of her lavender dress blowing softly in her wake.

The maid of honor has been a low-grade headache since she arrived in Tulum two days ago—arguing with me about the seating chart at the welcome lunch, sneering at my Rolex, glaring at me by the pool yesterday and then, inexplicably, pointing finger guns at me and walking away.

At this point, I can’t tell if the lavender-clad human hangnail genuinely hates me or is testing me.

I’m starting to think it might be both.

"You," she says again, arriving to a stop three feet from me with her hands planted on her hips. "You did not just do that."

I look down at my knuckles, then back up at her. "I did."

"I had it handled."

"You had it seventy percent handled."

"Seventy percent is handled."

"Seventy percent is thirty percent not handled."

She stares at me, and the bartender, a young guy who has been obsessively polishing the same glass for the last thirty seconds, takes a careful step backward.

"He had his hand on my—" She stops, recalibrating.

"The point is, I was in the process of ‘handling it,’ and then you dropped in out of nowhere like some kind of silver-haired—" She waves at me, a gesture that seems to encompass everything from my height to my general attitude toward the situation, "—vigilante—"

"Do you want ice for that?" I nod at her wrist, where a red mark is starting to show. Todd had grabbed her before I got there. That's the part I’m not mentioning.

She looks at her wrist, then at me. "No."

"Suit yourself."

"Don't be magnanimous. It's worse than when you're obnoxious."

I lean against the bar and study her for a moment. She’s furious in the way people are when they’re also slightly grateful and would rather combust than admit it. I recognize this because I have two brothers and have spent forty-seven years around people who’d sooner argue than say “thank you.”

"The groomsman," I say, "works for a business contact of mine. Scenes at family weddings are bad for commerce."

"So you threw him out for networking reasons."

"I escorted him to his room. For networking reasons."

"That's the most—" She pinches the bridge of her nose. "That's genuinely one of the most absurd things I've ever heard. You have blood on your jacket."

"This jacket’s seen worse."

"You have blood on your jacket and you're telling me it was a business decision."

“In a manner?” I blink. “Yes."

A sound almost like a laugh escapes her, which she immediately suppresses, pressing her lips together.

Her face is even more beautiful when amused; her full lips tip upward, fractional and fast, before she reassembles her expression into indignation.

“Look, I don't need someone running interference for me," she says. "I'm perfectly capable of—"

"I know."

"—managing my own situations without some—"

"I know."

"—overbearing, knuckle-first—" She blinks. "You know?"

"You had it seventy percent handled," I say. "You would have had the other thirty by midnight. I expedited it."

Her pink lips part again, and instantly I know I’m in the presence of a woman who always has a response loaded and occasionally gets ambushed by not needing it.

The bartender sets a glass of Scotch in front of me without being asked, giving me a microscopic nod that says, You look like you need this.

And fuck yeah, I do. I tip him accordingly.

"I'm trying," Darcy Madison says—and this is the first time I've used her name even in my own head, which I’ve been avoiding for two days for reasons I'm not examining—"to not make a spectacle of myself this week.

I'm trying to stay quiet, under the radar.

And you just—" She motions toward me, toward my blood-streaked jacket. "You made a scene."

"A quiet scene."

"There's no such thing."

"Todd is in his room. Todd will stay in his room. The twelve people by the pool didn't see anything. That"—I grunt, reaching for my drink—"is as quiet as it gets."

She studies me, flashing a look I recognize because I use it professionally. It’s the look of watching someone pick up a tool they don't know how to use. She's looking for what I want, what I'm getting out of this.

"Why do you actually care?" she asks.

My eyes narrow as I straighten to my full height. Beyond the bar, just a hundred feet away, the pool party laughs in the distance.

Quinn, celebrating the last night of his unmarried life with the special distinction of a man who genuinely wants to be married.

I know I should be out there with him. I have a property contact to follow up with and a deal to close before this wedding week ends, and I’m standing in a resort bar at damn near midnight arguing with a maid of honor who clearly has something she's not sharing.

"You want to stay under the radar," I remark, leaning in. "Why?"

She holds my gaze for exactly one second too long. "None of your business."

“You certainly made it my business when you stormed out here, accusing me of things I haven’t done.”

I sip my Scotch; she’s still standing there, weight shifting slightly like she hasn’t decided whether this conversation is over.

I've noticed she does that—holds ground even when she's preparing to retreat, like leaving is a decision she needs to make on her own terms.

I respect it. Inconveniently.

"You should get that looked at," I say again, nodding at her wrist. "Ice. Wrap it."

"You should get your jacket cleaned," she says. "Or burned."

"It's Armani."

"It used to be Armani."

“And now it’s just a mess.”

For a half-second, the gold in her eyes liquefies into heat before she blinks it back. She opens her mouth to say something—some final word, something to close the circuit between us on her terms—when a voice cuts across the bar.

"Dec!"

We both turn. One of the other bridesmaids, blonde and enthusiastic—the polar opposite of the woman beside me—saunters over, carrying a glass of something pink and a smile. "Quinn's asking for you. Also—" she tips her head, beaming, "—I love that jacket."

I look at the rumpled, ruined garment and snort. “Why, thank you, darling. I see someone here has good taste.”

“You’ve gotta be friggin’ kidding me,” Darcy hisses beside me. Her hazel eyes ricochet between me and the blonde.

Suddenly, she leans in, stare narrowed—right at me. “At least you’ve got your priorities straight,” she quips. “But priority number one? Should be staying out of my way.”

Turning on her heel, she walks out of the bar without looking back, the lavender dress still swishing along the curve of her generous hips.

I watch her go.

“Wow,” the blonde bridesmaid breathes. “What’s up her ass?”

The question sends my thoughts somewhere that would make Quinn unbearable if he ever found out, which he won’t, because I have forty-seven years of practice keeping my face neutral while my brain does whatever the hell it wants.

And what it wants… irritatingly enough, involves Darcy Madison and significantly fewer clothes.

I finish the Scotch, trying to focus on what matters.

Because what’s important is that I’m the best man, that tomorrow is my brother’s wedding, that I have a deal on the line, a jacket that needs a funeral, and approximately zero time for this.

I order another drink, aware my knuckles still ache.

Unfortunately, after that run-in with the world’s most uptight maid of honor, other body parts are starting to ache more.