2. Chapter 2 #2
The loop is the salt-and-jasmine smell of him by the bar. The low, unhurried register of his deep voice.
And the hands.
God, the hands.
Big and scarred and wrapped around a Scotch glass like a man who knows exactly what his grip is capable of and has chosen, for now, to be gentle with it.
And from what I know, the man is forty-seven years old.
Forty-seven.
Meaning he was alive and presumably doing adult things before I was even born.
The word “insane” doesn’t begin to cover any attraction to a man like that.
A man who happens to be Quinn’s brother, happens to be Jessica's family now and forever, starting in approximately eight hours.
And yet—the loop.
It keeps running through my brain, interrupting odd moments with thoughts of chiseled jaws, silver hair, and dark aqua eyes that burn.
Until, at some point between last minute details and the final bobby pin, someone from the resort's event team appears with a clipboard.
"Ladies!" She is relentlessly upbeat in the way of people who coordinate weddings for a living. "Before I forget—I need signatures on the liability waiver for tomorrow morning's cenote excursion. Just a formality!"
The clipboard makes its way around the table. I’m holding a mimosa in one hand and a hairpin the stylist pressed urgently into my palm thirty seconds ago, which means I have exactly zero hands available and zero percent of my attention on the document being placed in front of me.
"Just here," the coordinator says cheerfully, pointing. “Oh wait—here. No, no. Here. Aaaaand here.”
I blink, trying to make sense of the many papers.
Deciding I can’t be bothered to read half the Spanglish terms and conditions of tomorrow’s post-wedding activities, I sigh.
Placing the mimosa on my knee and holding the hairpin in my teeth, I sign wherever I see a dotted line.
"Perfect!" The clipboard moves on.
I retrieve my drink.
Taking a final sip, I turn my attention away from past lovers—or future ones—by discussing with Bria whether the cenote excursion requires reef-safe sunscreen, which it absolutely does, a position I will defend to my last breath.
By the time the rehearsal walk-through happens at noon, I’m exhausted but proud.
My maid of honor duties are half done.
I’ve helped where help was needed, given compliments when deserved, and managed not to set anything on fire.
As the walk-through commences, I step into the coral-walled chapel, head held high.
The space is gorgeous, fragrant, and Jessica-coded on every inch.
White floors line the aisles and doorways. Silk ribbons crisscross overhead, hanging low enough to touch. The smell of gardenia rides the warm Tulum breeze.
Eighty degrees and sunny, the late April air is golden and salt-tinged, hinting at tropical climate and Mexican flora.
If it could only stay that way.
What was a pleasant atmosphere becomes a sauna—a practical infernal hellscape—when I see who’s waiting inside.
Declan Shaw.
Standing at the front with his youngest brother, Quinn, and his oldest brother, Wyeth, he looks the very picture of the perfect best man.
Sharing height, different energies, and a similar jawline that says Shaw as clearly as a monogram, the siblings are tall, prim, and proper.
With one exception…
Declan.
Even clad in a white linen shirt and pressed slacks, the man I faced off with last night is a walking, talking warning label.
Hands clasped in front of him, collar open to show skin, he looks criminally unbothered by the heat.
His left eye has developed, overnight, into something impressive: a bloom of purple along the orbital region of his chiseled face.
Ignoring the way he’s staring at me, I take my position beside Jessica.
When the officiant rattles off instructions in a warm mix of English and Spanish, I barely look his way.
For the next twenty minutes, we trade zero glances, zero words, which feels like a reward-worthy feat.
That is…until the walk-through ends.
Twenty minutes later, I’m still frazzled.
Finishing up some last-minute details, I practically sprint through the corridor to help Jessica’s stylist fix what humidity has done to her hair.
With three hairpins and one emergency stain-remover pen, I careen around a corner near the bridal suite and slam into a wall of muscle.
A waterfall of items rains down: bobby pins, white orchids, a boutonnière tumbling to the floor.
A pair of hands steady me, and the second I look up, I instantly regret it.
Declan—overbearing tower of a man that he is—is staring at me unapologetically.
I take a step back; his hands drop.
It takes several more seconds before I realize I haven’t said anything.
And neither has he.
“Hi,” I breathe.
He blinks. “Hello.”
Up close, Declan’s “eye situation” is even more vivid. The bloom under his eyebrow is objectively a bruise.
To my dismay, it only makes him more menacing…and sexier.
“Sorry about that. I was rushing,” I say dumbly.
“Nothing to apologize for. So was I.”
I swallow, gesturing to his face. “Your eye…”
“What about it?” He blinks again.
"It's—"
“Blackened. You can say it.”
"Does it hurt?"
He looks at me for a beat. "No."
“That feels like a lie.”
The corner of his mouth tips upward, green gaze steady.
"You're going the wrong way," he says, tilting his head. "Bridal suite's back that way."
"I know where the bridal suite is."
"You're holding three hairpins and a stain pen." He looks at the heap on the floor. “Or you were.”
Exhaling, I reach for the items at my feet. He reaches first, then hands them over.
“I still am.” I take them, a flush fanning across my skin. “I’m on an errand."
"In the wrong direction."
I look behind me, then ahead. He is, technically and infuriatingly, correct: I took a wrong turn somewhere between the lobby and my destination, which means I’ve been walking with great purpose and zero accuracy for the last ninety seconds.
I turn around without another word.
"Other left," he says helpfully from behind me.
"I know which left is left."
"You walked into the spa."
"That was intentional."
"The spa is closed until three."
"I was checking," I say, with as much dignity as the universe will allow, and take the correct corridor.
I do not look back.
I do, however, spend the next four minutes of the errand in a vivid, involuntary replay of how warm Declan’s skin felt against mine as he handed me the hairpins, how a slice of his tanned collarbone showed beneath his shirt, and—
Stop.
I find my destination, deliver the items, and stand outside the bridal suite door for exactly three seconds, reminding myself of my post-wedding life plan.
Manhattan. New job. New life.
Simple.
I go back inside, praying to all that is holy for the strength not to think about tanned collarbones, warm skin, or green eyes.
Unfortunately, my prayers offer nothing.
I realize I’m going to need considerably more than a five-year plan to get through this wedding.