Keats studies me. “You really did all this just to stop me?” After a pause, he lets go of my wrists.
“Yes,” I say, forcing myself to look him in the eye without flinching.
Big mistake. His blue ones are now more awake and searching mine. I keep my chin defiantly up.
“And you never really had a thing for Byron?” His eyes are narrowed like he’s trying to figure something out.
“That’s right,” I say, unsure how much to reveal. How did he turn this conversation around to me?
“You’ve been lying to me all this time?”
I push him in the chest. “Fix this thing with your brother and Isabella.”
“I can’t.”
“You cannot be happy about this? Are you?”
“I don’t know. I can’t believe…it worked…” He rakes his fingers through his hair, eyes distant as he grabs a tuft of his shorn locks on top.
“Well it did. And Byron knows you kissed Isabella.”
Keats eyes finally widen to their normal size, like he’s finally properly awake. “Where is she now?”
“You’re an arsehole.”
“I just need to talk to her.”
“Tell her what you did, Keats, or I will. You’ve got twenty-four hours.”
Terry suddenly goes wild outside, and a minute later there is a banging on the door. Keats opens it a crack but it’s pushed open by Isabella who, considering she’s only 5’2”, teetering on sky-high heels and starving, is pretty strong. She slams it hard before the McAllisters’ noisy dog could get in.
Turning to Keats, Isabella reaches up and surprises us both by pulling his head down to hers for a kiss. I grimace when he kisses her back, at which point Isabella shoves him away, then bitch slaps him hard across the face. The sound reverberates around the high ceiling of the old Queenslander home, the smack leaving a red hand print on Keats’ cheek.
“I thought so. You bastard,” she hisses at him, eyes still a bit red and puffy from her earlier bout of bawling. “You were supposed to watch out for Byron last night. You expect me to believe it was his idea to come home with Jada?”
“I can explain,” Keats says, the frown on his forehead telling me he’s scrambling to get his head around his morning so far. He places fingertips at his temples as if he’s developed a splitting headache. He looks up and sees me, opens his mouth as if to say something but shuts it again.
Isabella follows his gaze and notices me for the first time.
“Hi, Jess. What are you doing here?”
Why does she keep asking me that?
“I was just…”
She looks from me to Keats, her lawyer brain working overtime. “Is there something going on between you two?”
I am insulted by how incredulous she sounds. I’m tempted to tell her I’ve gone further than her around her ex-boyfriend’s make-out field—a home run, in fact, complete with fireworks. But Keats doesn’t say anything, and it’s not like he’s come back for more, so maybe it’s not much to brag about after all.
“No.” The truth is easy to say but hard to admit out loud, even to myself. “You two have a lot of things to talk about here. I better go.” I turn on my heel to leave.
“Hay-gen, wait.” Keats catches up to me just before I reach for the door knob.
“Piss off,” I snap quietly at him, mindful of Isabella watching us, arms crossed in front of her. “Why don’t you go suck face with your brother’s fiancée again?” I turn away, but his strong fingers grab my upper arm.
“Why are you mad?” he asks as he half-turns me to face him.
“Why do you care?”
When he doesn’t answer, I shrug his hand off my arm.
I reach for the door knob again but it turns before I touch it. Byron’s eyes widen when he sees me, but as soon as he notices his brother, then his fiancée over Keats’ shoulder, he regains his momentum. He barges right in, grabbing Keats by the shirt front and bodily lifts him to push him against a wall.
“What the fuck, arsehole?” Byron says.
Keats pushes him away. What a shit day for him—three people trying to kill him before he’s even had his coffee. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.
Byron takes a menacing step towards Keats again but Isabella inserts herself in between them, stopping her fiancé’s progress with a hand to his chest.
“I’m sorry, pal. I had to give it a shot,” Keats tells his brother over her head.
“You didn’t have to do shit. She’s my fiancée.”
“She was my girlfriend first till you stole her.”
“He didn’t steal me, Keats,” Isabella pipes in.
I’m not sure if I’m supposed to witness this but I can’t seem to walk away.
The brothers continue to glare at each as if she hadn’t spoken. Like catwalk models about to have a showdown, their intense expressions are smouldering. You can cut the barely contained hostility between them with a knife, the air ready to boom like thunder if they clash. I can’t believe Isabella has two great guys after her.
This is just depressing.
“I thought I was in love with her,” Keats says, looking the most unsure that I have ever seen him.
“I am in love with her.” Byron’s eyes flick to Isabella and the small smile they exchange tells me they’ve already forgiven each other for this morning’s stoush. “And I was in love with her when you two were going out. But I still fought like crazy not to do anything about it. I’ve just confronted Jada. She told me the photos were your idea, arsehole.”
“You slept with my girlfriend while I was still going out with her, fuck nut,” Keats fires back.
“Hello? I’m still here,” Isabella says but the brothers continue to glare at each other over her head.
“You’re supposed to be the best man at my wedding. You’re my only brother.”
“You started this. I would never have done this to you,” Keats says. “But you broke the code, man. How could you do this to me?”
Byron nods, jaw muscles working. Eyes cast down, he says, “In the ambulance, Dad told me I’d never forgive myself if I let the love of my life get away from me.”
Keats scoffs, eyes suspiciously glistening with emotion. “Even if it meant screwing your brother over?”
Byron nods before lifting his even gaze to Keats. “He said you’d forgive me one day.”
Keats exhales hard—he’d said the same thing to me all those months ago when he was trying to justify his plan to get Isabella back. I can see the battle of emotion and logic and sense of fairness warring across his face. But there’s also still some unresolved resentment there. After a stretch of silence, he releases another ragged breath. “How do you want to settle this?”
Byron’s shoulders stiffen. “The usual?”
“The usual.”
Isabella and I look at each other with bewildered expressions that soon turn to panic when the McAllister brothers suddenly go out the door to the back veranda, and down the stairs to the yard below.
“Byron? Keats?” Isabella calls after them, running as fast as she can on high heels.
“We’ve got to settle this, babe.” Byron whips off his T-shirt, followed a second later by his older brother.
Hello, matching lion tattoos.
“Byron, you have wedding photos in a week.” Isabella sounds panicked. “Keats, do not hit him in the face, or I will hurt you and your car.”
“Pants off. I’m only in boxers,” Keats tells his brother, not acknowledging Isabella’s warning. He proceeds to shake his arms and legs loose, winding his shoulders. It’s hypnotic, and another reminder that I’m seeing more of his body today than I did when we got down and dirty on Mt. Coot-Tha.
Byron slips off his shoes by stepping on the back of them. I don’t know what’s happening but my eyes are glued to Keats body, and the sight of Byron pulling down the zip of his jeans to reveal navy blue briefs that actually look amazing on him. Isabella clings to me, burying her face against my arm.
<
br /> I can’t believe she doesn’t want to see this. All they’re missing is a mud pit. All I’m missing are the proverbial “dollar bills”, and popcorn.
“Ready?” Byron asks, naked but for his underwear.
“Bring it on, bitch,” Keats says, lips curved into a humourless smile that I barely see because my eyes are drinking in all the taut skin he’s showing.
The brothers begin to circle each other, side stepping as they seem to measure the other, arms up at waist level, muscles tense, ready to pounce like wrestlers at the Olympics. Then they’re meeting in the middle, shoulders wedged against the other, sexy neck against sexy neck and they’re trying to reach down towards each other’s underwear, grunting with the exertion. Pushing and shoving with open palms, only to clash again and repeat the process of trying to get a hold of each other.
Isabella finally looks in their direction just as Keats manages to grab the waist of Byron’s briefs. Keats pulls with Byron countering by latching on to his brother’s boxers. It’s hot guy sumo wrestling
Damn, Byron’s got cute butt cheeks.
“I want children!” Isabella scolds from the sideline while the McAllisters continue their bout of giving each other a wedgie.
They struggle some more against each other until Keats wraps a leg around Byron’s, tripping him. They fall to the ground with Keats on top. Byron quickly puts his brother in a headlock which Keats counters with a forearm against the younger McAllister’s neck and jaw. Byron’s bicep flexes as he tightens his grip, the action pressing Keats’ arm firmer against his throat.
Isabella takes a step towards them, but I grab her arm and shake my head.
Keats and Byron glare at each other, panting from the effort, both taking audible breaths.
“Give up?” Byron asks through gritted teeth.
“Fuck you. You give up,” Keats spits out.
After another minute or so of the deadlock, Byron releases his hold on his brother, and Keats takes his arm off the younger McAllister’s neck. He rolls over to the grass beside Byron and they surprise Isabella and me by laughing.
“You’re an arsehole,” Byron says as he chuckles, fingertips on his pecs as he sucks in air.
“You’re a piece of shit,” Keats replies through a genuine grin, a lower arm against his forehead to shade his eyes as he looks up at the blue November sky above.
Men are so weird.
Byron turns his head to look his brother in the eye. “You ever make a play for my wife again, and you’re dead.”
Keats nods. “Don’t steal my girlfriend next time.”
“This is what I’m marrying into,” Isabella says wistfully. When I look at her, she’s actually smiling with an “aww” expression on her face.
I’ve never been more jealous of her in my life. Or happier for her.
Isabella turns to me just as I’m checking out Keats in his underwear. I jump a little and try not to look guilty. She places a gentle hand on my arm. “You know, Jess, a better friend would’ve probably noticed before now that you’re”—she lowers her voice—“really into Keats.”
“What?” My smile feels too fake to be convincing. I tone it down. “I’m not—”
Isabella nods with a knowing smile. “You are. It’s okay. I’m just sorry I didn’t see it before. I would’ve set him up with you instead of Sofie.”
My eyes flick over to where the McAllister brothers are still catching their breaths and chatting on their backs on the grass.
Keats hasn’t heard her. Good…I think.
Chapter 31
It’s amazing what a bit of make-up can do. I turn my head from side to side, not quite believing what the make-up artist has been able to achieve in half an hour. She also did my hair and has put it in a classy up do that makes me feel like a princess in my red bridesmaid gown. Maybe I’ll ask her discreetly for her business card and make her my Miz Peggy contact for hair and make-up.
The videographer startles me with his camera aimed at me. “Focus on the bride,” I say, thinking I won’t ask this guy to be part of Miz Peggy’s bridal services—talk about ruining a moment.
Isabella is having her make-up done, chatting with Penny, Mia and Sofie who are sitting around watching her. Mr and Mrs Harper are in matching armchairs on the other side of the room with nothing but adoration on their faces for their only child. Queen Isabella is truly queen for the day. Meanwhile, I am busy checking the schedule folder and clock to make sure we’re running on time. But the bride is so darn happy, it’s impossible not to catch myself smiling as I watch the buzz of Isabella’s wedding preparation.
“An hour and a half before we go to the church, Bels,” I remind her.
“Thanks, Jess.” She grins, totally relaxed. She and Mrs Harper stayed at the hotel overnight and she apparently slept well and soundly. She’s woken up this morning fresh-faced and cheery, and ready to get married. I thought brides were supposed to be more stressed on their Big Day. Instead, neurotic Isabella is the calmest I’ve seen her in a long time.
I unlock my mobile phone to sneak another peek at the new love of my life. I can’t help but smile.
“Stop perving at your new car,” Penny teases me.
I look up at her and smile. “But she’s so pretty!” I say, flashing her the screen of my phone.
I passed my driving test on Monday and bought my very first car on the same day. It’s a second hand, late model sedan in pink—and I am yet to experience buyer’s remorse. The colour may have swayed me, but I gave it a good, thorough check and test drive before I handed over my hard-earned cash.
The first place I drove her was my local pool. In the spirit of moving on post-Keats, I went for a swim every night this week. I might have been avoiding running into Keats who likes dropping by my place unannounced. Well, at least, he used to. I might’ve also been avoiding sitting at home and missing him, in case he didn’t show up. The fact I wore the rash shirt he gave me because it made me feel closer to him is my secret shame.
My phone beeps a reminder. I look down at the screen. “Dress time,” I inform the bride.
The hair and make-up people finish the final touches and release Isabella. That’s my cue to count out the right amount from her wallet to pay the hair and make-up women. I grab their business cards discreetly at the same time.
“I guess I can’t put it off any more,” Isabella says. “I hope I don’t get it too crinkled or stained before the church.” She disappears into the bathroom with a corset, special underwear and Penny. Sofie, who is tall enough to keep the hem off the floor, carries the wedding dress into the en suite.
“Isabella, come out when the zip is halfway up your back so we can capture your mum zipping you up,” the photographer calls to the bride.
She emerges from the bathroom five minutes later looking gorgeous in my dream dress—except for the frown between her brows. Penny and Sofie behind her are similarly grim-faced.
Mrs Harper walks up to her only child. “What’s wrong, Bella?”
“It won’t zip up.”
“When was the last time you tried it on?” her mother asks.
“Last week. It was worse but then I had a week left to get in it, so I thought I’d be fine.”
“Hang on to the bed post. Let’s tighten your corset,” Mia suggests. If our bridesmaids’ gowns had sleeves, she would’ve rolled them up for sure.
Isabella does what she’s told, looking like a nineteenth century woman with her arms around the wood while Mia yanks the strings of her control underwear.
“Breathe in,” she instructs then tugs so mightily on the straps that I fear she’d snap them or Isabella’s ribs. Quickly, Mia ties the strings of the corset, then tries the zip again. It starts moving, so the videographer and photographer get in position to capture the moment. Mrs Harper moves in and zips up the dress while Mr Harper puts on Isabella’s veil with a tear in his eye.
“Fantastic,” Isabella says with a lot of irony. “Don’t eat or breathe all day. Great plan.” She
grins, too happy to care. “Okay, let’s get the rest of the photos done before the church.”
The photographer instructs her to put the buttonier on her dad’s lapel and a corsage on her mother’s respectable knee-length dress. After, Isabella has her photos taken by the window with her bouquet of white roses, then with her parents, sitting on the bed, followed by countless shots with all four bridesmaids.
“Okay, let’s go out to the balcony and get some shots there,” the photographer suggests.
We make our way to the door with the videographer and photographer in front so they can set up and find where to capture our images outside. The doorbell rings just as the photographer reaches the door. He opens it, and there stands Keats in his dashing groomsmen’s outfit. Tie, dark waistcoat and jacket over a predominantly red kilt, dark knee-high socks and leather lace up shoes.
It’s very annoying how he looks good in everything. The fact he hasn’t been in contact with me all week I’m sure is fuelling my annoyance. But what did I expect? Our only connection—Isabella—is out of the equation. Maybe I could’ve used passing my test to ring or text him. But I wasn’t sure he’d care. Besides, a big part of me is convinced I blew my chance by sharing my childhood with him, and making myself too sexually available.
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from ranting to him about his totally unfair double standards. I’m not making a scene on Isabella’s big day.
Keats seems surprised to see us so close to the door, his eyes darting from the goddess Sofie, then me, then Isabella whose restrictive dress means she’s trailing behind the rest of us.
“You’re alive,” Sofie says flatly as she walks past him on her way out to the open hallway of the hotel.
“Um, yeah. I’ve been busy, sorry,” he says, and I get the feeling she’s angry with him.
I almost expect Sofie to hit Keats with her bouquet—strangely, not the first time he would’ve been attacked with flowers in the short time I’ve spent with him. Her animosity is news to me. I thought he’d resumed seeing her after giving up on Isabella a week ago. What else has he been doing with his time? Certainly not calling me.
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