Wedding Dreams: 20 Delicious Nuptial Romances

by Maggie Way

  No, she didn’t wish to share those answers with him, especially considering her most compelling answer amounted to “why not?” She didn’t have anywhere else to go.

  Her throat constricted around a rush of unspoken words. She settled on the facts instead. “I’m opening a bed-and-breakfast.”

  He studied her for one heartbeat, two. “We don’t get a lot of tourists.”

  “I’m h-hoping to ch-change that.”

  His inscrutable expression suffered a crack and she glimpsed some fleeting emotion. It appeared suspiciously like panic, but her further scrutiny was thwarted when a sleek black Chrysler rolled to a stop behind the sedan and Luke bent to retrieve his backpack.

  The woman behind the steering wheel wiggled her fingers at him, jostling the gold bangles stacked on her wrist, and pushed her oversized sunglasses on top of her head. She stepped from the luxury car with the ease of a long-legged gazelle, her honey-blonde hair shimmering in the sunlight.

  The fire engine red dress she wore barely gained mid-thigh, and as she bounded onto the curb, its stretchy fabric clung to her shapely figure in all the places men seemed to find most interesting. Luke’s hand slipped to her waist when she kissed his cheek with her red-painted lips.

  Together, they were perfection made manifest.

  Emily shoved her hands into the pocket of her drab gray sweatshirt while Luke guided the woman to the passenger side and pulled open the car door. She slid into the vehicle and he closed the door behind her before rounding the car.

  At the driver-side door, he paused with his hand on the handle and turned to her. “You okay? Do you want to follow us?”

  Emily shook her head. “I’m okay.” She pointed at the sedan’s interior. “GPS.”

  With a fluid motion, he slid behind the wheel of the gorgeous woman’s car.

  Emily ducked into the shelter of the rental car and hauled the door shut. She slunk down in her seat. Not until the Chrysler eased past her side window and disappeared among the congested traffic did she release the breath she’d been holding.

  For the first time since she decided to move across the country, unease prickled. She’d made the move, in part, because she envisioned living out her life in relative peace and quiet in the isolated small town. Now she wondered if that’d be possible with Luke Nolan prowling the streets.

  Just then, a thought struck. Dread swept through her and she vaulted from the vehicle, leaving the car door wide open in her haste.

  In the trunk, she plunged through the mound of her clothing and toiletries, searching with desperate urgency. Frantic, frustration rose to the back of her throat as a whine of dismay.

  BOB was missing.

  Waves crashed over his head. He thrashed and kicked his legs, but the torrent pulled him under. Water burned through his nose and lungs. His body grew weak and the dread of what was to come filled him.

  Luke jolted awake.

  Disoriented in the darkness, he reached out for… something, but there was nothing to grab on to and he collapsed back on the bed. He sucked in large gulps of air. Fresh air.

  Turning his head, he looked out through the patio door, which he’d left open to allow the warm summer air inside his loft apartment. Stars dotted the blackened sky and the rhythmic churn of Lake Michigan endured.

  The bedsheets, drenched in sweat, tangled around his legs and he kicked free of them. He stumbled from the bed and trudged to the kitchen on legs made weak from a grueling workout earlier in the day. The clock on the stove screamed the hour in neon-green digits as he retrieved a tumbler from the cupboard.

  It was 3:13 a.m. He’d slept almost an hour that time. Unable to recall the last time he’d slept longer than a couple hours at once, he no longer felt the exhaustion that plagued him. He snatched up the bottle of whiskey on the counter and his hand brushed against something unexpected.

  In the dim room, he could make out the unmistakable shape of the shocking pink vibrator lying on the counter where he’d tossed it.

  He hadn’t meant to steal it from the woman at the airport, but with the crowd rushing in to swarm them and her eyes filling with panic, he’d shoved the phallic object into his hip pocket so he could scoop up her far-flung belongings and haul them away to safety. He hadn’t recalled the vibrator until he’d climbed behind the wheel of Kate’s car and the fleshy device had poked him in the thigh.

  The shadow of a smile whispered over his lips as he filled the glass past halfway. Luke drank the contents in a long, deep swallow. As the liquid burned a path down his throat to his gut, he refilled the glass. He drank it, too, until he gasped for breath, his roughened breathing loud in the calm quiet of the night.

  It’d be some time before he settled down enough for sleep. Without the whiskey, he wouldn’t be able to do it at all. Gripping the bottle by the neck, he crossed the darkened apartment to the patio doors.

  With his elbow, he slid open the screen door and stepped out onto the balcony.

  An old factory that had been converted into studio lofts, the building sat overlooking the harbor on the island’s sunrise coast and sparse, tiny lights winked at him from the mainland across the lake. In a darkened corner of the balcony, he dropped into the old recliner, its leather cracked and duct taped in several places.

  So he sat, taking nips of whiskey, the way one might chat with an old friend. When the first fingers of dawn peeked over the horizon, he stared into the blazing ball of light. His eyes began to burn, but he didn’t look away. He liked the pain. It felt good to hurt. The pain was all he felt these days. It was all he had to remind himself he still lived.

  He threw back the last sliver of Jack in his tumbler and poured the remaining trickle of liquid from the bottle, both frightened and relieved to see the bottle run dry.

  Because only then would he sleep.

  Chapter Two

  The sun threw light across the room and Emily rolled to her side to escape its harsh glare. It was well past noon, and the nagging voice inside her head badgered.

  Get up.

  I don’t want to.

  You have to.

  Why?

  You haven’t bathed in two days.

  So?

  Get up.

  No. Go away.

  What would your mom think if she could see you like this?

  So Emily got up.

  The hardwood floors were cool beneath her feet as she trudged across the bedroom. In the bathroom, she turned on the shower and brushed her teeth while steam filled the room.

  In the week since she’d arrived at her new home, she’d fallen into one of her now-familiar funks. They’d happened every so often since her mom died. Periods of gloom that often lasted several days, or sometimes, weeks. Unable to muster the will to eat or get out of bed, she’d sleep more hours than she’d spend awake, yet exhaustion never left her body.

  After her shower, she rummaged through her suitcase for a clean pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt. She tugged a comb through the long mass of her tangled hair, but the humidity coaxed waves into her normally straight, fine locks and she soon gave up the fight and ventured out of her suite of private rooms.

  Located off the home’s gourmet kitchen at the back of the house, the cozy suite boasted a living area, a bedroom with an en suite bath, and a wall of French doors through which she enjoyed the same expansive views of Lake Michigan as the rest of the house.

  Not that the seven-bedroom, seven-thousand-square-foot Winslow mansion wasn’t cozy. It was lovely.

  Lovely and massive. Cavernous, really. Which only exacerbated Emily’s utter distaste for living alone.

  Nothing a houseguest or two couldn’t help fix, she reminded herself.

  She started a pot of coffee brewing and distracted herself from her melancholy with thoughts about the inn.

  Despite Luke Nolan’s lack of enthusiasm, the hour-long drive from the airport had given her some reason for optimism about her business venture, spurred by sweeping views of the lake, charming coastal communiti
es, and an abundance of road signs directing traffic to nearby wineries and antique shops.

  No doubt, the tourists weren’t far away. All she had to do was lure them onto the island, which was only a short ferry ride from the mainland between Traverse City and Ludington, two of Michigan’s most popular tourist destinations. How hard could it be?

  When the coffee’s aroma filled the spacious kitchen, she filled a to-go mug and scooped her purse and keys off the kitchen counter on her way out the back door. She shoved a pair of dark sunglasses over her eyes to shield against the intense sunlight and climbed behind the steering wheel of the rented sedan.

  She traveled south along the island’s western coastline. To her right, the lake appeared a brilliant blue-green color she couldn’t ever before recall seeing. At the southern point, she rounded the bend and soon turned up the drive to the old stone church.

  Since she’d buried her mom here a year ago, the church sign had been changed. No longer St. Patrick’s Catholic Church, the newly named Little Stone Church perfectly described the charming building. She parked atop the gentle hill overlooking the graveyard and snagged the watering can off the backseat.

  Audrey’s tombstone rested at the edge of an ancient oak tree’s shadow. As Emily filled the watering can at the nearby spigot, a bird chirped in the tree overhead and a warm, freshwater-scented breeze gusted off the lake to kiss her skin and lift her hair off her shoulders.

  When she’d first learned of her mom’s wish to be buried in Michigan, she’d been shocked. Audrey had brought Emily to visit Thief Island a few times when Emily was young, but never thereafter and Emily had assumed her mother felt no love lost for the town where she grew up.

  Just one more thing Emily wished she’d thought to ask Audrey before her death. Who was her first love? Was her heart ever broken? What subject did she enjoy most in school? What was Audrey’s favorite thing about the island? The breathtaking views? The smell?

  In the end, they’d run out of time.

  Emily tipped the watering can and water trickled over the pink geraniums. The aching in her chest throbbed with her regrets. She’d lost so much when her mom died. Her closest family. Her best friend. Her happiness.

  As she descended the hillside, a seagull screeched above her head. At the car, she squinted up at the sky to watch the bird’s graceful glide.

  Family. Friends. Happiness.

  Some days, when the gloom hovered, she doubted if she’d ever know those things again.

  Luke dragged a hand through his wet hair and pushed open the door to the Thief Island police station. The familiar smell inside the building curdled the bowl of cereal he’d eaten for breakfast into a hardened mass inside his stomach.

  The rookie officer, Dominic Newberry, hunched over a file on his desk. “Chief’s looking for you.”

  Luke grunted. He was late to work, and while he hated disappointing Chief Brown, he couldn’t muster the will to give a shit about the recent string of write-ups filling his personnel file.

  Dominic looked up from his paperwork as Luke passed by his desk. “They’ve posted the position.”

  Luke paused. Weariness clawed at him.

  The kid snuck a glance over his shoulder. “Sloane’s applying for it.”

  The hairs on Luke’s neck lifted and he rolled his shoulders. “Is that right?”

  A figure took shape out of the corner of his eye. “Welcome back, Detective.”

  Luke planted a wide smile on his face and turned toward his boss. “Good to be back.”

  Cynthia’s chocolate-chip-brown eyes studied him over the rim of her glasses for one long, uncomfortable moment. “Come talk with me.”

  A heavy sigh rattled through him and he followed her into her office. He remained standing beside the chair positioned before her desk while she rounded the oversized faux-mahogany bureau.

  “How was your weekend?” She dropped into the vinyl-covered chair.

  His weekend consisted of a three-day confinement at a farmhouse somewhere in the backwoods of Georgia, where he’d been forced to talk about his feelings with a crotchety bunch of maimed, disturbed, and, for all he could tell, utterly broken men.

  Needless to say, his weekend sucked balls. Definitely not his idea of a good time. Not his idea at all, in fact, but Cynthia’s, as somehow, she’d gotten it into her head Luke was suffering from post-traumatic stress or some such shit.

  “Glad I went,” Luke lied. “I hear the position’s been posted.”

  Best part of his weekend was that little mishap at the airport. He bit back a smile when he recalled her small face with huge, horror-struck brown eyes. Odd though, that he couldn’t recall her name. He’d never forgotten a girl before. What was it? Amy? Emma?

  Cynthia watched him with perceptive eyes. “Are you interested?”

  He corralled his meandering thoughts. “Is Sloane up for it?”

  She appeared to measure her words. “He expressed an interest, yes. Does that impact your decision?”

  “Not at all.” He fabricated a wicked smile. “Just scouting the competition.”

  Cynthia made a noise that Luke recognized as the closest she came to laughter. “So, tell me about the retreat.”

  “I’d love to, but I’m buried in paperwork.” He took a small step back and his heel caught on a chair leg. “How about we chat later?”

  “Sure. Come find me when you’re caught up.”

  At his desk, he attacked the stack of files he’d been shifting around for months. Words swam before his eyes, as they’d done since that day six months ago. He stared at the empty desk across from his. The desk that belonged to Justin Sloane now.

  When the memories started to intrude, Luke shoved the paperwork aside, but rather than seeking out Cynthia, he careened toward the front door. In the parking lot, the sun-warmed asphalt radiated heat. He climbed into his SUV with the Thief Island Police logo and cranked the air-conditioning.

  Pulling out onto Main Street, he thrust a hand through his hair, as if he might soothe his agitated mind. The counselor at the retreat had suggested therapy might help him, but Luke didn’t agree.

  Therapy wouldn’t change what had happened, or fix what was broken. Therapy wouldn’t bring Anthony back. It would only reopen the wounds, forcing him to revisit what he most wanted to forget. And to forget, he already had everything he needed—women, workouts, and whiskey.

  Though he had to admit, lately, the women had become more trouble than they were worth, and the whiskey took him straight through the forest of menacing memories on his way to the lake of oblivion.

  No matter, he couldn’t indulge in any of those things while on duty anyway.

  He pumped the brake when the island’s lone stoplight caught him with a red signal. He fiddled with the radio, hoping for something, anything, to distract his mind from latching onto the memories.

  Before him, a royal-blue Jetta passed through the intersection. Through the windshield, the driver’s strawberry-blonde hair shone in the sunlight.

  A smile tipped up one corner of his mouth.

  Whatshername would do.

  Emily peered through the windshield to read the name on the street sign. Did that say Brandywine? She collapsed back in the seat.

  She was officially lost.

  After she left the cemetery, she’d tried taking a different route back to the inn, hoping to learn the island’s layout. Instead, she’d managed to confuse the GPS, which kept guiding her around the same loop.

  At a stop sign, she pulled a paper map from the car’s glove compartment and laid it across the steering wheel while she studied it. A bead of sweat broke out on her brow and she lowered the car window to let in the breeze.

  With a plan in mind, she eased through the stop sign. Leaning forward in her seat, she squinted to read the road signs as she passed by. Absorbed in her crisis, she failed to heed the lights flashing in her rearview mirror until the police siren’s sharp chirp punched the air.

  Emily groaned as she eased off
the accelerator and maneuvered the car to the side of the road. The white police vehicle drew up snug behind her.

  In her side mirror, she watched the officer unfold from the SUV and amble up alongside her car. At the way his navy-blue uniform hugged his lean, well-muscled frame, a niggle of unease chased up her spine.

  She reached through the window opening and adjusted the driver-side mirror so that she could see his face.

  Her heart plummeted to her stomach.

  Mirrored sunglasses obscured his eyes and the white stick of a sucker dangled from his pouty mouth.

  Luke withdrew the sucker from his mouth, leaving a kiss of moisture on his lips, as he approached her window. “License and registration.”

  She jolted out of her dumbstruck state. Stretching, she popped open the glove compartment and rummaged around until she located the vehicle’s registration. She handed it over.

  He pushed the sunglasses on top of his head and green eyes pierced her. Her mouth went dry.

  “Your license?”

  She snatched her purse off the passenger seat, dug out her wallet, and slid the State of Arizona driver’s license from the laminated holder.

  He studied the documents. “Do you have any idea how fast you were going?”

  She licked her dry lips. “Twenty-seven, I think.”

  “I clocked you at twenty-six.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief.

  Sea-green eyes landed on her face with the force of a tidal wave. “Speed limit is twenty-five, Ms. Cole.”

  Ms. Cole?

  He flipped open a notepad. “I’m afraid I'm going to have to issue you a ticket.”

  Her jaw dropped. “You’re going to w-w-write m-me a ticket? For going o-one mile over the speed limit?”

  He pointed at something in the distance. “This is a school zone, Ms. Cole.”

  “A single mile per hour?”

  “You could’ve hit a child.”

  “It’s Sunday.”

  He sliced her with a look. “Safety doesn’t take a day off.”

  Laughter burst from her.