A Wedding in Maine

by Jen McLaughlin

  “The thing is,” I said, sighing—and I could practically feel the stars in my eyes—“when I was little, I dreamed of a winter wedding. The white in the snow, the white in my dress…”

  Jeremy raised a questioning brow, and I didn’t blame him. I definitely didn’t sound like myself right now.

  I took a breath and continued. “Besides, if we don’t have a winter wedding we’ll miss out on bookings, and the revenue it could bring us,” I said, point-blank. “Yes, I want the fairy tale, but so does everyone else. Normal people book their venues a year or more in advance, so the longer we push off the wedding, the longer it’ll be before we can start locking in events.”

  He rubbed his chin, his forehead creased like it always did when he was thinking something over intently. I kept my face impassive and patiently waited for him to see that I was right. I know to never bet anything I can’t afford to lose, but I also know that I’ll never win big if I always play it safe. This plan was crazy, but it was the kind of crazy a girl like me thrived on, and my gut was screaming at me to go for it. So was my inner child, that lonely little girl who was finally getting her Prince Charming.

  “Okay,” he finally said. “I would marry you in a cardboard box under a bridge with rats as our guests if you wanted me to, so if you want to have a big wedding here, in the place that brought us together again, with all the poufs and frills, I’m on board. All I want is you.”

  “Really?” I smiled, catching his hand, my heart racing for a whole other reason…like how he was looking at me as if it’d be only a matter of minutes before he was buried inside me.

  He rested his finger on the back of my mother’s—no, my ring, and leaned closer. “Yep. I think it’s a great idea, Chels.”

  “I’m so happy! But with that said?” I pulled my hand free, and picked my laptop up from the empty chair next to me, doing my best to ignore his sexy bedroom eyes. “It’s time to start planning. I’ve already started a tentative list of bakers, caterers, and florists you have to visit today. Get your computer, too. I sent you the Google doc.”

  Jeremy groaned dramatically. I got to enjoy the view of his mighty fine ass as he padded out of the room to fetch his laptop. He re-entered, with his laptop and an exaggerated pout. “I should’ve gotten the whiskey.”

  I pointed a playful finger at him. “Once we manage to pull this off, the McCullagh Inn will be the premier wedding destination in northern Maine, and you’ll be thankful for my hit-the-ground-running organization skills.”

  “I’m always thankful for you and your skills. Just not necessarily this early in the morning.” He opened his computer, yawning again. “That’s weird.”

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. It’s just…” He pushed a button on the keyboard. “My computer was shut off improperly, so it’s rebooting now. I never do that. I always let it power down before I close it.”

  My hands froze on the keyboard as his words sank in. “I thought that mine had been moved. Just to the left of where I left it on my desk, but it was enough for me to notice.” The cursor jiggered wildly across the screen as my fingers tapped nervously on the laptop’s touchpad. “Do you think it means something?”

  Jeremy glanced at my computer, then his, and shook his head. “I doubt it. Maybe Mr. or Mrs. Walters tried to check their email before they left on their hike, and shut it down when they realized it was password protected. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  I wanted to believe him, but my sixth sense was screaming that something was going on, and it had never been wrong before. To be fair, sometimes I didn’t listen to it until I was forced to shoot my way out of a situation, but still. It was never wrong.

  “Chels.” He pushed the computer aside and came around the table, catching my hand and helping me stand. “It’s fine. Everything’s fine. We’re happy. We have nothing to worry about.”

  “That’s the problem,” I muttered. The wind picked up, the frozen tree branches suddenly bending from the force, mirroring the downward turn in my mood.

  His brow furrowed, and he stared down at me. “I don’t follow.”

  “We’re happy. Stupid happy. Like smiling for no reason happy. Dancing around in your bedroom happy. Singing off-key in the shower happy.”

  He laughed. “I might sing off-key, but you don’t.”

  “True.” Hard to admit, but I have a pretty good voice. He wasn’t just saying that because he was stupidly in love with me. “But—”

  “Why is being happy a bad thing?” he interrupted gently. “I like being happy with you.”

  “Me, too.” I gripped the front of his shirt, not letting go. “But when things are too good, they have a way of turning south really fast. When things are good, that’s when shit gets blown apart. It’s the way the world works. It balances itself out.”

  “Not with us.” He ran his thumb over my lower lip, pressing on it gently. “We already paid our dues. We had the bad before the good. Nothing is going to happen to ruin—”

  Knock, knock, knock.

  I lifted a brow. “You were saying?”

  Chapter 6

  The fates couldn’t resist screwing with him, could they? Okay, to be honest, Jeremy wasn’t entirely convinced that Chelsea didn’t have a point about the laptops. But with no proof, he was keeping mum on the subject. She had enough to worry about without them chasing their own shadows around. They were about to plan an epic wedding in a very short amount of time, something that had amazingly been her idea, and the last thing she needed was more stress.

  The timing of that knock, though, seemed to underscore Chelsea’s feeling that the proverbial shoe was about to drop on their heads. And right now? It felt more like a damn anvil.

  “I know you see me as an incredibly handsome and buff superhero, but I actually don’t have the power to see the future,” Jeremy quipped, trying to break the blanket of tension that had dropped on the room. “And neither do you.”

  As he hoped, Chelsea rolled her eyes at his joke. “All right, then,” she said. “Let’s go see who knocked.”

  He followed her through the kitchen, passing the dining room with its pale, golden-yellow walls. Rather than having one large table in the room, they’d set up four smaller tables for their guests who chose to eat here instead of ordering room service. The crystal chandelier overhead gleamed, catching stray beams of light, in a testament to Holly’s cleaning skills. Everything in this inn had been handpicked by him and Chelsea.

  The front door opened before they reached it, and Jeremy lowered his hand out of instinct, reaching for the butt of a gun that wasn’t there. Now that he was no longer a DEA agent, he kept his weapon in the gun safe, as he’d assumed guests wouldn’t warm to armed innkeepers. Besides, he was happy with his new occupation in life. Sure, he’d loved the adrenaline rush he’d gotten when working on a DEA assignment when he was young, but now that he was with Chelsea, he was ready to settle down. Take it slow.

  He shifted in front of Chelsea, and she gave him a little push, but didn’t move.

  “Hello?” It was Paul, sticking his head inside. “Anyone home?”

  Jeremy relaxed his stance only slightly. While Paul was trying to clean up his act, his shoes were still dirty as hell. “Yeah.”

  “Oh. Hi.”

  The imaginary threat gone, Chelsea shifted to Jeremy’s side, leaning against him. He automatically wrapped his arm around her.

  “We need to talk,” Paul said, talking to Chelsea but glancing at Jeremy from the corner of his eye. The two men had an uneasy truce. Paul was grateful for the way Jeremy had protected his sister when things had gone down with the cartel, but he was never going to be comfortable around the law, even if the murky part of his life was in the past. But Jeremy’s instincts told him Paul was still hiding secrets. Lots and lots of secrets. And secrets meant Paul couldn’t be trusted. “Alone. It’s about Dad.”

  Jeremy stayed silent. He didn’t want to leave because he had a vested interest in keeping Chelsea safe
and happy, but if she asked him to go, he’d respect her wishes. Since history had a habit of repeating itself, chances were news about her father would not make her happy. Whatever information Paul brought? It wouldn’t be good.

  Chelsea tensed. “What about him?”

  “We should discuss this alone,” Paul repeated.

  “I can wait in the kitchen,” Jeremy said gently, squeezing her hand reassuringly before letting go. “It’s okay.”

  She caught his fingers. “No, it’s not. We’re getting married. Anything he has to say to me, he can say to you, too. It’s not like you’re a fed anymore.”

  “You said yes?” Paul asked, glancing at the ring on her finger. “Seriously?”

  She lifted her chin. “Did you seriously think I wouldn’t?”

  “Dad always said—”

  “I don’t care what Dad says anymore.”

  “Clearly.” Paul crossed his arms, finally looking away from her ring finger. “But that might change soon. He’s getting out early for good behavior.”

  “So the prisons are full again,” Chelsea said dryly. Johnny O’Kane was never on “good behavior.” She glanced at Jeremy. “And there it is.”

  He stiffened, because, damn it, she was right. “Maybe.”

  “There what is?” Paul asked, frowning.

  “The bad news. I knew some was coming.”

  “It doesn’t have to be bad,” Paul retorted, shooting Jeremy a dirty look, as if he was responsible for their father being a shithead. “Dad wants to see you. When he heard you were back, and the inn had reopened, he lit up like a Molotov cocktail.”

  Only an O’Kane would use that analogy instead of saying he lit up like a light bulb. Or something else equally benign.

  “No. Absolutely not,” Chelsea said, shaking her head.

  Paul pressed his mouth into a hard line. Honestly, Jeremy couldn’t blame him for his loyalty to his father. After Chelsea had fled from town, Johnny had been the only family Paul had left. “You need to give him a chance. Maybe he’s changed.”

  “You say that every time he gets out. You do realize that he spent more time breaking the law than being our father? And the few times he did remember he had kids, he was a jackass to us,” she pointed out, logically.

  Jeremy turned his attention out the window. The wind was blowing snow off the branches. He sympathized with the wind. He wanted to push something off its perch, namely Paul. Then he and Chelsea could go back to living in their happy little bubble.

  “He always remembers us,” Paul snapped. “You’re the one who forgets.”

  Chelsea said nothing.

  Jeremy turned to look at her, frowning when he saw she’d become visibly upset. It wasn’t like her to show her emotions so damn clearly. “Are you all right?”

  Chelsea nodded, not speaking.

  “Of course she’s all right.” Paul shot him an incredulous look before turning back to Chelsea. “Look, he’s our father and you—”

  “She said no,” Jeremy finally snapped. Shit. Now that he’d interjected himself into the conversation, there was no way in hell he was leaving it. Normally, he knew Chelsea could take care of herself, but Paul was her big brother. “I like you, man, but you need to let it go.”

  Paul ignored him, but his nostrils flared with anger, giving away the fact that he’d heard Jeremy perfectly well. “So Dad wants to see you. I’ll bring him by when I pick him up. You don’t even have to leave home.”

  “No,” Chelsea said, shifting closer to Jeremy. “Drop it, Paul.”

  Paul frowned at the way she was leaning on Jeremy, clearly not liking it. “But—”

  Jeremy threw an arm over her shoulder, shooting Paul a hard glance. “You heard her the first ten times, man. Back off, or I’ll help you back off.”

  “This is between me and my sister,” Paul shot back, fisting his hands at his sides. It didn’t take a genius to know he was itching for a fight. While Chelsea dealt with her childhood issues by creating a tough exterior she often hid behind, Paul was a hothead with an anger problem. When Paul was upset, he’d walk into a bar and a brawl would erupt moments later. “Why don’t you get back on your white horse and ride out of here, cop?”

  Jeremy gritted his teeth, but didn’t rise to the bait.

  “Don’t call him that. He’s not in the DEA anymore,” Chelsea said, her voice low.

  Paul shrugged. “Once a cop, always a cop.”

  “Stop trying to pick a fight with my fiancé,” Chelsea snapped, clearly not giving a shit about their silent standoff. “Paul, I love you, you’re always welcome here, but I have no interest in seeing our father again. Tell him to stay away. Far away.”

  Paul met his sister’s steady gaze and rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. Finally he unclenched his fists, and crossed his arms. “He’s not going to listen.”

  “Then he’ll find out what happens when he breaks into our home,” she said, as she headed for the kitchen. “Bye, Paul.”

  The second they were alone, Paul stepped forward, his jaw tight, body trembling visibly with a pent-up anger. “You may have convinced my sister to marry you, but that just means you’ll have to decide where your loyalties lie. With us…or the law.”

  Chapter 7

  A week after Paul broke the news about our father’s early release, I was still on edge. For the last seven days, little things had been setting off alarms for me. Nothing huge, just a paper out of place here. A drawer left open there. My keys out of their usual place. They were little things that, on their own, meant nothing. But when put together…

  Yeah. I didn’t like it.

  The way Jeremy was acting didn’t help any. I could tell that he was on edge, too, but he put on a good face, always taking an optimistic view, no matter how often I told him otherwise. Of course, I could read him and I knew he was trying to keep me from stressing out even more, especially since the wedding preparations had kicked into gear.

  Jeremy was currently in town, picking up the supplies I’d told him to purchase at the local crafts store. We were going to try our hand at making our own wedding centerpieces, modeled after something I’d seen on the engaged girl’s best friend…Pinterest.

  I was crazy about these bowls with romantic candles. They were simple and elegant, and looked easy enough for the two of us to make. Despite my ingrained realism and practical nature, settling into this creative outlet felt like heaven. I was loving every bit of wedding planning. Thriving on it, some might even say.

  Over the years I’d learned to play the tough girl, but right now, I wished I could send a letter back to the little girl I used to be—the one who’d had to watch that photo album burn—and let her know that it was okay to hope for something better.

  Maybe I could help lots of brides-to-be make their dreams come true at this very inn, and maybe I could make a lot of money in the process, satisfying both the realist and the dreamer in me.

  But for now, I was in the office, surrounded by piles of to-do lists and wedding magazines. Appointments had been set to meet with Georgia, the owner of the local bakery, for the wedding cake, and also with Hannah, a local photographer, who came highly recommended. I still had to pick out the best array of seasonal flowers, decide on the menu, and, most importantly, find my wedding dress. My white, poufy, girly wedding dress.

  I couldn’t wait.

  Next week’s appointment at Wedding Belles couldn’t come soon enough.

  I was typing in a florist website when suddenly, there was a distant thud. I froze, pulse racing, because I was completely alone in the inn. The Walters had checked out, and the next batch of guests weren’t expected until Friday.

  Who the hell was here?

  Standing silently, I crept out into the entryway, grabbing the wooden baseball bat that had been my constant companion lately. I palmed it, knowing that I was probably overreacting, but another part of me was sure I was about to walk into some kind of real-life nightmare. I slowly checked the other rooms on the first floor, making my
way back to our private rooms. Nothing seemed unusual until I reached our bedroom.

  The closet looked like it had been torn apart; shoes and old clothes were spilling out onto the hardwood floor. Hangers were askew. A box containing the old sports equipment lay on its side with the handle of a tennis racket poking through the flaps. Something glinted in the sunlight in the middle of the floor, framed by one of my old pair of jeans. I made my way over to it. When I saw what it was, my stomach dropped.

  I hadn’t laid eyes on that necklace in almost a year. Seeing it brought me back to the last time I wore it, on my desperate escape to Maine from Miami. After all, Richard had given it to me.

  Who would care about an expensive necklace my ex-boyfriend had given me? Did someone break in looking for something to steal? Or worse—was it a message?

  Richard had to be back.

  That explained everything strange that was going on. Richard had escaped from jail. For me.

  I should have shot him dead when I had the chance.

  Looking wildly around the room, I searched for another indicator Richard had been here. Maybe the cartel was after me again.

  Hesitantly, I took a step forward. My foot hit something hard, nudging it free from under one of Jeremy’s college sweatshirts. It took a few seconds before I recognized the broken remains of the closet shelf.

  I laughed at myself, rubbing my chest as I let the bat drop to the floor. Maybe Jeremy was right, maybe I was freaking out over nothing. Maybe the stress of wedding planning was starting to get to me. I was imagining monsters hiding in the closet. I must have shoved the necklace into my jeans’ pocket at some point, and it had fallen out when the closet shelf broke.

  Picking up the bat and resting it against my shoulder, I surveyed the mess, strategizing the best place to start reorganizing it, when someone grabbed my other shoulder from behind.

  Swallowing a scream, I spun, swinging the bat as I pivoted on my heel, putting my whole weight behind it. Richard! He was back. If he was trying to mess with my happy ending, then I was going to finish him. And this time?