And just like that, the room cleared of everyone except Donna, who began rooting around in the massive closet.
Isobel clung to Callum, breathing him in, drowning her fears in his unique scent that always reminded her of autumn in the highlands. Of perfect evening walks under the changing trees, listening to the water lap at the shores of the loch. He was her happy place. The only thing that made sense in her spiraling, chaotic mind.
“Nice underwear,” he said with amusement in his voice. His hand stroked the curve of her behind, over the ivory lace that clung to it.
Isobel sniffed. “The corset’s too tight.” And stupid. She looked like a virgin on her wedding night. A girl trying too hard to seduce the man she’d married.
“Let’s get it off you then.” His voice deepened, and she shivered for an entirely different reason than panic.
The floor creaked as Donna approached. Isobel hid her face against Callum’s chest, feeling the silk of his shirt against her burning cheek. She’d made a fool of herself. Again.
“Here’s the dress and matching shoes. If you need help with anything else, sing out. I have my phone back.”
“Thanks. Put them on the bed.” Callum tightened his hold on Isobel, as though he knew embarrassment had set in.
The door closed behind Donna, and Isobel looked up at him. “I can’t wear a sparkling blue dress to get married.”
“Why not?” His eyes were dark and intense, telling her she was the only thing in his world at that moment.
Isobel blinked at him, her mind blank. “It’s not the done thing,” was all she could think of to say.
His chuckle was deep and sexy as hell. “Neither’s getting married in the living room, but we’re doing that in about twenty minutes. How about we get that dress on you before we go downstairs? Or, if you prefer, I can bring the vicar up here, and we can get married with you in your underwear.”
Isobel gasped. “You wouldn’t.”
“Darlin’ I’d do just about anything to make you my wife.”
And just like that, with those words and the absolute honesty in his eyes, Isobel’s fear and anxiety fled.
“Help me get dressed,” she whispered.
“It will be my pleasure.”
Callum McKay walked his bride down the stairs of the old carriage house he’d converted behind his business in London’s Chelsea district. The furniture had been pushed back to make room for their wedding guests, and they stood, beaming up at them.
Sophie ran around, a basket filled with rose petals in her hand, throwing them randomly at everyone and everything. Dressed in a tux, Jack stood at the bottom of the stairs, solemnly watching his mother descend.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I have the rings.”
“I wasn’t worried,” Callum told the teenager he was proud to call son. “I knew you’d make the perfect best man.”
The boy ducked his head as his cheeks flushed, and Callum smiled, remembering well the age when he too had been teetering between boy and man, and everything had made him blush. Now, only one thing had the power to disarm him completely—his Isobel.
He looked down at the woman he loved, who had her hand tucked into his arm. She was perfection in the form-fitting, knee-length dress of midnight blue and shimmering sequins. It might not be a traditional wedding dress, but he couldn’t imagine one more perfect for their day. The color made her green eyes sparkle and her creamy skin glow. And the dress brought back memories of the only other time she’d worn it and all the wonderfully wicked things he’d done to her.
As if reading his mind,
she looked up at him, her eyes dark and knowing, her cheeks flushed.
“That really is a great dress,” he said with heavy meaning.
“Stop it,” she whispered. “My knees are weak enough.”
“Don’t worry; I’ll hold you up.”
“I know.” The amount of love, the depth of it, in her eyes, made him want to carry her back upstairs and tell everyone to get the hell out of their house.
But he didn’t.