Wylde (Arizona Vengeance 7)

“I used to watch that show,” Nora says quietly, and all eyes turn to her. “I remember when that happened.”

I flush with embarrassment. It’s one thing to recount the story, another to know one of these women watched it play out on live TV.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” she continues, her voice firm. “You did nothing wrong. You merely followed your heart. Sadly, it misled you.”

“Did it ever,” I affirm.

“The point being,” Nora says, and I’m helpless to look away. She’s a therapist, so she must know something about which she speaks. “It’s an experience that has helped shape you into the person you are today. I’m going to guess that person is someone who is guarded and afraid to take risks. Nothing wrong with that, but just because that’s the person you are today doesn’t mean it’s the person you have to be tomorrow. You’ve already gone out on a limb by exploring things with Aaron. That means you’re willing to spread those wings a bit, which I think is wonderful. Personally, I think you have the right man to do it with.”

I give her a wry smile. “Even though you all call him Wylde? Even though he’s the team playboy?”

“Especially so,” Nora retorts with a giggle. “Nothing like watching a man like that fall.”

The other women agree. More “amens” and “mmm-hmms,” and another snap over the shoulder.

“I’m glad you shared that with us,” Brooke says, patting me on the thigh. “You’re one of the girls now. An official member of the Vengeance family.”

I’m really not since I’ve only been dating Aaron for a few weeks now, but the sentiment is silly sweet.

“Here, here,” the other women proclaim, holding up their champagne glasses.

“By the way,” Pepper says, and I can tell by the tone of her voice the subject is changing, for which I’m glad. “Did you guys know Rafe is coming, and he’s bringing his new fiancée?”

“Fiancée?” Willow exclaims. “He’s only been gone for a couple of months. How does he have a fiancée already?”

“Says the woman who jetted off to Vegas to marry a man she’s only known for a few months,” Regan mutters out of the side of her mouth to Nora, who snorts loudly.

Willow shoots Regan a glare, then looks back to Pepper for the answer to her question. Pepper shrugs. “No clue.”

“We’ll find out tomorrow, I suppose,” Brooke says, then drains the last of her champagne. An attendant materializes out of nowhere, refilling her glass before moving among the women to top us off.

The bubbly is already making me a little lightheaded, and I wonder what Aaron will do if I show back up at our room completely drunk later. Either things will get really crazy or I’ll be a complete dud.

Regardless, I do know one thing with surety. It speaks to the fact I am willing to judge Aaron on his own merits instead of based on my past experiences.

Regardless of the shape I show up in to our room later, Aaron will make sure I’m taken care of and protected. He would, in no way, take advantage of me.

The fact I can admit that tells me quite a bit about myself.CHAPTER 18WyldeI’m not a romantic type of guy. Scenery is lost on me. Details like flowers and wedding dress lace don’t mean a thing. But as I look around at the wedding reception, which is in full progress, I can’t really think of a more appropriate place to tie two lives together.

Today, Brooke and Bishop got married on a bluff overlooking Caneel Bay. They said their vows right at sunset, so the water was sparkling with orange and gold. There were no chairs to sit upon and no formal aisle by which Brooke made her way to Bishop. Friends and family merely stood around in a large semi-circle facing the Caribbean waters. Brooke pulled up in a resort golf cart, and her father escorted her through the crowd that parted for her procession. She wore a strapless white dress that was lacking any adornment, but which flowed down to her ankles. It swished and rippled with her strides, and her bare feet peeked out as she walked across the lush green grass toward her intended. Bishop stood with his back to the sea, a local pastor from the island of St. Thomas beside him.

And right there, with no fancy music, flowers, or even chairs, they exchanged handwritten vows while guided by the pastor. It was the purest thing I’d ever seen, and I thought… if I ever decide to get married, I’m doing exactly this same thing.

The reception is way fucking cool, held in an old abandoned sugar mill dating back to the 18th century on the resort property. It’s nothing more than cobbled brick walls—half having fallen—a refinished wooden floor, and no roof to hide the stars above us. Round tables dot the interior, spilling outside to a large tent set on the lush lawn to accommodate the guests. A full sit-down meal of beef tenderloin and lobster is served, the champagne is never-ending, and there’s a DJ who’s going to be cranking some jams before long. It promises to be a night of partying and celebration. Thank fuck, we’re not leaving until the day after tomorrow because I’m sensing many, many hangovers.