Irish Bear's Enemy (Boston Bear Brothers 4)

The finishing touches were the peach ribbon matching the color of Becky’s dress running around Maeve’s waist and along the bottom hemline. A mixture of the same color ribbons was included in the small bouquet of peach-colored roses she carried and the larger bouquet of peach and white roses with a spray of baby’s breath that made up her own. Nothing Maeve had chosen was extravagant, but it was all very tasteful.

Ronan and his brothers would all be dressed in tuxedos with peach cummerbunds and matching corsages. The only thing outside her control was the venue itself, which Becky’s friend Derrick had insisted on taking care of for them. He had swatches of her colors and knew what flowers she was using, so it would be up to him how it looked.

“Here you go,” Becky said, pulling a velvet bag from her bag and handing it to Maeve now that she was in her gown and looking at it in the mirror.

She opened it to find a lovely blue satin-and-lace garter inside. It was absolutely gorgeous.

“The lace is old. It’s from my mother’s wedding dress. The blue satin is from a pillowcase my grandmother made that was damaged, but I salvaged some of the material from the center. The ribbon around the center is new, and I’ve pinned a small love charm in the center. You have to give it all back after the wedding, as it’s only borrowed.”

“Something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue. God, Becky. This is so wonderful of you,” Maeve said, feeling herself tear up.

“No, no tears. I don’t know how to fix your makeup,” Becky joked, making her laugh. Well, I think we’re ready. Let’s get to town. Are you ready?”

“Not yet,” Maeve replied, bending to slip the garter up her leg. “I don’t have on any shoes.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t wear them. I mean, it might make it easier to run if you change your mind.”

“You know I’m not running,” Maeve laughed.

“We’ll see,” Becky replied with a playful wink.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Ronan

The months seemed to fly by after the wedding. Each day brought them close to the birth of their children, which they now knew were triplets, two boys and one mystery child that they’d yet been unable to determine the sex of.

Maeve’s business had really taken off, so much so that she’d bought a second truck, this one new, without a clown to be evicted. For now, though, she’d turned both trucks over to her staff because she was due any day now.

The baby monitor she’d already placed in his basement office for when he was working down there crackled to life, and he looked at it curiously. A moment later, her voice came on it.

“We need to get going, Ronan. You’ve got about ten minutes to finish up and get changed, or I’m coming down there,” she said.

He laughed and stood up, putting his ledger away and heading up the stairs to the first floor. He found her in the bedroom, pulling her hair into a ponytail, and kissed her on the side of the neck before changing shirts.

“Why are we going to this thing again?” he asked.

“I like to see the crafts they have. There’s some really nice stuff there sometimes,” she said.

“You mean pie, don’t you?”

“What?” she asked, feigning innocence.

“You mean you are after one of those fresh pies that one woman brings to this little fall festival thing you like, don’t you?”

“Are you accusing me of just going to this festival to get a pie?”

“Oh yeah. I’ve never seen a pregnant woman crave pie like you do.”

“Have you spent a lot of time with pregnant women?”

“Well, no,” he laughed.

“I want to look at crafts,” she said, a thin smile on her lips.

“All right. We’ll go look at crafts then. I aim to please.”

“Great. Let’s get moving,” she told him.

“Before they run out of pies . . . I mean, crafts,” he teased.

“You’re pushing your luck, Ronan.”

“I just love seeing you get all riled-up.”

“You sure do,” she said.

They arrived at the fair almost as soon as it started. Maeve made a point of visiting a couple of craft booths, he suspected more for show than anything. Then she made a beeline for the nearest baked-goods booth. He couldn’t help but laugh.

“Do you have any peach pies?” she asked.

“Are these pies decorative only?” he asked from behind her, garnering himself a light poke in the ribs from her elbow.

“We do. Would you like to try a sample?” the woman said, answering her rather than him.

“That would be great,” she replied, giving him a bit of side-eye as a warning not to say anything.

Standing in the street in front of the booth, she accepted a small plate with a thin slice of peach pie. He watched as she took a bite, her face a mask of pure ecstasy as she savored it. As she went to take another bite, she suddenly gasped and doubled over, losing her grip on the plate and letting it fall to the ground. The woman looked alarmed, perhaps even a bit offended.