“Where’s your date, honey?” Maddie looked over at her neighbor because, even though she’d heard that particular question at least a half dozen times since she’d stepped out of the limo in her purple bridesmaid dress, it still sent a stab of pain through her.
The bride’s aunt stared back at her expectantly. The elderly woman was almost swallowed up by the ruffles of her pastel dress, making it was clear where the bride had gotten her taste for colors from.
“I’m—” Flying solo. The words stuck in her throat.
“With me.” The deep male voice behind her was all too familiar. She’d dreamed about the bastard every night since she’d left Fantasy Island three weeks ago. Oh, no. For a moment, she thought her mind was playing tricks on her, but when she turned around, Mason was standing there. He wore a white dress uniform with a chestful of medals, a dark-brimmed hat with a gold trident insignia tucked under his arm. Given the number of female heads turning his way, she wasn’t hallucinating.
Maddie had no idea what to say to him. Her body didn’t seem to share the same problem though, and was already leaning toward him. It probably made her pathetic, but her heart did an up-and-down leap in her chest, all the anger washing away. He’d dressed up. He’d come to the wedding. She didn’t know what it meant, but he couldn’t possibly be here by accident.
Her breath caught in her throat, wheezing from her lungs in a little gasp of surprise.
“Tell me you’re not about to have an asthma attack,” he said mildly. “Because that’s the kind of thing that gives a guy a complex.”
She sucked in a deep breath. Forced it out. “What are you doing here?”
“Dancing with you?” He held out a hand and she caved completely, letting him pull her out of her chair and onto the floor. For a few moments, they just danced, Mason smoothly navigating them around two giggling flower girls who were tossing leftover rose petals at the dancers’ feet and an usher who had already hit the open bar too hard. The dancing was one of her favorite parts of the reception, everybody getting up and cutting loose because they were happy, there was music and it was always a good day when two people were willing to stand up and tell the whole world how much they loved each other. It also didn’t matter if you couldn’t dance or had no sense of rhythm, because you could get lost in the bobbing, weaving sea of tulle and poorly glued sequins.
He tugged on one of the ribbon straps holding up her dress. “Nice color.”
She didn’t want to talk about her dress.
“Why are you here?” And why was she dancing with him?
“Can I show you something?”
“Is that code for something dirty?” Instinctively, she fell back into the sexy banter they’d shared on the island. She’d kind of used up her honesty quota when she’d proposed to him.
He stared at her somberly. “Not yet,” he said, and she wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or not. Instead, he maneuvered her to the edge of the dance floor and then out of the reception tent altogether. It was almost dark, the stars popping out in the sky overhead. He walked her over the lawn, toward the formal gardens that edged the woods. The rich scent of roses and lavender filled the air. Purple aside, the bride had picked a gorgeous spot for a wedding.
“So,” she murmured. “You wanted to play show-and-tell?”
Because they were a long way from Fantasy Island, whatever he wanted to show her had to be good. He dropped her hand and shrugged out of his dress jacket. When he handed it to her, she couldn’t stop herself from smoothing the fabric with her fingertips, the material warm from his skin. She shrugged into the jacket, trying to tamp down the feeling of anticipation spreading through her. Maybe he’d just stopped by to say hello. Two thousand miles from where he’d last seen her.
It was possible. Lots of things were possible.
“You really are a SEAL.”
He shot her a look. “Yeah. I am.”
It fit him—and it also explained a lot. Things like the way he moved with such purpose, and his confidence underwater. The way he’d pinned her so effortlessly when she’d surprised him sleeping. While he went to work on his sleeve, unbuttoning the cuff, she asked the question that had been bothering her.
“So you’re not a chef?”
“I love to cook.” A slow smile tugged at his mouth. “I wasn’t kidding about the four sisters. They loved to eat. I loved to make them happy.”
He shoved his sleeve up and held his arm out. Black and pink—pink—words scrolled across his inner forearm: “That’s how much I love you.” He’d finished the Ogden Nash poem inked on her hip. Her heart gave a pathetic little stutter while other parts of her melted.