Magnolia's observation caught her by surprise and tears pricked at her eyes. She ducked her head and hoped that her hat's wide brim would keep her face from Magnolia's view as she muttered, “It's nothing...”
She was not so lucky, and when Magnolia's chair groaned like a dying hyena, Mary looked up in alarm to find that the other woman had swung her legs around and was sitting up with both hands offered this time.
Mary mirrored her, letting Magnolia enfold her pale fingers in her larger ones. “Do you believe in destined mates?” she asked hesitantly, not daring to look up.
“Yes,” Magnolia said without any hesitation of her own. There was a richness to the single word, a depth of understanding that Mary hadn't realized she was hoping for.
“What if he... doesn't want me?”
Magnolia's laughter made Mary lift her head.
“It doesn't work like that, sweetie.” Magnolia said it very gently, as if to a small child. “You know that, don't you?”
“I don't understand, then,” Mary said, with all the frustration that had been building in her. “Why does he keep running away?”
“Finding your mate doesn’t always mean your fairy tale happy ending is at hand. Sometimes you need a little patience.”
Mary thought there was a note of sadness in her voice, and maybe a hint of dry amusement.
“His name is Neal,” Magnolia told her, and it took Mary's breath away to hear it.
It was such an odd sensation, almost like she recognized the name, but not quite.
A server appeared beside them, and Mary looked up to find that she was holding a tray with two margaritas.
“Oh goodness,” Magnolia said, releasing Mary's hand and taking one of the glasses. “I can't drink two of these.”
Mary suspected that Magnolia would have been able to down a dozen of them without effect, but she took the other anyway, unexpectedly eager for it.
“Tell me more,” she begged, once the server was gone again.
“Only Neal can tell you the whole story,” Magnolia said, settling back into her chair again. “But I'll tell you what I know.”
Chapter Eight
Neal pulled at the collar of the shirt.
It was a far cry from a well-tailored dress uniform he had attended military functions in, but it was more appropriate than the resort polo shirt and khaki shorts he usually wore. Travis, the resort handyman, had done an admirable job of fitting one of the waitstaff uniforms to him, as long as you didn’t look too closely at the mismatched fabric under the arms.
“Don’t pluck at it,” Travis scolded, swatting at Neal’s hands and adjusting the collar of the coat himself.
“Are you sure you aren’t going to need backup, to see that you don’t chicken out?” Breck added.
Neal bit back the automatic offense at the insult. Breck meant well, and was only trying to be helpful. It wasn’t like Neal didn’t deserve a little ribbing for being a coward.
Tex strummed some dire chords on his guitar, sprawled across Neal’s bed. “Do you want some musical backup?” he offered. “Women love to be serenaded.”
Breck scoffed. “Sure, put her in the mood with a ditty about getting hit by a pickup and shooting a dog.”
r /> “I know some love songs,” Tex chuckled, but the tune he played was anything but.
“Sad love songs don’t count,” Bastian said, shaking his head.
“You kidding?” Travis mocked. “Have you ever watched a chick flick? Girls love to cry.”
Neal was not sure when this whole thing had turned into such a public affair, but his room in the staff housing was stuffed with supposedly helpful staff. Bastian was draped across his desk chair, and Travis was grinning at him from the footlocker.
“She’s a deer, remember, so avoid predator jokes,” Bastian suggested helpfully. Breck had risked his job and his skin by snooping into Scarlet’s office for Mary’s information and cottage number, to Neal’s chagrin and gratitude when he found out.