Tropical Leopard's Longing (Shifting Sands Resort 8)

The staff and guests laughed.

“Leave it to Breck to steal the bride,” Travis teased.

Everyone laughed harder.

“Yeah, but then he went and got hitched to her,” Tex reminded him, sounding horrified.

“Careful, cowboy,” Laura warned him with laughter in her voice. “Nothing wrong with doing the respectable thing.”

“As if Breck will ever be respectable,” Bastian laughed. He was in a much better mood since his parents had bailed with the most elite of the dragon shifter society guests.

Scarlet cleared her throat and the joshing died down. “It isn’t every day that true mates meet each other, and when they do, it is always worth rejoicing. I am so happy that we could share this day of joining with these two people, and wish them all the best in their continuing lives together as one.”

Breck kissed Darla to applause and cheers.

“Speech, speech!” Travis prodded.

But Breck wasn’t done kissing Darla, and she wasn’t done with him, her arms around his neck and her lush body close against his.

“I think that’s as much of a speech as we’re getting,” Scarlet observed dryly. “Cottage fifteen, you two. The rest of you, we’ll clean this up in the morning. Please enjoy the rest of the food and take a centerpiece back to your room if you desire.”

Breck stopped kissing Darla and took her hands in his own. “Let’s go somewhere without a peanut gallery,” he suggested.

“Cottage fifteen sounds nice,” Darla agreed breathlessly.

The night outside was quiet after the noise and merriment of the event hall, and Darla’s hand in his was warm and perfect. She leaned her head against him as they walked past the abandoned wedding aisle and through the garden towards the pool and the cottages beyond.

“This morning I thought I was never going to see you again,” she said softly.

“I thought that very same thing when Eugene rolled over on me and broke all my ribs,” Breck confessed. They were still sore.

“Did I fail to impress upon you what a terrible idea it would be to challenge?” Darla scolded him.

Breck stopped walking and faced her. “Eugene swore he would let it stand,” he said. “But even if he hadn’t, even if I was hopelessly outclassed as a fighter, even if Wrench had been right and I was utterly doomed, I had to try. I wouldn’t have been alive without you, Darla.”

She made a little whimper. “I know. I know. I wasn’t alive before I met you.”

“I could wish things had gone a little better,” Breck admitted wryly. “But I’m not sorry. I’m going to spend the rest of my life loving you, and that’s the happiest ending I can imagine.”

Darla answered with her mouth, stretching up to kiss him hungrily and run her fingers through his short hair. Breck gathered her into his arms and drew her down to a garden bench that waited beside them. It was much, much later that they made it to cottage fifteen… and Breck knew that there would be music to face from Graham by the time they were done.

Epilogue

“Charter’s coming in,” Graham called from the back kitchen door.

Chef answered him with the chorus of an opera in Italian, and Darla left a warm kiss on the cook’s cheek as she untied the apron from her waist. “I’ll be back when they’re settled,” she promised. “It should be before the dinner rush.”

Her kiss for Breck, at the back door, was considerably longer, and not limited to his cheek.

“Travis won’t hold the van for you,” Breck warned her at last, and she reluctantly pried herself away.

“I’ll see you soon,” she said.

They’d been married nearly two weeks, and it still felt impossible and precious and fragile. Darla kept expecting someone to tell her she wasn’t allowed to feel this happy, and to take it all away from her.

Travis was waiting at the van and made a point of looking at his wrist, but his eyes were dancing. The noisy journey down to the tiny island airstrip prevented any real conversation, and Darla spent most of it looking at her hands, thinking about how much her life had changed in just a few short weeks.

Her nails were short and practical, without a trace of polish. She was developing calluses from the cutting knives, and her fingers were rough from dishwater. She had sold her jewelry and designer clothing to pay for getting the rest home residents plane tickets and was dressed in a simple resort uniform: a green polo shirt and khaki shorts. Her hair was back in two braids, lovingly — if not expertly — put there by Breck, not styled at a salon.