Page 53 of Kiss the Bride

“Enjoy the romantic dinner for two hamper,” the receptionist says, handing over a large picnic hamper to one of the loved-up couples I recognize from the restaurant. Bingo. My father built his business by taking advantage of opportunities, and I am my father’s son.

“Excuse me,” I interrupt before they turn around to leave.

“Yes?” The man’s arm is wrapped around his wife, who sports a delicate, small engagement ring.

“I’ll pay you triple for the hamper if I can take it now.” Pulling out my wallet, I show them the cash and hope like hell it’s harderto knock it back when it’s being waved in their face. Still, I need him to save face. “Please, you’ll be doing me an enormous favor.”

“Why?” His knuckles are white holding onto the basket but my need to win back my woman is greater than his need to impress his.

“Because there is a beautiful woman down on the beach. We fought, and I don’t know how else to approach her. I’d wait for my own hamper but, well, I need to make this right before she catches the next plane off the island.”

While the couple does that eye-communication thing that Liv and I should have patented, I survey the hamper. This is it. This is the grand gesture I need. Without diving into the basket, I see Swiss chocolates, fresh strawberries, and finger foods. There’s the brand of champagne I’ve seen Olivia order as well as sparkling water. It’s the perfect hamper for a honeymooning couple—or a groveling apology.

“Please?” I plead with the woman. “She’s hurting and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.”

“What did you do?” The woman asks, shushing her husband before he can reject me.

“Broke her heart five years ago. Became her friend. Set her up with my mate who broke her heart the day of her wedding. This was supposed to be their honeymoon, but I’m here instead.”

“As a friend?”

“That’s how we arrived. Look, I know you don’t know Liv or me, or any of our history. She burned her wedding dress on the beach last night and then left the restaurant last night upset. She refused to talk to me after dinner and had disappeared this morning before I awoke.”

“Why’d you do it?” The guy’s knuckles have loosened, but he’s also gripping the hand of his new bride. I haven’t lost them, but I haven’t won them over, either.

“Come here?” I shrug with a wry laugh. “Because she needed a friend. She caught the bastard with her bridesmaid in the act. She needed me and I wasn’t going to let her down.”

“No, why’d you break her heart five years ago? Seems to me, you’re as bad as him.”

“We were young. We were all we’d known.” I answer honestly. “I watched couples drift into marriage and end up hating each other ten- or twenty years in. By then, kids are involved and everyone gets hurt. I thought I was saving us both from a mistake.”

“And now?”

“I want a lifetime with Liv. But we’ve got to do it right this time. That means not rushing into anything stupid, and not leaving her alone too long with her head. Please. Take my money and buy yourself another picnic hamper or have dinner delivered to your room onme.”

The woman closes my fist around my money and nods to her husband. “We know all about rocky starts. Keep your money and take the hamper. I hope you have the same luck with love that we found.”

An omen?

“Thank you, I mean it, thank you.” With the hamper in my possession, I race out of the main building, making a mental note to go ask reception to have tonight’s dinner charged to my card, and a bottle of champagne delivered to their room. However today turns out, they deserve something special.

By the time I reach the sand with the basket, Olivia is trying to gather strands of her hair into a ponytail. I chuckle as the sea breeze makes it impossible for her fingers to take control. At least it’s a sign she’s ready to communicate with the world.

Maybe with me?

Olivia Woodgrove is mine … to have and to hold … or not. Whatever happens, it has to be her choice.

But if she offers to kiss me, I’m not going to saynoagain.

“Hungry?” I approach with caution, calling out so she has time to gather her thoughts or tell me to go away. Asking her about food instead of feelings seems less confrontational. Running away from the villa—whether she intended it to look like running away, or not—tells me all I need to know about her feelings.

“Maybe, what have you got?” She doesn’t look up, but I take her patting the sand next to her as a positive sign.

“Anything you want.” I place the hamper between our legs, not wanting to crowd her, but needing a connection. “If it’s not in the basket, I’ll order it and have someone deliver.”

“To make it all go away.” She says softly, each word captured by the sound of the waves before being engraved on my heart. “That’s what I want—to make it all go away.”

“And what precisely do you want to make go away?” She’s not crying, so I try for the dry sense of humor she used to appreciate. “I can make the picnic basket go away. I can quickly skol this expensive bottle of bubbles and make it go away. I can build you a sandcastle and make it go away. What precisely do you want to go away?”

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