Saying I Do (Stewart Island Series Book 8)

by Tracey Alvarez

  “You didn’t want to admit it in front of Joe in case it got back to Ford…”

  Mac’s heartbeat kick-started with a roar.

  “But you’re not a rugby fan,” Holly added with an arched eyebrow. “Unless at some point in the past couple of years, you suddenly came to your senses?”

  “Nope.” Huge, silent sigh of relief. “Bunch of hairy men in shorts running around a field after a pigskin—no offense to your hubby-to-be, of course.” And, now Mac was babbling. She backed out of the room and shut the door. “I’ll start on the scones,” she said to the closed door and then fled down the hallway.

  Grown-ass woman, she reminded herself as she stepped through the archway into Ford and Holly’s living room. She’d make scones and pretend she cared if the All Blacks won or lost, then she’d sneak out later, while everyone was eating and dissecting the game.

  The couch was packed with three big guys, all of them leaning toward the TV screen with rapt attention. Ford sat between his twin brother, Harley, and Ben Harland, another of the guys, married to one of the island’s school teachers. In front of the couch sprawled the two Westlake brothers, Del and Ryan, who only answered to “West,” both of whom kept Due South running like clockwork. In one of the room’s two armchairs, the town’s cop, Noah Daniels, sat sipping a glass of orange juice. In the other armchair, the one closest to the open-plan kitchen, slouched Joe. He also continued to stare at the screen as she slipped past him into the kitchen.

  A few minutes after Mac had dragged ingredients out of the pantry, Holly appeared wearing jeans and one of Ford’s hoodies. She draped herself onto her fiancé’s lap, laughing as the guys shifted from side to side trying to see past her.

  Ben got up from the couch with a disgruntled sigh and stepped over West’s and Del’s prone bodies to nudge Joe’s ankle. “Mate. Your turn to get the next round of drinks.”

  With an amicable shrug, Joe stood, and Ben slid into his vacated armchair.

  Joe picked up a few empties and headed toward the kitchen. That was Mac’s cue to tuck her head down and sift flour like a crazy woman, as if she hadn’t been studying him over the breakfast bar for the past five minutes. Only sort of, kinda observing where he was in relation to her, so she could ensure she was somewhere else.

  But it was hard to keep up the pretense of being somewhere else when Ford and Holly’s kitchen didn’t have a lot of wiggle room. Then Joe walked behind her to the recycling bin, his presence buffering her as if he wore one of those inflatable sumo wrestler suits. Mac focused on the mixing bowl and the chunks of yellow butter dusted by the sifting flour. Keep the ingredients forefront in her mind and the comical image of Joe the sumo wrestler out of her brain, and she’d get through the next two minutes.

  The fridge door hissed opened, glass rattled, then the door hissed closed again.

  She set aside the sifter and dug her fingers into the flour, squishing the softened chunks of butter into it and watching from the corner of her eye as Joe left the kitchen with a six-pack. See? She could totally do this. She rubbed her fingers more, and some of the tension spanning her shoulder blades melted.

  Until Joe stepped back into the kitchen with an empty glass and pulled the jug of orange juice from the fridge. He found a clear spot a little along the counter from where she stood and set down the jug. Mac worked the butter through the flour like a time-stressed contestant on MasterChef. These scones would be awesome—“b-awesome” as her cousin’s bestie, Shaye, often said. Either that or they’d be overmixed and solid as little pet rocks if Joe continued to stare at her. How did she know he was staring at her when her gaze was glued to her flour-dusted hands? The same way she’d once sensed the nun creeping around the classroom behind her and giving Mac the stinkeye for not taking notes fast enough.

  Joe moved closer, bringing with him the heady wash of his cologne. Well, that was something he didn’t have in common with a nun—a smell of sex and spice and all things nice. Plus, you know, he was minus the penguin suit that would’ve disguised some of the chest muscles his long-sleeved shirt exposed now he’d removed his coat.

  Nuns and sumo suits and sexy pecs? Good God, she was going insane.

  He stopped beside her, leaning a hip against the counter. “This evening’s ferry crossing has been cancelled due to the shite weather.”

  “I heard.” And thanks for the reminder that I’m stuck here another night.

  Not that she didn’t enjoy visiting Stewart Island. After all, she’d spent loads of time here when she was younger, hanging out with Holly and her friends during the summer holidays, and then in later years coming to partake in girls-only weekends. But the pleasure of the tiny town surrounded by acres upon acres of unspoiled native bush and beautiful but isolated beaches had vanished like magician’s smoke when Holly had casually mentioned a new GP had taken over for Doctor Dwight. Shite had been exactly what Mac had thought when she’d heard the new physician’s name was Joe Whelan.

  “Likely it’ll be running again in the morning,” he said.

  To keep up the appearance of politeness, she gave a quiet hum of agreement. The butter was well and truly cut into the flour now, the mixture fine and crumbly. Mac added the required milk and mixed briskly.

  Joe watched every movement as if he’d never seen a woman make a batch of scones before. Or perhaps he waited for confirmation that she really was leaving tomorrow and didn’t intend to bug him one moment longer than necessary.

  “And you’ll be able to get back to your satins and lace and bridezillas,” he added.

  “Bridezillas don’t faze me. I know how to handle them.”

  No, anxious brides didn’t disturb her equilibrium, not the way the man beside her did. She dug her fingers into the dough, squeezing the mixture as if she were squeezing Joe’s annoyingly talkative lips together.

  “I’m sure you know how to put a bitchy bride in her place if she pisses you off.”

  The edge in Joe’s voice grated down her backbone. They both knew which bitchy bride he referred to, and even though the sick feeling in her stomach made her want to retreat, Mac angled her chin, meeting his cool gaze.

  “If you have something to say about—” The name “Sofia” was on the tip of Mac’s tongue, but at the contraction of tiny muscles around Joe’s eyes and mouth, she swallowed it and lowered her voice. “About something, then spit it out.”

  Joe rocked back on his heels, staring down his straight nose at her, a small, bitter smile carved across his mouth. “Think I’d better keep my big gob shut before I say something I regret.”

  In a swift move, he poured orange juice into the glass.

  Mac dropped the lump of soft dough onto the flour-sprinkled countertop she’d prepared earlier. She thumped her fist down on it, shooting a sideways glance at Joe as he replaced the jug into the fridge.

  “You should try it sometime,” he added.

  He walked out of the kitchen and passed Noah the glass, then took the spot on the floor since Del had stolen Ben’s previous spot on the couch.

  Mac picked up the rolling pin and set to work on the scone dough. The wood, smooth under her fingertips, did little to ease the urge to pick the thing up and beat a confrontation out of him. That confrontation was a long time coming, and obviously she was a just a splinter under his fingernail, reminding him he’d lost the love of his life. So, four and a half years ago, maybe she should’ve kept her big gob shut.

  And maybe, if she hadn’t cared that Sofia would break Joe’s heart, she would’ve.

  Chapter 3

  Four and a Half Years Earlier…

  MacKenna smoothed her palms across the cheap white satin covering a small table where her appointment diary and a vase of fake white roses sat. She’d been the proud owner of Invercargill Bridal for almost six months now but still operated in the red, even though she’d cut so many corners to buy the business her life was practically circular. The previous owner and her former employer/mentor, Tabitha Lowe, assured Mac it’d take a whil
e for her to become accustomed to coming out from behind the sewing machine to deal with customers. What had she been thinking? Three years getting a diploma in fashion design and another two working to become Tabby’s right-hand woman didn’t qualify Mac to know how to deal with pain-in-the-ass clients.

  Speaking of whom…

  Sofia Douglas. Final fitting. Written in Mac’s carefully formed script under today’s date in her diary. Professionalism had prevented her from adding world-class bitch to the note.

  Twenty-four years old, a wannabe model moonlighting as a receptionist, Ms. Douglas and Mac only had age in common. Sofia and her mother had spent the past two consultations and first fitting appointments bickering and virtually ignoring Mac’s every suggestion. Mac had gathered every scrap of patience she’d gained from years of dealing with her mother’s dramas and had continued to smile ever so politely.

  This time—according to a brusque phone conversation—Sofia wasn’t bringing her mother along. Thank God. Two Douglas women in the same room again…

  MacKenna straightened the plain white shirt she wore over her knee-length skirt and winced as the back of her heel rubbed in the sensible black pump. Professional, she reminded herself, bending to adjust the Band-Aid she’d applied to hopefully prevent the appearance of the mother of all blisters. If she was professional and kept chill, she’d soon be selling more of her one-of-a-kind bridal designs and less of the hire-a-dress gowns hanging along one wall of the shop.

  The bell above the door tinkled, and Mac jumped in her chair as Sofia Douglas swept inside. Not an auburn hair on her head dared to be out of place, and not a wrinkle creased her white linen dress that lovingly skimmed over the woman’s whippet-thin limbs and stopped short enough to highlight her long bare legs and sky-high heels. Mac shoved aside a whole barrage of envious feels. Such as why couldn’t she wear a white dress without getting at least one coffee drip on it by morning tea? Or explain how heels on a woman like Sofia made her legs appear a mile long but on Mac made her look like a kid dressing up in her mum’s shoes? Or…

  The next not-so-charitable thought evaporated out of her head when a man stepped inside the shop after Sofia and shut the door. Taller even than Sofia, who was fairly tall for a woman, the man had broad shoulders filling out his pale-blue business shirt in the nicest possible way. He was clean-shaven and had clipped, short brown hair—a good-looking guy, no doubt about it. Easy on the eyes, a man you’d probably give a real number to at a pub rather than a fake one, but perhaps not a guy you’d nudge your girlfriends over with an OMFG hottie-alert expression.

  Mac’s gaze zipped down, catching a glimpse of overexposed cleavage since her white shirt had slipped a button while she had been bent over adjusting her shoe. She rose to her feet, quickly refastening the button so her boobs weren’t hanging out. But no matter—the man hadn’t taken his adoring gaze off Sofia.

  “Good morning.” Mac was pretty certain her smile nailed professional and polite, yet Sofia’s gaze gave her the once-over with dismissive disdain clear as day in her cinnamon-colored eyes.

  “Hi.”

  Sofia’s expression was as emotionless as that of a porcelain doll until she turned her face toward the man at her side. Then it was like watching a mannequin come to life in a creepy horror movie. Her glossed lips parted in a siren’s smile, and she leaned into him, sliding her hand around his arm and gripping his biceps.

  “This is my fiancé, Joe Whelan,” she said. “Doctor Joe Whelan.”

  Mac waited for a moment to see if Sofia’s introduction would include introducing her to the fiancé. Evidently, Mac was merely the help and not important enough to acknowledge. Sofia tilted her chin up at her doctor and murmured something that made him smile.

  “Behave, you fine thing,” he said.

  A hot pinprick of awareness stabbed deep inside Mac. Dr. Joe Whelan’s smile and Dr. Joe Whelan’s voice with the lilt of Ireland in it took him from good-looking well into the OMFG hottie-alert zone. Maybe beyond it.

  And that had to stop right bloody now.

  “I’m MacKenna Jones, owner of Invercargill Bridal.” Mac stepped forward with an extended hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Joe dragged his gaze from his upturned fiancée’s face and met Mac’s greeting with a brisk handshake and another melt-your-panties smile. Okay, maybe it melted Mac’s panties, but she retained enough semblance of sanity to recognize the reaction was hers alone. His smile contained nothing more than the warm friendliness of a confident-with-himself man.

  “Pleasure’s all my own,” he said, tucking Sofia closer into his side. “Since you’re the one doing a grand job making my beautiful bride-to-be look even more beautiful on our big day.”

  Sofia beamed, all but preening under the praise. The glance she shot Mac overran with syrupy smugness. See? her eyes seemed to say. I’m beautiful, and I brought down a sexy doctor like a hunter brings down a prize buck.

  “You’re too sweet for me, baby,” Sofia all but purred. “Paying for our wedding and insisting on buying me the perfect dress.”

  Another narrow-lashed gaze was aimed at Mac, in case she’d somehow missed that Sofia had bagged herself a wealthy man. Good for her. And more fool him if he only wanted a pretty face on his arm and wasn’t worried about the ugliness Mac was afraid lay just beneath Sofia’s surface.

  Or possibly Mac was letting the baggage from her mother’s trail of wreckage through three failed marriages color her opinion of Sofia.

  “I have your dress ready to try on, if you’d like to come with me?”

  “Okay. You can run along, baby. I’ll miss you.” Sofia rose on the tiptoes of her scarily high heels and pulled her fiancé’s face down for a kiss. One that involved more of Sofia’s tongue than Mac was comfortable witnessing.

  Could she just say ewwwww?

  Mac turned away from Sofia’s vigorous cleaning of Joe’s tonsils and collected her tape measure and pin caddy from a small drawer under the table. The sucky-face noises finally stopped, and Mac figured it was safe to turn around. Sofia was giggling softly and wiping lip gloss off Joe’s mouth with her fingertips. The man looked as if he’d been whacked over the head with a two-by-four, and Mac refused to glance down at the front of his gray suit pants.

  Pasting on her brightest there’s nothing crass about PDA smile, Mac kept her gaze away from Joe’s groin and pinned to a spot just behind his right ear. “I’ll have Sofia back with you in an hour or so.”

  Earlier if she could manage it. The thought of spending any longer with her made Mac’s skin crawl.

  “I’ve got to nip into the hospital to check on a young lad before surgery anyway.” Joe stroked a palm down Sofia’s bare arm. “Better not stand around gawping at you in your dress since it’s bad luck.”

  Then with a quick kiss to the top of Sofia’s head, he was gone.

  Once the bell had finished tinkling above the door, Sofia’s sweet smile evaporated.

  “You’ve got thirty minutes.” Her heels clicked on the hardwood floor toward the boutique’s single dressing room. “I’m meeting my friends at eleven.”

  Twenty minutes of adjusting, measuring, and pinning passed. Mac moved around Sofia, shaping what would be the most gorgeous gown she’d ever made. A gown destined for a woman who’d spent the entire time on her phone and had barely glanced in the dressing room’s full-length mirror.

  Sofia’s phone buzzed again, this time a call. The dressing room was so deathly silent—aside from the soft classical music piped into the room—that Mac could hear both sides of the conversation. After a few moments of gratingly loud laughter, she tuned out—until a screeched comment from the woman on the other end of the line raised the hairs on Mac’s nape.

  “You went home with the guy from Finnegan’s after we’d finished partying, didn’t you? God, you’re such a slut.”

  Mac’s finger’s pinched tight on the pinhead she’d just slipped through a seam to narrow the gown’s tapered skirt. Her gaze flicked up to Sofia
, who continued to study her own reflection with a bored smirk. If Sofia’s eyes rolled any harder in her head, they’d pop out and spin across the floor. Either the woman was unaware her private conversation wasn’t private, or she didn’t care that Mac couldn’t help but overhear.

  Sofia braced a hand on her hip then flinched, uttering a muffled curse as a pin pricked her finger. She glared down with a furrowed brow, and Mac offered an apologetic smile. Though she wasn’t apologetic. In fact, she hoped it hurt like hell. A blotchy pink stain spread over Sofia’s cheeks, and she arched her chin away from Mac.

  “I can neither confirm nor deny,” she said into the phone.

  She definitely wasn’t aware that Mac could hear her friend’s question then—since anyone in their right mind who lived in a small city like Invers knew how fast gossip spread when it involved an engaged woman hooking up with a non-fiancé in a bar. And there was little doubt in Mac’s mind that she had. She’d heard too many bullshit stories and self-delusions from her mother over the years to miss the obvious signs of a woman lying her ass off.

  “What happens in Finnegan’s stays in Finnegan’s, eh?” the tinny voice said. “You’re not going to do it again, though, right? Imagine if Joe found out—shit, Sof. He’d dump you faster than you could say ‘too many dirty martinis.’”

  “He’s not going to—” Sofia snapped her mouth shut and full-body clenched, her teeny-tiny buttocks tensing under the silky fabric. “Look, I’ll give you all the deets at Finnegan’s on Friday night while we discuss party plans. After eight, okay?” With one long fingernail, she tapped her phone and ended the call.

  “My maid of honor’s organizing a hen’s night,” Sofia said in a we girls have to stick together tone. “She’s worried Joe’ll gate-crash the party.” Angling a hip, she pretended sudden interest in the way the gown draped over her butt.

  “And will he?” And if he did, would he find his fiancée in the middle of a lap dance?