Saying I Do (Stewart Island Series Book 8)
Page 7
In Joe’s professional opinion it was a long white dress on a pouty brunette and it looked much the same as the long white dress on the pouty blonde on the page opposite. But what did he know about bridal gowns, other than how to return one after being dumped or how to pay for one? That much he knew how to do.
“How about I spring for a Next Stop, Vegas dress for you?”
Kerry’s jaw dropped, and her hand splayed limply over the photo of MacKenna’s gown. “Get. Out. You’re going to drop four thousand or thereabouts on a dress? She’s not cheap, you know.”
Oh. He knew. The first dress he’d bought had set him back a couple of grand; he expected after four and a half years her prices had risen. But MacKenna herself would be worth the cost of another wasted dress…once he’d convinced her to work her anti-magic and talk his little sister out of making a huge mistake.
“Wouldya prefer a toaster oven for a wedding gift?” he asked, pulling his plate toward him as Kerry reached for a chip.
She laughed and speared another slice of steak off his plate with her fork. “I think Ma’s already got one lined up for us.” She nibbled the stolen piece of steak and studied him over it. “You’re serious? About the dress?”
“I am. I want you to be happy.”
His stomach clenched around the meat he’d already swallowed. Kerry breaking off her engagement wouldn’t be easy on her. No one liked to find out they’d been played for a fool, but better early in the planning stages than days before the wedding. Joe had high hopes that after an initial meeting with MacKenna—or by the first fitting, at the latest—Kerry would have woken up and smelled the stench of future heartache. His way would be gentler on Kerry than Luke and Kyle’s way of scaring the shite out of her fiancé until he did a bunk. And that was still a back up plan if Joe’s idea didn’t work.
“I’ll check it out with MacKenna and get her to arrange a time when the three of us can meet,” he added.
The speared pumpkin on the end of her fork hovered halfway to her mouth. “You’re going to be there?”
“I’m paying, aren’t I? So, yeah, I’ll be there.”
To keep a close eye on MacKenna and make sure she followed up on his plan. Though his gut gave another twinge at the thought of asking her to help. And a twinge, somewhat lower than his stomach, reminded him of the sizzle of attraction he’d felt the last time he’d spoken to her. He shifted in his seat and tugged the collar of his sweater away from his neck.
Kerry gave him a once-over, her eyes narrowing in speculation. “So MacKenna is your friend?”
Friend might be pushing the definition a bit, considering what the less gentlemanly side of him would like to do to her, but he opted to ignore the hint-hint tone in his sister’s question.
“She’s Holly’s cousin.” Which didn’t answer the question, but if he was lucky, it’d distract Kerry since she’d met Holly once or twice while visiting him.
Kerry slipped the chunk of pumpkin in her mouth and chewed, her gaze uncomfortably locked on his face the whole time. “Holly’s cousin. Uh-huh. Funny how over the years I’ve heard all about your new mates and about the funnier antics of some of the locals, yet you’ve never once mentioned MacKenna’s name.”
Dammit, Kerry could sniff out a whiff of a secret from a mile off. The kid who found the Christmas present stash, the one who listened at keyholes. In fact, it’d been Kerry who’d eavesdropped on their parents when she was little and had overheard their whispered discussions of the upcoming move from Ireland.
“Because she’s not a local, and I’ve only met her a few times, eejit,” he said.
“You fancy her?” she asked in typical, straight for the jugular, little sister style.
“No, I don’t fancy her.”
Great feckin’ liar that he was. He sucked down a swallow of cold lager to try to ice the heat crawling up his throat. If he didn’t convince her that MacKenna was an impartial outsider, the moment any suggestion of “don’t marry this bloke” arose, Kerry would become suspicious.
“Calling her a friend was a slight exaggeration. We’re more like acquaintances, and we don’t really click,” he added. “She thinks I’m a bit of a wanker.”
“If your bedside charm doesn’t work on her, what makes you think she’ll be happy to have me as a client?”
“Oh, she’ll be happy to have you as a client—she’ll love you,” he said. “MacKenna’s a businesswoman, first and foremost. But needling her with my presence while you’re there will be a grand sport, I reckon.”
Kerry rolled her eyes with a grin and speared another piece of pumpkin. “She’s right. You really do have a bit of wanker in you.”
“This dress would get done a lot faster if you’d get off your bum and help,” Mac said to Reid, who hadn’t moved from his draped position on an armchair for nearly half an hour. He insolently watched her hand sew on yet another mother-of-pearl bead.
She was downstairs in the workshop area of her home, an old, industrial building converted into a workshop and a three-bedroom dwelling. The downstairs level consisted of a wide-open space with plenty of room for the dressmaker dummies wearing wedding gowns in various stages of completion. Plus, the massive pattern making and cutting table, which ran almost the entire length of the room. Two large, industrial sewing machines and an overlocker took up space along the wall, along with a clothing rack upon which hung a number of plastic-covered gowns and mock-ups waiting to be transported back to the boutique for client appointments.
“You don’t pay me enough to help after hours.” Reid yawned, showing every one of his perfectly straight white teeth. “And I hate that fiddly shit,” he added.
Reid had left his job in Queenstown to become her lead machinist three years ago. In design school he’d been top of their construction class for his meticulous eye for detail and skill with a sewing machine—and his speed and accuracy. While Mac adored the sewing, she’d often get caught up in the minutiae and spend too many hours redoing a garment until her perfectionism was satisfied. Reid got it done fast and efficiently, right the first time. Over the years they’d worked together, he took on more of the garment construction responsibility while Mac focused on the clientele and growing Next Stop, Vegas into a blossoming, sustainable business.
Reid took a long, exaggerated sip of his peppermint-chai-potpourri-whatever-it-was tea. The slurping sound set her teeth on edge. Normally her best friend and flatmate’s irritating little habits didn’t irritate her quite as much as they had since she’d arrived home from Oban. But this evening, his bugging her while she enjoyed a brief foray into her happy place of beading, and the stink of whatever horrible herbal tea he drank…
“You hate everything lately.” MacKenna scooped up another bead and threaded it through her needle. “Someone needs to get laid. Go swipe right on your phone, and get out from under my feet.”
Reid grunted and kicked up one bare foot and rested it on the opposite knee. “For all you and Laura know, I could have a parade of hot women or men going in and out of my room every night.”
Reid’s bedroom was behind the workspace with private access through a back courtyard, where he’d taken to growing potted herbs and a few spindly tomato plants in summer. All of which died horrendously because Reid had more of a black thumb than a green one. Since Mac and their friend Laura—who did most of the day-to-day running of the boutique—had a big bedroom each on the building’s third floor, he was right. The dense brick building was pretty soundproof, and he could’ve had any number of rendezvous taking place right under their noses. Problem was she knew he hadn’t brought a woman home in a long time.
And as for the dig about a male lover…
“Another one?” She gave him the courtesy of averting her gaze.
A couple beats of silence came from the armchair, before a sigh. “She beat the last one’s record of ten minutes, thirty-five seconds.”
The time it took for Reid’s blind date to ditch him once she found out he made wedding gowns
for a living.
“You gave her a two-minute grace period?” she asked.
Two minutes for a woman to get over her initial surprise at Reid’s occupation and get past the least interesting thing about him. Personally, Mac didn’t think a woman deserved a two-minute break if they couldn’t tell within moments of meeting him that he was one of the good guys. No, not just good but great. Reid was a great guy, and any woman he fell in love with—if he ever fell in love again—would be the luckiest woman ever.
“Yep. I even forgave her for nearly choking on her chardonnay,” he said. “I pretty much knew she’d be a ladies’ room ditcher when I spotted her sneakily texting on her phone while telling me how open-minded she was about the gays.”
“The gays?” MacKenna rolled her eyes. “Let me guess; at that point you called the server over and asked him to bring you a banana daiquiri?”
She turned to face Reid, who wore a wicked grin across his handsome face.
“Hey, she was never going to believe I was straight, so why not give her a story to gossip about?”
“You’re incorrigible.”
Reid stood and set his mug on the pattern making table. “I’ll go make myself pretty and head off to the pub for a bit. Leave you in peace.”
“You’re not pretty, Bean, you’re the studliest stud,” she said, because Reid deserved to feel good about himself. “If you weren’t built like a giraffe, I’d bang you silly.”
“That ship sailed years ago, sister. Your loss.” He strolled off into his bedroom and flicked the door shut behind him.
Moments later came the faint sounds of running water.
Yeah, it was her loss. Things might’ve turned out completely different if she and Reid had been less like brother and sister and more like two singletons who were attracted to each other. But that wasn’t the case.
With a roll of her shoulders, she hit the remote to the sound system, so Tina Turner could console Mac with words of wisdom about love having nothing to do with it, and picked up another bead. The doorbell chimed as she slid the needle tip into the silk, and she sent a filthy look over her shoulder at the solid wooden door. She’d specifically texted her friends with a do not disturb me or else message earlier in the day because she had to finish up the last of the beading tonight.
The doorbell ding-donged again.
MacKenna stabbed the needle tip into the dummy’s stuffed boob and crossed the workshop to the building’s entrance. She pushed down the sleeves of her over sized merino sweater she’d scored from Reid’s castoffs, in preparation for the cold blast of night air that would sweep inside before she could get rid of this unexpected intrusion. Pity help them if they were selling a new Internet plan.
She whipped open the door, fully prepared to deliver a lecture for ignoring the “No Salespeople” sign salespeople often pretended not to see. Only it wasn’t a fake-smiling guy with a clipboard and a sales pitch that started before she could say, “Get the hell off my doorstep.”
It was Joe.
A non-smiling Joe. Oh—and sexy. He was all broody and smoldering, his broad shoulders hunched under his leather jacket because of the icy wind. But he still looked like a s’more—crunchy-tough on the outside, yummy and sweet on the inside.
“Got a minute?” he asked.
“How did you find out where I lived?” Not at all welcoming, but never mind.
“I followed the snarky vibes across town until I spotted the neon sign outside. Figured this was the I Hate Joe Whelan headquarters.”
She dished out her best don’t screw with me stare.
“All right, all right.” He showed her his palms. “I’m not a stalker. I found you the old-fashioned way with an online phone directory. Can I come in, MacKenna?”
The gruff tone of his voice when he said her name sent all sorts of delicious shivers scurrying through her.
Must be the cold.
She was tempted for a moment to let the heavy door swing shut in his face, but then she remembered their conversation two nights ago. Guess they were making an effort to be civil grown-ups now. And since her brain had gone on strike, refusing to invent a plausible excuse, she stepped aside to let him enter.
Which he did—striding in as if he owned the place. His gaze skimmed over the hardwood floor and the flight of stairs leading upward. It traversed the steel girder ceiling and the industrial-style lighting she and her dad had chosen to make a feature of, rather than try to hide. The building had been gutted when she and her dad first inspected it—structurally sound but stripped to the basics. Mac had fallen in love with the space immediately. Six months after she’d taken out a mortgage on the building and her dad and his small construction company had hammered in the last nail, Mac moved in. She’d made many of her own improvements in the past two years, working in whatever downtime she could find—painting, sanding, tiling—she’d become a regular at Invercargill’s hardware store.
Joe paused just inside the entranceway by a frame mounted on one of the whitewashed concrete walls. Behind the glass was a sheet of paper with a childish sketch of a bride. A typed note was included: MacKenna, age eight, first bridal design. Next to it was a pinned, Barbie-doll-sized dress that Mac’s mum had copied and made from the sketch.
He leaned in and touched the tip of his finger to eight-year-old MacKenna’s flourishing signature.
“Have you always been fascinated with weddings?” he asked.
“Pretty much.” She could hardly deny it when the evidence was right under his nose. “I married our boy cat, Pickles, to the neighbors’ Persian when I was six. The groom wore a black ribbon bow tie, and the bride—who was also male but I didn’t care—had a veil stolen from part of my white tutu Mum was sewing for my end-of-year ballet recital.”
“How did it go?”
“A bit of a train wreck,” she admitted with a grin. “The two cats were arch enemies and didn’t enjoy being locked together in my bedroom. They scratched the hell out of me until I conceded they weren’t ready to tie the knot after all.”
“A sensible decision. Marriage is forever.” He gave her a piercing glance. “Which is why I’m here.”
Warning bells tolled loudly in her head, and all manner of jumbled thoughts crowded in on each other. Had Joe changed his mind about her participation in the breakdown of his relationship, and was he about to verbally let rip? That wouldn’t be so bad. If she could deal with bridezillas, she could deal with a pissed-off Irishman.
Only he didn’t look angry, not even slightly annoyed. Just…intensely focused. Oh. God. Was Joe seeing someone nobody on the island knew about? Was he serious enough to need her help as a wedding planner?
Heat blossomed on her chest, radiating outward from her rapidly beating heart. “Are you getting married?”
He leaned against the wall, arms folded, head cocked to the side. “Do I look like the marryin’ type to you?”
Truthfully, standing there in blue jeans and a leather jacket layered over a casual button-down shirt snug enough to hint of his muscles beneath, he looked like the kind of guy she’d automatically avoid in social situations but would be unable to stop giving second, third, and fourth glances to. Men like Joe—with fascinating layers and the unnerving ability to catch her off guard—would normally cause her to head in the opposite direction, toward men who were more “what you see is what you get.”
“Sure you do,” she said. “Nice, respectable doctor, ready to settle down and start a family.”
“I’m not ready to settle.”
The way he said it didn’t make it sound as if he were referring to white picket fences, but rather about what sort of woman he was interested in. If in fact he wanted one. And why wouldn’t he? Unless he still wasn’t over Sofia.
Her stomach gave a painful little flip. Turning away, she stalked over to her dressmaker’s dummy and sat back down on the stool.
“Who’s getting married?” she asked, plucking out the needle. “I assume that’s why you’re here?”
Joe moved in close behind her, apparently studying her sewing technique. The fine hairs on her nape—exposed because she’d twisted her long hair into a loose knot on her head—stood to attention.
“My sister is. Or so she claims,” he added after a beat.
“You don’t sound happy about it.”
Understatement of the year. She picked out a tiny bead from the tray sitting on another stool beside the dummy. Out of the corner of her eye, Mac followed Joe’s swagger to the patternmaking table opposite her.
He leaned his butt against it, bracing his spread palms on the smooth surface and crossing his ankles.
“I’m not,” he said. “That’s why I’m here.”
MacKenna aimed the needle tip at the tiny bead hole, but succeeded only in pricking her finger. “I would think I’d be the last shoulder you’d want to cry on.”
“I’m not looking for sympathy.”
No. Why would he look for anything from her? She concentrated her full attention on the bead that must have a smaller hole than all the others because she just couldn’t get the damn needle through. “What do you want, then?”
“For you to convince my sister not to make the biggest mistake of her life.”
That got her attention—that, and the needle slipping through the bead to stab into her fingertip. Mac dropped the needle, which swung on the thread like a pendulum of doom while the bead pinged onto the floor. A pearl of bright-red blood bubbled up from her finger and she shoved the stool away from the dummy before a drop could stain the pristine white silk. She popped her fingertip into her mouth and sucked hard to stem the flow.
“What da ’ell are oo ’alken ’bout?” she asked around her finger.
A coppery taste flooded over her tongue, and she grimaced, glancing up to see Joe’s gaze locked on her mouth.