Saying I Do (Stewart Island Series Book 8)

by Tracey Alvarez

  “I’m sorry,” Mac murmured. “That must’ve been very hard for your family.”

  “Oh, we were all gutted for him. Just devastated.” She shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. “Yet out of all my brothers, Luke’s the one who told me to go for it with Aaron. ‘Life is short, love fiercely and bravely, and have no regrets,’ he said when I spoke to him last.”

  Mac was almost too scared to ask, but she was compelled to. “And Joe?”

  She busied herself adding another couple of pins to the opposite bodice panel so she wouldn’t have to meet Kerry’s gaze in the mirror.

  Kerry sighed. “Joe’s a different kettle of fish. On one hand, he’s a Whelan, so he falls in love hard and fast. On the other, he’s been burned—the broken engagement I told you about. Not that I believe he was really in love with Sofia. I’m glad she broke it off, though I often wondered if she left voluntarily.”

  Hairs prickled down Mac’s spine, and her fingers stilled, gripping the pinhead tightly. “What do you mean?”

  She lifted her chin to find Kerry’s gaze locked on hers.

  “I mean I’m a snooper. And after Sofia dumped Joe, when my brother was hurting but too damn stubborn to talk to any of us about his poor manly feelings, I went through his e-mails and found the video you sent.”

  A solitary pin dropped to the polished wooden floor with a ping. It sounded loud in the small dressing room. Mac swallowed past a gigantic ball of dust-covered guilt. “You must hate me.”

  “Trust me,” said Kerry. “If I hated you, you’d know all about it.” She shook her head. “He needed to find out what Sofia was really like. I’ve wondered over the years, you know, what your motivations were behind sending it, but now that I’ve met you I understand. You saved my brother from a mistake that would’ve changed him for the worst, almost as much as Luke was changed by Sasha’s death.”

  “There’ve been many times I wished I hadn’t interfered.”

  “Like when Joe returned his bitch-fiancée’s dress, I’m guessing?” Kerry said over her shoulder. “What ever happened to that dress, by the way?”

  Mac shrugged. “I gave it to a bride who needed it and didn’t know the history behind it.”

  “You gave it to a bride who couldn’t afford a MacKenna Jones original?” Kerry’s mouth twitched. “Leaving you out of pocket when you were just starting out.”

  “Joe had already paid for the dress,” she said. “And although I left a refund check for him at his surgery, he never cashed it. Giving it away was the right thing to do.”

  “And my brother,” Kerry said. “Did he behave himself when he came by?”

  There was a warning note in Kerry’s voice, as if she were about to storm out of the room and smack Joe upside the head for offending Mac back then.

  “It was a long time ago, and I don’t hold a grudge. Unlike Joe,” she added.

  Immediately, she wished she’d kept her mouth shut, as Kerry’s gaze sharpened.

  “Aha! So that’s where this ‘we don’t get on’ and ‘MacKenna thinks I’m a bit of a wanker’ comes from.” A sly grin appeared on Kerry’s face. “Time seems to have healed some wounds on both sides, judging by the color in your cheeks and the way Joe gets all flustered every time your name is mentioned.”

  “You’ve talked to him about me?” Mac refrained from shuddering at the thought of Kerry’s sisterly snooping somehow having discovered he’d spent the night at her place.

  “Oh, extensively. He never shuts up about you.” Kerry flapped a hand. “Blah-blah Mac is gorgeous. Blah-blah, she’s feisty but sweet and snogs like a champ.”

  “You’re making that up.” Mac’s face heated to a temperature that could’ve singed the cotton between her fingers.

  “That part, I am,” Kerry agreed. “But the part about him getting flustered? All true. Swear on my nanny’s grave back in Dublin.”

  Mac pulled out one of the pins that held the dress together in lieu of the concealed zip that would be in the final garment and slipped it between her lips. Legitimate excuse not to pepper Kerry with questions like a teenage girl.

  Kerry watched in the mirror as Mac added more pins to the first.

  “You’re fallin’ for him, aren’t you?” Kerry asked, clasping the bodice to her breasts as the back of the dress gaped open.

  Cool metal pressed into Mac’s lips, and she had to fire up a quick brain demand for her mouth to remain shut or else she’d be inhaling a mouthful of pins. Falling for Joe? She shook her head and made a derogatory sound in the back of her throat. No, she wasn’t falling for him…was she?

  Mac plucked the pins from her mouth and stabbed them into the pincushion, forcing herself to meet Kerry’s eyes. “No, but I do like him.” Better to give the woman something to chew on. “And he’s got a nice ass for a stuffy doctor.”

  As intended, Mac’s comment caused Kerry to burst out laughing.

  “That’s a good foundation for any relationship.”

  Mac helped Kerry out of the dress and returned it to the coat hanger while Kerry got dressed.

  “Can I refer to you as Joe’s girlfriend at lunch?” Kerry asked while Mac fussed with the dress, ensuring the pins remained firmly in place for Reid to make the necessary adjustments.

  Mac turned slowly to face the other woman, who was grinning at her.

  “Not unless you want him to stroke out,” Mac said. “We’re not into the whole boyfriend-girlfriend label thing.” Even though she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him, replaying the nights they’d spent together over and over in her head. Just when she thought her blush was receding, it returned with a vengeance.

  “And there’s no relationship. We’re just, you know, kind of in a…” She flapped a hand in Kerry’s direction and tried not to melt into a humiliated, gooey pool on the floor.

  Kerry’s grin grew wider. “Shagging each other’s brains out stage? The one before you realize there’s more between you than just hot sex?”

  “You”—Mac pointed a finger at her—“are officially on my shit list for making me act so unprofessionally around a client.” And for putting silly, romantic daydreams into her head.

  Kerry finished buttoning her dress and picked up her purse. “You’re buying the first round if you want me to keep my gob shut about the whole banging-my-brother thing.”

  “Deal,” Mac said.

  Joe arrived at the restaurant ten minutes earlier than his sister had nominated. He positioned himself at the bar with a view of the entrance, ordered a soda water because he wanted a clear head, and waited. According to Kerry, while she was at her fitting, her fiancé had a mate in Invers to catch up with.

  Drug dealer? Loan shark? A quickie with another woman?

  His back teeth clicked together, and he sat straighter on the bar stool. Too trusting, that was Kerry. A romantic dreamer who befriended everyone because a stranger was merely a friend you didn’t know yet. MacKenna was a little wiser to the ways of the world. Hopefully, she’d use the time alone with Kerry to plant more doubt about the wisdom of leaping into a lifelong commitment.

  The pub door swung open, and a veritable mountain of a man strode inside. He was at least six foot three, had a build like a rugby prop, and was wearing a button-down shirt that must’ve been an XXL just to accommodate all that muscle. Above the shirt collar, a black swirl of ink snaked up the man’s throat, arrowing toward a squared, break-your-knuckles-in-a-brawl jawline. Shaggy black hair curled in a wild mop on his head, and his eyes were concealed behind wraparound shades—what a wanker; it wasn’t sunny out. The shades moved from left to right then zipped back to Joe. A white wedge of a smile appeared on the man’s face, and he shoved the shades up onto his head and strolled over, extending one huge, meaty paw when he was a few steps away.

  “Kia ora. I’m Aaron. You must be Joe,” he said in a deep voice that sounded like chunks of gravel grinding together.

  A pack a day smoker? Around his baby sister? That wasn’t gonna happen.


  Joe slid to his feet and straightened until his spine cricked with the effort of reaching his full height. He tried not to feel like a gangly ten-year-old as inbred politeness forced him to shake Aaron’s hand. He braced in anticipation of the manly pissing contest of having his fingers gripped in a vise, but Aaron merely gave his hand a brief jerk and released.

  “You look just like Kerry,” he said. “Picked you out straight away.”

  So now he looked like a girl. What a charming fella.

  “Have a seat.” Joe gestured to the empty stool next to his.

  Aaron sat, and Joe followed suit, subtly edging toward the bigger man to detect the tell tale stench of a hard-core smoker. Nothing but the lingering smell of soap and peppermint. All right then, he wouldn’t deduct a point in Aaron’s favor for being a smoker.

  “What’re you drinking?” Joe asked. “I’m buying the first round. Beer? Something stronger?” At eleven thirty in the morning, with Aaron planning to drive his sister back to Queenstown after lunch. Let’s just see what column the man checks in this little test.

  “Just a ginger ale for me.” Aaron signaled the bartender and ordered. “I’m not much of a drinker,” he added as the woman filled a tumbler with ice and retrieved a bottle from the bar fridge.

  A teetotaler? On medication? An alcoholic?

  “You’re marryin’ into a drinking family; we’re Irish.”

  “Yeah, the accent’s a dead giveaway.”

  Said deadpan. Smartarse.

  “You’ll need a sense of humor if you join the Whelan clan,” Joe said.

  “Bunch of jokers, eh? Sounds like my lot.”

  Aaron ignored Joe’s not-so-subtle emphasis on the word “if” and smiled at the bartender placing his ginger ale on the bar. She did a double take at him, her lips curving into a come-hither smirk.

  “Kerry fits in well with my folks already,” he added. “Slid in as smooth as a greased pig.”

  Joe was about to object to his sister being compared to a pig when the hairs on his nape lifted, and he caught the faint whiff of flowery lemon seconds before his sister’s slightly edgy voice said, “There you both are.”

  Kerry slipped to Aaron’s side and stroked her palm down his broad back. Aaron set down his drink and swiveled to place a brotherly kiss on her temple.

  “Hey,” Aaron said.

  But the look he and Kerry exchanged was anything but brotherly. Joe’s gut clenched, a slow tide of lava creeping up from it. Fingers tightening on his glass, he leaned back—and was stopped by a firm hand on his elbow.

  “Our table’s ready,” Mac said.

  Joe forced his gaze away from the temporarily engaged couple, and looked to Mac staring up at him with eyes narrowed in warning.

  Don’t, she mouthed.

  He glared back at her, taking in her gloss-slicked lips, the tinge of pink on her nose and cheeks from the cold, and the tip of her braid draping over her shoulder to rest on the swell of her breast, just visible beneath the open collar of her wool coat. Her fingernails dug into his flesh beneath his shirtsleeve and she angled her head, paused, then unbuttoned the top two buttons of her coat. Underneath the black wool, she wore a wide, scoop-necked top of some sort that hugged her tits in a way that made his mouth go dry.

  Two more buttons popped open, and Joe forgot about his sister making bedroom eyes at the big oaf next to him.

  The top turned out to be a dress, and it stopped mid-thigh, skimming over curves he couldn’t wait to get his hands on again. Matching red ankle boots with high heels completed the look. Mac released his elbow, and he nearly fell off his stool, where he’d be quite happy groveling at her feet—especially if it gave him the vantage point of looking up her dress to check out what panties she wore.

  Yes, he was a feckin’ pervert.

  She slipped off the coat and draped it over her arm, giving him a mysterious smile.

  “Table’s ready. Let’s eat,” he croaked without taking his eyes off Mac.

  She turned and headed through the scattering of customers grabbing an early lunch to the booth seats at the edge of the room. Joe slid off the bar stool and followed Mac, the sway of her perfect arse under her dress leading him like a prize bull with a ring through his nose.

  Yes, he was feckin’ pathetic.

  Mac and Kerry kept the lagging conversation going in the drawn-out gaps between scanning the menu, ordering, and their meals arriving. Nobody seemed to mind listening to Aaron ruminate on the virtues of some latest techno gadget or why adventure tourism continued to be the backbone of Queenstown or that his family was staging an intervention for a cousin who’d become addicted to methamphetamines. Nobody seemed to care he preferred golf to rugby, thought Tarantino was a genius, smacked his lips as he ate, and stole food from Kerry while she wasn’t looking and found it hilarious.

  During the meal, Mac sat closer than necessary to Joe on the padded bench seat, her thigh occasionally pressing against his, her elbow bumping him each time she reached for her wine glass. The constant sizzle of attraction helped him keep his mouth glued shut between bites of his fish of the day. It helped until they’d finished their meal, and then Aaron picked up Kerry’s beer—which happened to be one of their dad’s most popular light lagers—and sniffed. His nose wrinkled, and he set the bottle down again.

  “Don’t know how you can drink that stuff, baby.”

  Kerry sent him an indulgent smile. “It’s an acquired taste.”

  “All tastes like horse piss to me,” Aaron said.

  Final straw broken. Joe bolted upright in his seat, every muscle stretched to the breaking point.

  He gripped the table edge and leaned in. “We didn’t have much money growing up, and our parents sacrificed everything for us. That ‘horse piss’ is a result of my parents’ blood, sweat, and tears, and the hard work they put in building up their multi-million-dollar business from nothing.”

  Aaron’s dark eyes swiveled toward Joe, a deep V appearing on the man’s forehead. “Mate, I was just—”

  “But then you know that, don’t you? You know our mam and da would happily provide you with a cushy desk job in Nelson should Kerry ask them to.”

  Mac’s small hand clenched on his thigh, but Joe couldn’t shut his gob; it’d gotten away from him.

  “You know that one day she’ll inherit a shitload of money and acquire shares in a successful company,” he continued. “Know that you’ll never have to drive a bus again once you get a ring on her finger and open a joint fucking bank account.”

  “Joe!” Kerry’s eyes filled with tears.

  Aaron looked steadily at him from across the table, a muscle twitching in his jaw but saying nothing. Because Joe was right.

  Aaron was planning to marry his sister for all the wrong reasons.

  Mac’s gaze bounced between the two men at the table. If her worst fears were true, they were both gearing up to beat the crap out of each other. She wouldn’t let that happen, not when Kerry sat frozen beside her fiancé, staring at her dumbass of a brother with the shattered pieces of her heart showing in her eyes.

  Mac scooted out of the booth and latched her hands onto Joe’s elbow, dragging him across the bench seat.

  “Excuse us,” she said to Kerry and Aaron. “Joe’s a doctor, but I think he’s forgotten to take his meds this morning. We’ll be back in a minute.”

  “MacKenna,” Joe growled, giving his elbow a shake.

  She wouldn’t be shaken off. Giving an I’ve got this smile to the elderly couple in the booth behind them who’d turned to stare, she stamped her foot on the toe of Joe’s shoe. He winced but didn’t budge from the table.

  “Move your ass before I lodge my spike-heeled boot up it,” she ordered.

  When he continued to exchange the evil-overlord eyeball with Aaron, Mac bent and pressed her lips to his ear.

  “If you love your sister, come with me now before you hurt her any more than you already have.”

  That did the trick. Joe eased out of the seat,
and without a backward glance strode across the room to the dim hallway leading to the pub’s restrooms. Mac hurried after him, her heart thudding against her ribs, her gut clenched around the Caesar salad she’d nibbled on during lunch. By the time she caught up with Joe, he was leaning against the wall at the end of the hallway, arms folded, mouth dialed to Grim Reaper.

  “Really?” Mac marched up to him and poked him in the stomach, which only served to hurt her finger. Stupid abs. “Have you lost your ever-lovin’ freaking mind?”

  “Apparently it’s a family trait. What the hell is she thinking?”

  His voice rose on the last sentence, and Mac twisted around, convinced everyone in the whole pub heard them.

  “Lower your voice,” she snapped. “God, you’ve already made Kerry cry with your mean-girl performance.”

  Her gaze whipped around the empty hallway until it landed on the last door in the corridor with a wheelchair symbol and a sign declaring it a unisex bathroom. The lock was turned to “vacant.” It’d have to do.

  She grabbed his wrist and yanked as she stomped past, tugging him around to face the other direction.

  “In here,” she said, hauling open the door and shoving him into the bathroom.

  While the box-shaped room decorated with white-on-white tiles was more sterile than calming, it was at least private, and for a pub bathroom, surprisingly clean. Good to know. Plan B if the big pissed-off man in front of her refused to listen was to flush his head in the toilet bowl a few times.

  “Mean girl?” he grumbled.

  She shut the door behind him and locked it.