Saying I Do (Stewart Island Series Book 8)

by Tracey Alvarez

  The lights were on in Mac's building, so he asked the driver to wait.

  Joe rang the bell. “Making a bloody bad habit of this,” he muttered under his breath.

  Whether he meant standing on Mac’s doorstep or making a fool of himself over this woman, he wasn’t entirely sure.

  The door opened—to Reid, who gave him a brief head-to-toe scan.

  “Wondered if you’d show.”

  “I’m here,” Joe said. “Is Mac?”

  Reid’s mouth twisted thoughtfully. “She is. But do you really wanna speak to her looking like that?”

  Yeah, no doubt about it. With only a few restless hours’ sleep under his belt before he’d driven back to LA and caught his flight, the medical school cadavers he’d dissected probably looked more appealing.

  “I’ve come straight from the airport. I don’t want to do this at all, but Mac gave me no choice.”

  Reid folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe, effectively blocking the entrance. “You could walk away.”

  Joe had the inappropriate urge to laugh. But with his level of frustrated exhaustion he probably wouldn’t be able to stop, so he bit the inside of his cheek until he regained control.

  “A smarter man would,” he said. “But I won’t. I can’t.”

  “Are you planning on starting a fight?”

  A confronting, rip-roaring, clear-the-air fight with the woman had been his first, knee-jerk reaction after directing the taxi to Mac’s house. But during the short trip, with the driver’s radio tuned to a classic rock station and Pat Benatar singing about love being a battlefield, he’d come to the tired realization that it didn’t have to be. He didn’t want to fight now, but he wasn’t ready to quit either.

  “I just need to see she’s okay.”

  Reid stepped aside, angling his head toward the stairs. “She’s not okay, and I’ll suffer the consequences later for allowing you in. But go on up.”

  As Joe climbed, his throat grew dry and tense as if someone had sutured his windpipe closed. Unlike a lot of his guy friends, a weeping woman didn’t cause him to head for the hills or roll belly up in submission. You couldn’t be in medicine and not cope with your fair share of feminine tears. Didn’t mean he liked them—especially when it was a woman he cared about—but they didn’t make him lose his shite. So Joe was prepared for tears, tissues, pajamas, and cheese. While many women reached for the ice cream when having a pity party, Mac said she hit the Camembert and blue vein.

  Go figure; that was his woman.

  What he wasn’t prepared for was Mac sitting on her sofa in a red merino sweater, skinny black jeans, and…red, break-neck-high stilettos. She was sexy as hell with her hair in perfect waves down her back—that was all he could see of her from his position at the top of the stairs. In her hands was what appeared to be a small drawstring bag made from gauzy, wine-colored fabric and a needle threaded with a darker shade of red.

  “Unless there’s a squadron of hot firefighters wanting to take me for a joyride at the door,” she said without turning around, “you’d better have told whoever it was I’m busy and sent them on their way.”

  Mac certainly appeared busy. The needle flew in and out of the fabric, embroidering the letter H, if he wasn’t mistaken. Near her on the coffee table was a pile of plain bags, a small cardboard box, and a platter with a tiny chunk of Camembert and cracker remains.

  “I’m not a hot firefighter, but Reid let me in anyway,” he said.

  Mac’s needle froze halfway into the fabric, and she twisted on the sofa to face him. While her hair was perfectly styled, and her makeup skillfully applied, not even the goop women spread under their eyes could disguise the shadows and puffy skin. Even so, she caused his breath to back up in his lungs.

  “Or did he disobey a direct order to keep me out?” he added.

  She blinked her long, darkened lashes, but her gaze laser-locked on a spot just to the left of his shoulder. “I didn’t expect you to come.”

  Her tone was devoid of all emotion, as if the sound of his voice had triggered her to switch off like a robot.

  “You didn’t think I’d be curious to find out more about why I was left in Las Vegas with a wedding ring in my pocket and no bride to put it on?”

  Joe kept his voice as mild as possible, but he could detect the note of incredulous disbelief slipping in. He shut it down, dammed in the hurt threatening to spill out in a tidal flood, and crossed to sit on the other sofa.

  “What’re you making?” he asked.

  She glanced down at the little bag as if she’d forgotten it was still in her hands. “Wedding favor bags. The ones Holly ordered looked cheap and nasty, she told me in her e-mail, so I’m making new ones. With her and Ford’s initials.” She ran a fingernail along the straight edge of the F or H she’d embroidered. “They deserve something special.”

  Was that how he’d screwed things up with Mac? No wedding bags and three-tier cake. No champagne toasts to the bridal party at a lavish reception. He’d thrown in all his chips and counted on winning before checking to see if anyone had a royal flush to beat his four aces.

  “You deserve something special,” he said. “I guess you wouldn’t want a hired dress and a cheap bouquet, and with strangers witnessing our marriage. I went overboard impulsive and dragged you along with me, and I didn’t give you the wedding you needed.”

  Her gaze shot to his, hot and full of emotion.

  “Fuck, Joe.” Her voice cracked. “Don’t apologize to me, just don’t…” She lurched to her feet, tossing the little bag in her hands on the coffee table. “Me leaving wasn’t about a Vegas wedding. It wasn’t about a dress or flowers or a fancy reception. I sometimes tell my brides, ‘if you’d think twice about getting married in blue jeans with zero makeup and bed-hair, then you’re in it for the wedding and not the marriage.’”

  “Why did you run, then?”

  Did he really want to know the answer to that question? Was it better to take the blow to his pride now than down the road when he’d have grown to love her even more?

  “I told Reid I wasn’t here to grill you about your decision. And I don’t mean to. I just want to know you’re okay. That we’re okay in spite of this little hiccup.”

  Her hand flew to press against her mouth, and she squeezed her eyes shut for an instant. “We’re okay? Joe, I left you at the altar—literally—and flew halfway around the world to avoid talking to you about it. This isn’t a hiccup.”

  “I’ll concede it’s more a speed bump than a hiccup, but we’ll work it out.”

  She sat down again, crossing one slender leg over the other. “Your life is on Stewart Island; mine is in Invers.”

  His heart, which had been punching his rib cage, slowed to a soft thud again. “Is that it, Mac? Is that why you freaked out, because of a ferry trip between us?”

  “Fine. But there’s a lot we don’t know about each other.”

  “Are you saying you don’t love me, that you were mistaken?”

  The tender, wounded look on her face slayed him.

  “No, Joe. I’m not saying that at all. God. I do love you”—she rocked back, wrapping her arms around herself—“but eloping with you, with none of our family and friends around us, it just didn’t feel…real. Solid. I was sinking in quicksand, and if I married you then and there, I’d drag you down with me. And look at how you reacted when Kerry announced she was eloping. You were convinced it wouldn’t last. How would we be any different?”

  “Because we’re us, and neither one of us are quitters. I was wrong about Kerry and Aaron. I admitted that.”

  “You were wrong about Sofia, too,” she said quietly. “If I hadn’t interfered, you wouldn’t have known how wrong until you were badly hurt. If I hadn’t called a halt to my marriage to Richard, I would’ve hurt him, too, eventually. We’ve both got a history of bad decisions, and I can’t—I won’t—be the one responsible for hurting you again.”

  He got it then. Like an invisible hand had
slapped him upside the head. She loved him enough to never want to hurt him. But maybe she didn’t realize the fear hidden deep in herself. Fear that he’d eventually hurt her. That he’d walk away from their marriage without a fight like Mac’s father had from her mother.

  She dragged a gold chain out from under her sweater, his nanny’s ring dangling from it. She unclasped the chain and slid off the ring.

  “Here.” She stood and held it out. “I couldn’t leave this behind in Vegas and risk losing it. I know it means a lot to you.”

  “It’d mean more to me seeing it on your finger.” But Joe stood and let her drop the ring into his palm. It was warm from her body heat, and the diamonds glittered in the overhead lights. Did his grandda have this much difficulty convincing the woman he loved that he’d love her forever?

  “I can’t,” she said.

  “Then it’ll wait in my nightstand until you can.” He stepped forward and pressed a soft kiss to her quivering lips. “I love you, and I’m as patient and as stubborn as the day is long. It took me many, many years to become a doctor, and I’m willing to put in the same amount of effort, if not more, into becoming your husband.”

  She fisted a hand in his shirt, her eyes growing shiny. “But I—”

  “Go back to making your little bags,” he said. “Take whatever time you need.”

  Then Joe left her before he changed his mind and tried to convince her that their love was worth the gamble.

  Chapter 20

  Two weeks passed in a blur of last-minute wedding planning, last-minute dress fittings, and last-minute nerves—most of them Mac’s, not Holly’s. Now the worst was over, or so Mac told herself as she sat in Oban’s community hall at the bridal table, sipping champagne.

  Holly and Ford were officially married on Ford’s marae an hour ago, with everything going to plan, aside from the impromptu haka led by the best man, Harley, and joined in by dozens of their male family members as a tribute to the newlyweds and a celebration of the groom’s Maori heritage. That kind of deviation, from a wedding planner’s perspective, was the kind of deviation that took a wedding day to a whole new amazing level.

  Holly was glowing, radiant—and Ford’s face when he’d seen her looking breathtakingly beautiful in her white gown? Yeah, the big guy had wet cheeks by the time her cousin took his hand at the front of the marae.

  Sitting next to her at the bridal table, Shaye nudged Mac’s elbow and leaned in.

  “He’s staring at you again,” Shaye whispered. “And from one bridesmaid to another, he looks like he wants to whisk you off to a Vegas wedding chapel again, for reals.”

  Mac shifted on her seat and hoped her weak laughter wouldn’t betray her. Holly, Shaye, and some of the other Oban women had come over to Invers for Holly’s bachelorette party the weekend before. As well as having a blast at the party she and Shaye organized, the women had peppered her with questions about the Vegas trip. She’d given them just enough information about Kerry and Aaron’s wedding and the great time she’d had to satisfy their curiosity, but she’d laughingly shut down any suggestions she and Joe planned to follow in his sister’s footsteps. Thank God none of them had any clue how close she’d come to doing just that.

  “I should go talk to him,” Mac said.

  Although the not-talking was working out well since she’d arrived in Oban yesterday evening. She’d spent the next twelve hours holed up naked in Joe’s bed. Not talking beat talking, hands down.

  “Or have one last dance before the band quits,” she added.

  “Yeah,” said Shaye. “It must be time for him to get grabby with your ass again on the dance floor.”

  Heat rolled up Mac’s cheekbones. “Oh, you noticed that?”

  A snicker from her fellow bridesmaid. “Mrs. T. noticed that, and before she left tonight she was broadcasting it to anyone who’d listen that she was the reason you two got together.”

  “She’s incorrigible.”

  “You go be incorrigible with your man.” Shaye winked at her. “I suggest the janitor’s room down the hall if you can’t wait for the end of the night for a little private ass-grabbing.”

  Mac wound her way through the tables, waving and smiling but not stopping as she made a beeline for Joe. Sure, it’d been a little awkward when she’d called him to discuss whether she should stay with one of her friends for Holly’s wedding or with him. But they were adults, as she’d pointed out to herself each time her stomach fluttered at the thought of seeing him again on the ferry trip to Oban. Adults who were in love and who could compartmentalize their problems and just enjoy being together. In the here and now.

  Joe sat at a table along with Piper and West. Their little girl, Michaela, had made the cutest flower girl at Holly’s wedding, but the reception had proven too much for her after a couple of hours, so Piper’s mum had taken the toddler home. Piper was talking to Joe with her usual intensity—the attention which could either make you feel like an interrogated suspect, or, once you got to know Piper, that you were being listened to with the utmost care. And the way West was looking at his wife while she chatted with Joe? Under Mac’s burgundy dress and beige shapewear, her stomach knotted. She wanted that. But she still wasn’t convinced she could have it. Or that she deserved it.

  Piper broke off her conversation with Joe and looked up. “Mac, come and sit with us.”

  “Oh.”

  Mac hesitated by Joe’s chair, the stomach knots tightening as he, too, looked up at her with a smile. An I’m gonna do bad things to you later smile.

  “I was just seeing if Joe would like to get some air with me.” Mac used her hand as a fan. “It’s pretty hot in here.”

  “Riiiiight.” West stroked his knuckles down his wife’s back. “I hear it’s cooler in the janitor’s closet.”

  He did something out of sight that made Piper giggle like a schoolgirl and lean into him. What was it with these Stewart Islanders and sex in public places? Not that she could talk, remembering their escapades in the Lincoln’s back seat.

  Joe rose to his feet. “Shall we check it out, Mac? You’re looking a little flushed. Perhaps it’s a spot of heatstroke?”

  Mac stalked toward the hall’s double doors leading into the foyer, Joe catching up to her within a few seconds and lacing their fingers together. He swung their hands, and she glanced up to his gaze, warm on her face. The air was definitely cooler in the foyer with the hall’s outer doors open to the night air, and she hesitated, unsure of which direction to take.

  And, oh God—wasn’t that the reason she was in such an emotional pickle? Left or right? Straight ahead and don’t stop to pick up hitchhikers? Or in more relevant terms, risk everything and marry him. Keep safe and break it off with him. Or do nothing and hope it was enough for now.

  “Sure you don’t need me to check your temperature?” he asked, standing next to her and waiting for her cue to move. “I have a handy probe that’ll fit in your—”

  “Joe!” Mac laughed and tugged him to the left, toward the janitor’s closet. “Shut your gob, man.”

  She ran ahead of him, and once they’d reached the end of the hallway she yanked open the closet door and stumbled inside with Joe hot on her heels. The hallway light spilled over the collection of buckets, mops, and brooms then vanished as Joe slammed the door behind them. There was only darkness, the whiff of chemicals overpowered by the stronger scent of Joe’s cologne and warm skin. Then his mouth—and his hands—were on her.

  Long, brain-cell-melting kisses as he spun her around and pinned her to the door. His hand skimmed down her leg, hooked under her knee, and lifted it to his hip. Mac used the crisp fabric of his button-down shirt to pull their bodies into delicious alignment, grinding against him.

  Something vibrated against her inner thigh. Mac pulled Joe’s head away from where he’d been nuzzling her throat.

  “Joe,” she gasped. “Your phone.”

  He swore and let go of her leg—let go of her—so she slumped boneless against the door
while he dug the phone from his hip pocket. Mac caught a grimace on his face from the phone’s dim light before he answered it.

  “Betsy, what’s up?”

  A tinny voice came rapidly out of the phone’s speakers, though Mac couldn’t hear exactly what the old woman said.

  Mac’s head thunked against the door. Cock-blocked by an octogenarian. Who, what? Wanted to tell Joe about her latest bunion or how handsome he looked tonight? She reached over and hit the light switch, squinting against the sudden brightness.

  “I’ll speak to Noah, and we’ll be there in five minutes.”

  A chill worked its way down Mac’s spine, not just from the mention of Noah but from the concern in Joe’s voice. He disconnected and dragged a hand through his hair.

  “Is Mrs. Taylor okay?” she asked.

  “She’s fine. She stopped in at Southern Seas to give Mary Duncan some wedding cake and didn’t get a reply when she knocked, so she peeked in the living room window. Mary was collapsed on the floor.”

  Mac’s heartbeat skipped and not in a good way. “Oh God.” She’d only met Mary briefly, but she liked the quirky, warm-hearted lady. “Is she okay?”

  “Betsy used her walking stick to break a pane of glass in the door and went inside.” Lines etched across his forehead, and his jaw bunched. “She used to be a nurse, so she knew Mary was gone once she got a closer look.”

  “Mary’s dead?” Tears welled up in Mac’s eyes.

  “For a short while, is Betsy’s best guess. I’m sorry, darlin’, I have to go.”

  “Of course you have to go,” she said. “It’s your job.”

  But it was more than just Joe’s job, and she knew it. Joe’s caring heart wouldn’t allow him not to go to someone in need even if it wasn’t a medical emergency.

  “I’ll make sure Betsy’s home safe and settled, too. Will you wait for me in bed?” he asked.

  “I’ll even sleep on your side to keep it warm.”