by Macy Beckett
Maybe her luck had finally changed.
• • •
It took every bit of her inner strength to wait twenty-four hours, but Devyn forced herself to think through all the implications of signing Warren’s contract. The only thing holding her back was pride, but self-respect wouldn’t pay the rent. When she couldn’t come up with a logical reason not to go through with the deal, she dressed in her finest—and only—business suit and called a taxi to shuttle her to the lawyer’s office in New Orleans.
Twenty minutes later, she strode through the front door of Rylon & Associates and checked in with the receptionist, a pretty young brunette wearing a pantsuit and a bun that made her look more like a granny than a recent college graduate.
You’re one to criticize, Devyn thought. Once you take this deal, you’ll have to dress up like your great-great-grandmother every night.
She shook off the observation and forced a grin.
“Make yourself comfortable,” the receptionist said, sweeping a hand toward a cluster of cushioned armchairs. “Mr. Rylon’s last appointment ran a bit longer than expected, but he’ll be with you shortly. Can I get you anything to drink? Some coffee, maybe?”
“Coffee would be great. Thanks.”
“How do you take it?”
“Two creamers, three sugars, and a dash of—” Devyn cut off, not wanting to sound like a prima donna. “You know what? Never mind. Water will be fine.”
“Coming right up.”
Devyn settled in the middle seat and tried to ignore the nervous flutters in her belly. The contract waiting for her in the next room was legally binding, which meant she couldn’t change her mind again. On the one hand, Warren had offered her a lot more money than she felt she deserved. She’d be crazy to turn him down. But once she signed on the dotted line, her fate was sealed, and that scared her more than she wanted to admit.
“Here you go.” The receptionist placed a chilled bottle of water on the table, along with the newest copy of People. “Thought you might like something to read while you wait.”
That was exactly the kind of distraction Devyn needed. She reached for the magazine but paused when a uniformed delivery man walked in the door, carrying the most exquisite floral arrangement she’d ever seen—tall and elegant with a sampling of orchids ranging in color from pale pink to rich fuchsia.
The receptionist’s face broke into a smile as if she already knew the flowers were for her. “Delivery for Angie?” she asked the man.
He checked the envelope secured to the vase, then handed her the arrangement. “Yes, ma’am.”
When the receptionist—Angie, presumably—carried the vase to her desk, Devyn followed to admire the orchids. She lovingly touched one delicate petal and told the woman, “They’re gorgeous.”
Angie beamed. “My fiancé has excellent taste in flowers.”
“Congrats on the engagement.” A prickle of envy stabbed at Devyn, but she ignored it. “When’s the big day?”
“Tomorrow,” the woman said. “But it’s a weekend destination wedding, and we leave this afternoon. In fact, I’m slipping out in a few minutes.”
Devyn leaned in to smell the orchids. “Well, this arrangement is spectacular. Either your fiancé did something very naughty, or you did something very nice.”
Grinning, Angie blushed and averted her gaze. “No, it’s nothing like that. Today’s his last radiation treatment.” She shrugged. “It might not sound very romantic, but we celebrate every milestone we can.”
“Radiation?” Devyn asked, drawing back a bit. “Does he have cancer?”
“Hodgkin’s lymphoma.” Angie’s smile faltered and returned to her lips with a little less brightness. “The prognosis isn’t good—he’s got about six months. That’s why we moved up the wedding date.”
Devyn’s hand flew to her chest. “I’m so sorry.” She felt awful for bringing it up, and even worse for the young woman and her fiancé. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“It’s all right. I don’t mind talking about it.” Studying the floral arrangement, Angie separated a few stems and seemed to recover a fraction of her earlier cheer. “We get a lot of questions, especially from our families. They don’t understand why we’re having such a lavish ceremony.” She rolled her eyes, and for a moment, she resembled a typical bride. “I know what they’re thinking: why spend so much money on a marriage that can’t last? But look at all the divorces around here. Nobody faults them for having the wedding of their dreams. At least I’ll mean it when I say till death do us part.”
In awe, Devyn studied the young receptionist. Angie was quite possibly the bravest person she’d ever met. This woman would be a widow before her first anniversary, and yet here she was, planning her nuptials and celebrating the little time they had left. If Devyn were in the same position, she’d probably distance herself from her partner so his death wouldn’t hurt as badly when it happened.
How did Angie cope with the knowledge that her husband would be gone so soon? Devyn remembered the grief from her dreams. She couldn’t imagine facing that agony. Though it was none of her business, she had to ask, “Are you scared?”
Angie didn’t hesitate. “Terrified.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
A soft grin curved Angie’s lips. Tears pooled in her eyes, but they looked like the happy kind. “Because he’s my other half. I’d rather have six amazing months with him than a lifetime of mediocrity with any other man.”
Devyn was moved by the love in that statement. Her gaze had grown misty, so she dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “Then I’m happy for you. I know the wedding will be perfect.”
“Thanks,” Angie said. “I’m trying really hard to protect my joy. And that means focusing on the present, not the future.”
The desk phone rang, and she paused to answer it. When she hung up, she nodded toward the hallway and said, “Mr. Rylon is ready. I’ll walk you to his office.”
“Oh.” Devyn had nearly forgotten why she was here. “Right.”
Angie led the way down the hall to a corner office, where a bespectacled gentleman sat behind a mahogany desk and a mountain of paperwork. “Unless you need anything,” Angie told the man, “I’m going to head out now.”
He glanced up and smiled. “Have a wonderful wedding. Take plenty of pictures, and don’t hurry back. We’ll hold down the fort for as long as you need.”
Angie waved good-bye and shut the door, and then the mood shifted from tear-jerking poignancy to business as usual. Devyn reached across the desk to shake the attorney’s hand. He had a warm grip and a friendly face that reminded her of Mr. Rogers, but the transition was too abrupt. She couldn’t stop thinking about the receptionist, and more specifically, what she’d said about living in the present and—
“Miss Mauvais?” Mr. Rylon said. “Did you hear me?”
“Pardon?”
“Have you had a chance to review the contract?” he asked. “Warren said he was going to e-mail it to you.”
“Uh . . .” Devyn had lost her Internet access when the trailer park across the street finally wised up and changed their Wi-Fi password. “No, I never got it. Must’ve gone to my spam folder.”
“Not a problem.” He opened a manila file and pulled out a stack of papers, then handed them across the desk. “Go ahead and look this over. Let me know if you have any questions.”
They both took their seats, and Devyn began reading the first page of the contract. But she didn’t make it past the third paragraph before her mind started drifting back to her conversation in the lobby.
He’s my other half. I’d rather have six amazing months with him than a lifetime of mediocrity with any other man.
Devyn had never thought about it that way. But the more she turned the words over in her mind, the more she felt the truth behind them—a warm certainty that spread all the way to the bottom of her heart.
She’d never loved another man besides Beau, and she doubted she ever would. Assu
ming she met someone else and married him, would her life partner be nothing more than a cardboard stand-in for the one she truly wanted? And if so, how was that fair to anyone involved?
Devyn had always considered herself fearless, never hesitating to stand up to the schoolyard bullies of the world, but maybe she wasn’t so brave after all. Was she really willing to settle for less than the love of her life simply because it might crush her if the relationship ended?
By breaking the engagement, that was exactly what she had done—refused to give Beau her whole heart for fear that he’d break it again. But what was the point of playing it safe if she spent the rest of her life unfulfilled, trapped in a prison of fear?
“Oh, my God,” she whispered, staring through the words on the page. “Purest faith shall set you free.” Beau hadn’t lacked faith—she had. “I’m a coward.”
“Beg your pardon?” Mr. Rylon peered at her from above the rim of his glasses. “Did you have a question?”
“No,” she murmured. “Just talking to myself.”
She buried her nose in the contract and pretended to scan its pages while her mind reeled with the power of her discovery. Beau was her other half, and more important, he was worth the risk. If they married, their union might last fifty years, or it might crumble after six months. But she would rather completely share her soul with him and risk the pain than hide and stay safe.
So now that she knew she’d made a mistake in letting him go, how was she going to repair the damage? She’d broken his heart, and she’d done a dirty job of it.
Devyn set her jaw. She wasn’t sure what to do next, but she wouldn’t earn another chance with Beau by sitting in this office. She slapped the contract on the attorney’s desk and abruptly stood from her chair. “I have to go.”
Mr. Rylon scrunched his forehead and studied the unsigned pages. “Is there a problem?”
“Yes,” she called while throwing open the office door. “And I’m going to fix it or die trying.”
As she jogged down the hallway, the attorney called out to her, warning her that the contract would expire in less than forty-eight hours. Devyn couldn’t bring herself to care. All that mattered was reaching Beau. She would figure out what to say to him when the time came. She had faith—for the first time in over a decade—that he was her future.
She rushed outside and glanced up and down the street for a taxi, but there were none in sight. So she set off on foot toward the dock, never mind that it was over a mile away. Devyn was powered by determination, and she’d crawl to the Belle if she had to.
However, three blocks later, her feet cramped inside their four-inch patent leather bindings. She’d picked the wrong shoes for a trek across the city. Taking a seat on the nearest bench, she pulled out her cell phone and called a taxi . . . praying she had enough remaining credit on her MasterCard to cover the fare.
When the cab pulled up to the curb, she practically flung herself into the backseat and said, “To the riverboat dock, and lay rubber.”
The driver nodded and they took off like a shot. He ran every yellow light—and even a few red ones—but they still arrived at the dock parking lot a few minutes too late. The Belle had already pulled away from the ramp and churned downriver.
“Damn it,” she swore. “A dinner cruise.”
“No,” the driver said. “It’s a wedding party—they won’t be back until Sunday afternoon. I just drove a few of the groomsmen here about half an hour ago.”
Devyn muttered another curse and paid the driver. She had enough credit for the fare, but not for a trip to Cedar Bayou, so she stepped onto the parking lot and watched him drive away. There was only one thing to do.
Hey, she texted Allie. I need another ride home.
While waiting for her sister to arrive, Devyn sat at the curb and considered her next move. She could call Beau and apologize, but that didn’t seem adequate for what she’d done. What she needed was to make a grand gesture—something that would show him the depth of her faith.
She bit her lip and brainstormed for the next several minutes. By the time her sister’s car turned onto the lot, Devyn had an idea. It was a move so daring that she’d never be able to show her face in Cedar Bayou again if it didn’t work. But if this didn’t prove her faith, nothing would. Devyn gulped a breath and prepared to set her plan in motion.
It was time to be brave.
Chapter 18
“Of all the private charters,” Beau grumbled to himself while increasing the engine speed to seven knots, “it had to be a wedding.”
He wasn’t one to begrudge another man his happiness, but damn. The wound was still fresh, for crying out loud. Walking aboard the boat—its deck rails wrapped in twinkling lights and floral garlands—was like immersing his lacerated heart in a bucket of salt water.
At least he didn’t have to participate in the ceremony, or worse, perform it. Part of his upgrade to cocaptain had meant becoming a licensed officiate. In his current mood, he’d need a fifth of scotch to join anyone in holy matrimony, and he doubted the couple would appreciate him slurring their vows or calling them by the wrong name.
Two decks below, the rehearsal dinner was in full swing. Beau tried not to imagine the scene, but he could almost hear the tinkling laughter and the clink of crystal champagne flutes as family and friends toasted the happy couple. His temples ached, and he reminded himself to unclench his jaw. It should be him down there with Devyn tucked by his side, surrounded by his idiot brothers while they delivered good-natured jeers over aged whiskey.
But it wasn’t him, and that left a bitter taste on his tongue.
The setting sun sliced through the pilothouse window, momentarily distracting him from his troubles. Beau slid his Ray-Bans in place and calculated what time he’d reach the first port and dock for the night. Not for another two hours. Until then, he was stuck in here with no one to talk to, no radio, no television . . . no distractions from Devyn’s ghost.
Lord have mercy, it was going to be a long weekend.
His cell phone buzzed from his breast pocket. It was a text from Ella-Claire, who’d landed the unfortunate job of head party planner for the festivities. When they’d crossed paths in the purser’s office earlier that afternoon, she hadn’t looked any happier to be here than he was. By now, Beau recognized the mask of heartbreak, and she’d worn it well. He didn’t know which bastard had put that sadness in her gaze, but he intended to find out and pay that man a visit.
Take a break for a few minutes, she messaged. You should be here to toast the bride and groom.
Beau groaned so loud he expected the windows to rattle.
As if she’d heard him, Ella added, You’re the acting captain. It’s your duty.
“Shit,” he muttered. This was the last thing he needed right now, but Ella was right. He had to sack up and do his job. I’ll be there as soon as we dock, he told her. Remind me to kick Marc’s ass for talking me into this.
I’ll hold him down for you, she said. As long as I get in some good swings, too.
It’s a deal.
• • •
When Beau strode inside the formal dining hall, it was to the tune of “The Way You Look Tonight,” played by a live band the couple had hired for the weekend. He didn’t know what these people did for a living, but they’d spared no expense. Pink linens and elaborate orchid centerpieces adorned each table, with at least a hundred guests dining on bourbon-grilled salmon and filet mignon. The wait staff darted smoothly between clusters of partygoers, ensuring that each guest had a flute of custom-made strawberry champagne in hand. Even the small parquet dance floor was transformed beneath the sparkle of a disco ball affixed to the ceiling.
Must be nice to have that much cash to burn. And a willing woman to burn it on, he thought. Wiping all traces of envy from his face, he scanned the room for Ella-Claire until he spotted her arranging punch glasses at the dessert table.
He nodded a few polite hellos, intentionally taking the long way around the r
oom to avoid interacting with more guests than he had to. Ella glanced up and met his gaze, then ladled out a serving of punch for him.
“Here,” she said, keeping her voice low. “I wish you were off duty, so I could give you something stronger. This can’t be easy for you.”
Beau didn’t want to talk about his short-lived engagement. He had one mission: get in, make his toast, and get the hell out. “Where are the bride and groom?”
Ella linked an arm through his and rotated him toward the center of the room. As discreetly as possible, she pointed to a lone couple swaying on the dance floor. “Right there. Michael and Angela, but they go by Mike and Angie.”
One glance at the couple, and all the envy Beau had once felt for them slid down his throat and settled in his stomach like a bowling ball. Clearly the groom was sick. Not the kind of sick that landed a man in bed for a few days, but the kind that would send him to his maker—and soon, judging by the look of him. The man’s head was clean-shaven, his skin dull. And while his tuxedo jacket might’ve concealed his emaciated frame, he couldn’t hide the hollows in his cheeks. Beau didn’t know how much time the young lovers had left, but the bride clung to her fiancé’s shoulders as if a stiff breeze might carry him away.
The pair couldn’t be a day over twenty-two, barely old enough to drink and certainly too young for anything this heavy. They should be buying a fixer-upper and clipping coupons, not facing the end of their journey together.
“Aw, shit,” he muttered. “Life isn’t fair.”
Ella rested her cheek on his arm and gave a sad sigh. “No, it sure isn’t. I heard he’s got six months, best-case scenario.”
“Damn.” Beau shook his head and watched the bride and groom gaze soulfully into each other’s eyes. He couldn’t change the young couple’s fate, but he could do his part to make this the best weekend of their lives. “Tell the staff to double their efforts—more smiles, more Southern hospitality. There’s a bonus for whoever goes above and beyond. And I’m comping the fare for this trip as a wedding gift from all of us. If Marc has a problem with it, I’ll cover the expense myself.”
