Ready To Burn (Due South Book 3) (37 page)

Shaye leaned her head against her sister, drinking in the warmth and solidarity that had returned between them after so long an absence. “I want love to be stress-less, uncomplicated, and sweet.”

“I know, honey,” Piper said. “But that’s called the friendzone and believe me, you don’t want a long-term thing with a guy who doesn’t drive you crazy in bed and out. Besides, Del can be sweet.”

Shaye snorted, even though, yeah, Del could be sweet. Sometimes. Like when she’d rolled over and watched him sleep in the faint moonlight slipping through her curtains. The harsh lines of the man had faded into boyish innocence as he lay in a starfish pose, the duvet shoved over her side because he’d kicked off the covers.

“One outta three ain’t bad,” Piper sang, which being her, was off-key and awful.

But enough to raise a genuine smile on Shaye’s face and a roll of her eyes. “It’s
two outta three
.”

“Whatever,” her sister said. “Now let’s fix your face before Mrs. Taylor decides I’ve done a runaway bride and forces West into becoming Mr. Taylor the second.”

***

Del had worn suits before, dammit, so why did he want to crawl out of his skin and dive into the cool waters of Kahurangi Bay? Maybe it was Ethan Ward sitting two rows from the front, his arm braced over a chair back, flirting with Erin Donaldson—who wasn’t his date. Nuh-uh. His date—Ben had taken great satisfaction in pointing out when the man rocked up at the beach—was Shaye.

Ethan laughed, a sound that probably made every female in his orbit quiver.

Douchebag.

Del shifted from foot to foot, and slipped a finger into the jacket’s inner pocket to check he hadn’t lost the ring in the past two minutes.
Still there. Thank Christ.

He slanted a glance at Ben beside him. Got a
dead-man-walking
stare from the groomsman.
Ouch
. Big guy still hadn’t forgiven Del for firing Shaye. Neither had the locals, judging by the occasional dirty looks aimed in his direction.

Del’s gaze flicked right to his brother, expecting some outward display of nerves or jittering about-to-bolt signs. Ben, of course, would body-slam West face first into the sand before allowing him to ditch Piper at the altar. Or, specifically, the flower-covered arch thingy under a huge pohutukawa, which doubled as the altar. But West stared at the gap between the dunes where the bridal party would appear, grinning like a man about to receive a million dollar lottery check.

From the dunes, Ford waved a hand then jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. Murmurs of excitement spread through the guests, who were seated on folding chairs decorated with ribbons and more flowers, which matched the arch thingy. Periwinkles, West had said.

Dressed in matching dark blue dresses, Zoe and Jade crossed the beach together, earnestly scattering rose petals on the sand.

Shaye stepped out from the dunes. The blue floaty dress she wore hugged every curve and detonated every single brain cell in his head. Her long, nutmeg-colored hair cascaded down her back in soft curls, and her face…He was dazzled—blinded as if someone had whipped off his sunglasses as he’d been staring at the sun. And while spots of light danced in his vision, imagination transposed her short blue dress for a long white one. Changed her artfully arranged curls into her normal straight hair with a crown of flowers. Swapped the bouquet of roses for an armful of wildflowers.

Del blinked the vision away. Bloody hell; where had
that
come from? He reminded himself to breathe—and to remain upright.

Shaye passed by the first row of chairs, and Kezia, in a matching dress, followed close behind. Shaye smiled at the guests but kept her gaze away from Del, moving to stand on the other side of the arch.

Bill emerged from the dunes with his cane, joined moments later by Piper, who wore a white flowing dress. His father leaned over and kissed Piper’s cheek, patting her hand resting in the crook of his suit-covered elbow. His sister-in-law looked radiant; her smile alone would’ve powered Oban’s generators for a month.

The soft, haunting notes of a piano solo piped out of the speakers—
Autumn Leaves
—a piece he recognized West playing upstairs a few times on their mom’s old piano. Piper and his dad walked across the sand, the bride hiking up her dress to reveal white combat boots.

Del smothered a grin, went to nudge his brother—stopped at the single tear tracking down West’s cheek. As if a ghostly fist had ploughed into him, his stomach clenched. The raw emotion, the intensity in his brother’s eyes as he watched Piper, crushed Del’s ribs, made his heartbeat a hollow throb.

West had done it. West had found someone to love, someone who loved him in return. Someone who’d brought him to his knees and then helped him stand tall. A woman worth fighting for, a woman who’d fight for him.

The lucky, lucky bastard.

In that moment, as West extended his hand and their dad placed Piper’s in it, Del had never been more envious of his older brother.

He risked a glance at Shaye. Her eyes were so green, they shone like polished emeralds. She’d been crying. That he knew this was another indication he was floundering way out of his depth.

The celebrant started the service, and Del had no idea what she said—her voice remained a background drone to the blood rushing around his body, pounding in his ears.

Could he be as lucky as West? His gaze traced down the line of Shaye’s neck, the graceful flare of her waist and hips, her long legs and her pale-blue combat boots. Which made him smile, and ache, and his heart perform weird flip-flops.

All too soon, Piper handed her small bouquet of roses over to Shaye, and Ben jabbed Del in the ribs as a reminder to produce the ring. The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur of laughter, tears—not his,
thanksverymuch
—and promises of eternal love,
yadda-yadda-yadda
.

Yeah, sometime between the ring swap and the register signing, he’d got his cynical back on. He couldn’t do it. No matter how much a part of him wanted to shout from the rooftops he’d found his sous for a lifetime, the bigger, hasher part of him knew Shaye Harland deserved better than a career-obsessed, selfish drunk like him.

Del lined up to follow the new Mr. and Mrs. Westlake down the makeshift aisle. Shaye offered him a brief, vanilla-mild smile as she slipped her arm through his, and then turned her real smile on at the guests.

With every step he took along the sand, the light touch on his forearm burned like a brand. He’d gone down for the third time trying to keep Shaye out of his heart, because none of his defenses were worth shit. Each attempt to keep her away, she attacked his walls from an unexpected angle and left him vulnerable.

Dammit
. It was already too late for him to walk away unscathed.

***

After endless handshakes and obligatory posing for photographs, the wedding party and guests shifted from the beach to Due South.

Piper and West insisted no one would work at their reception, so the restaurant and bar remained closed to the public, and they used the kitchen for reheating the shared casseroles and salads guests provided for a “pot luck” buffet meal.

Del stood off to the side and avoided people. He smiled, and when he had to, he said all the right kinds of bullshit expected of a best man, and once left alone, he watched…

Bill sat in the corner while his mom tried to tempt him with something to eat. Kezia perched on Ben’s knee, whispering in his ear. Carly sat sandwiched at a table between Kip, and Bree Findow, giggling at something Kip said.

He nursed his fourth beer—because, fuck it, a guy’s big brother didn’t get hitched every day—and watched Ethan at the buffet table. The man wore a slight sneer as he scanned the selection, some of which he damn well knew Shaye and her mother had spent hours making.

Local food not good enough, you snobbish prick?

He didn’t know when his attitude had changed, but he found Ethan’s obvious distaste for the food, insulting. The man hadn’t even
tried
anything yet. And come to think of it, the idea of Due South continuing to serve roast beef with fucking
foie gras
after Ethan had gone made Del shudder. His dad’s restaurant would never gain a Michelin star rating. But they could provide tasty, quality meals to customers who wouldn’t need a French dictionary to figure out what they’d ordered.

Maybe he felt differently now because in LA, he was only some anonymous drone, cooking his ass off behind the scenes. Here in Oban, he was a real person. One the locals stopped in the street to tell him they enjoyed his experimental Malaysian curry, or how they thought the seafood platter could be improved by adding a side of tangy apple coleslaw—and they’d be happy to pass on their Aunt Mary’s secret recipe. The hell of it being, Aunt Mary’s secret recipe was
pretty damn sublime
.

Due South was a good place, a solid place, and now he wanted to fill it with the kind of menu he and Shaye knew would appeal to both locals and tourists. But no, he’d had his head stuck up his own ass, thinking Ward’s shitty TV show would fix something that actually wasn’t broken. Yeah, the restaurant needed some upgrading tweaks, but not a whole teardown overhaul as he’d first thought.

Del was about to break for the bar when Shaye caught his eye. She came up beside Ethan, and he laid a light hand on her waist, guiding her away from a group of men intent on stacking a small mountain of food onto their dinner plates. Blood raced helter-skelter through Del’s veins.

“Del?” Ford came up and nudged Del’s arm. “Nearly time for the speeches according to Glenna’s schedule.”

Ethan bent down, his face turned into Shaye’s ear.

Sonofa—

“Mate, don’t go there.” Ford’s voice dropped to a low rumble, his hand clamping around Del’s forearm.

Del grunted but allowed Ford to turn him aside.

“C’mon. Get the speech done without making a complete dick of yourself, and I’ll buy you another beer.”

“Booze is on the house, Ford.” Del rolled his eyes then caught Ford’s grin. “But you knew that. And thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“West needs a good roasting, and you’re the guy to do it.” Ford slapped his back hard enough to make Del’s beer slosh in the bottle.

The next ten minutes passed in a blur of speeches—starting with his thrown-together,
West’s a lucky man
speech, and finishing with a toast to the new Mr. and Mrs. Westlake. The microphone then got passed around to anyone who felt duty-bound to recall both bride and groom’s lives from birth onward.

Del managed to escape into the less crowded bar once the mic landed in the bejeweled hands of Mrs. Taylor. That’d give him an opportunity to grab another beer. Alcohol had done a bang-up job of smoothing the raw edge off seeing Shaye seated so close to Ethan.

He snagged a beer from the bar and headed to the picture windows on the far side of the room. The space around the windows was deserted, and the muscles across his back—which felt as if they’d been trussed up like a chicken—finally relaxed.

Outside, silhouettes moved back and forth on the beach, people stacking firewood on the bonfire, ready to be lit as part of the Guy Fawkes celebration. It was almost full dark, and soon, the wedding party and guests would move across the road to enjoy the bonfire and fireworks display. Trust West to want to get married with a bang.

Ethan drew alongside him, his hand shoved deep into his charcoal suit pants. “That old bitch, Mrs Taylor, still knows how to party.”

Del’s shoulders jerked, but he sipped his beer while the slow burn in his gut flickered into flames.

“She does,” Del said. “She also knows how to treat kids dying of malaria, since she worked in third-world countries as a nurse for thirty-five years. So watch your mouth.”

“Happiness and lovey-dovey vibes haven’t rubbed off on you, have they, mate?”

Del turned his head.

Ethan returned his cool stare, eyes gleaming as he dropped his chin to indicate Del’s beer. “Or did your monkey finally crawl out of its hole and climb on board again?”

His finger tapped out a rapid beat against the bottle’s cool sides. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do, and now I understand the filthy looks you’ve been giving me all afternoon.” Ethan took a sip from his wine glass and smirked at Del over the rim. “You’ve put down roots here again, haven’t you? Maybe you even think your family and rag-tag bunch of islanders believe you’re a local hero. Did you come clean with them, Del? Did you tell them how you’d show up at
Cosset
half-hammered and how you did a runner on the boss’ daughter after she nearly drowned—class act, by the way…your old man would be so proud.”

Every muscle in Del’s body turned to granite, and saliva evaporated in his mouth, leaving it drier than the Sahara.

Ethan knew? He knew everything?

Ethan shook his head. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. You really believed my people wouldn’t ferret out the juicy gossip that you’re a drunk? It’s the main reason we wanted you on the show. The viewers are going to adore the bad-boy chef who’s been given a chance to sober up and rebuild his dreams.”