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Her face assumes a blank expression, the idea of budget-free shopping foreign to her since she usually wears the Allen girls from down the road’s hand-me-downs, always a size too large and never in her favored color of pink.
As the only daughter, she always worked, staying in and caring for the home. While her friends partied, she studied at the local university, where she then interned summers, tracking the population of cod on our wee island.
“I don’t understand.” As if in a daze, she slowly shakes her head. “What do you mean?”
“What I said. Our staff will see to your every need. Make this place your home. Freya will take you shopping. God knows she goes enough on her own; she’ll love the company,” I say. “We want you to be comfortable.”
“Why am I here?”
“We can discuss that later.”
“I’d prefer to talk about it now.” Trembling with fear, she shifts her gaze to meet mine, forcing herself to speak. “I’ve just been surrounded by strange men, forced to pack up all my belongings, and driven to your house, all the while thinking the Hoax had abducted me for people-trafficking. When I arrived, only knowing this was your and Freya’s home from pictures I’d seen on a friend’s phone, I came to the conclusion I was here because of my father’s gambling debts. Money he’d come to you to borrow.”
My jaw clenches at her words.
“But now you tell me I’m not to work. So, again, I ask. Why am I here?”
My eyes travel from the top of her head, over the curves of her breasts, to her bare legs where they stick out from the hem of her dress as I think of delicious naughty reasons she’s here. She stills under my hungry gaze, then looks away, that lovely flush deepening over her pale cheeks.
Finally, I say, “You’ll pay me back by planning a wedding.”
“Me? Isn’t that something Freya would be better at?” She eyes the room from the carpet to the drapes. “Did she decorate this place? It’s beautiful.”
“Aye, she did. But I need your touch.”
“Mine?” She shakes her head. “I helped Kitt with her reception, but that was just a simple island do at the Baynes-Burnes house. You were there, you remember. Some flowers from Marta’s florist. A cake from down the bakery. Nothing fancy like here in the city. I wouldn’t even know where to start.” She pauses, thinking. “I could help in the kitchen. I like to bake.”
“I have a chef,” I say.
She heaves a sigh. “My father owes you money, so I’m willing to try to plan this wedding. If that’s what you want.”
“It’s what I want.”
She cups her chin in her hand, pensive. After thinking for a moment, she says, “Right. I’ll need the date. And the first thing I imagine we’ll need to secure is a venue for the ceremony and one for the reception. Will there be a church wedding?”
I glance over her cardigan sweater and Mary Jane shoes.
“Aye. A traditional ceremony, then a fantastic reception. One that has people talking about it for the ages. The groom likes to throw a massive party.”
“So island people will be invited.”
“Aye,” I say.
“If you don’t mind, I’m just going to take some notes.” She flips open the flap of the bag she carries over her shoulder, pulling out a pale pink notebook decorated with flowers and kittens. There’s a matching pink pen clipped to the front.
“Are you always this prepared?” I ask.
“Yes. ‘Fraid so. Annoying, I know.” She flips the spiral notebook’s hardcover around so a clean sheet of lined paper is ready for her. “Shall we start with the name of the groom? It’s you, I’m assuming?”
“Aye.”
She visibly relaxes at my response. Thinking she’s safe. That I’ve no personal interest in her.
How very wrong she is.
“And the bride?” She eyes me, the top of her pen slipping between her glossy pink lips.
I don’t answer.
