Page 43 of Stuck With the Billionaire Grump

Theo turns to me. “Goodnight, Lucy.”

I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.

For the first time in my life, I’m speechless.

What happened between us back there? Was he really about to kiss me? Or was that a figment of my imagination? The lingering tendril of an old memory?

I’ll probably never know.

Theo sees something in my expression that causes him to frown.

Before I can figure out what to say, he walks away. I stare at his retreating form while his words echo in my head.

I would have kissed you. I think I liked you.

Someone knocks their shoulder into mine, jostling me out of my muddled thoughts. Mabel is standing next to me, one eyebrow lifted in a silent question.

I simply shake my head at her and head toward the porch to collect my cousin before her husband-to-be tries to whisk her away for the rest of the night.

Chapter Fourteen: Theo

Iwake up earlier than necessary for the second day in a row. Last night rushes back toward me as I sit up in bed and stare out the wavy glass of the old cottage windows.

Lucy.

I almost… We almost…

I wanted to kiss her.

Iwantto kiss her, present tense. Even now, after I had hoped I’d sleep off the leftover adrenaline from her body pressed so close to mine, I swear I can still smell her fruity shampoo and summery perfume—something like coconut and vanilla—overwhelming me in the best possible way.

Then Eric showed up.

It was like being doused in icy water. Eric, the boy who will forever be known in her memories as her first kiss. The man who took my chance when I was too much of a coward. The man who can match Lucy’s energy, who is just as chatty and bright and warm, and who clearly likes her a great deal.

It shouldn’t bother me. I’m going back to California after this weekend. Back to my quiet and solitude. Back to being far away from her.

For some reason, the thought fills me with desolation. It’s only now occurring to me that I don’t have much of a life in California. Even though I grew up in Los Angeles, I don’t have the same connection to the city as the locals of Mermaid Shores have with their beloved town. A part of me wants to know what that’s like. To wake up feeling truly at peace where you are. To know that it’s where you belong.

I shake my head to dispel these useless thoughts and rise from bed. I need fresh air, but I don’t feel like hiking down the dunes to the beach.

Since the wedding venue is located at the edge of town up high on the cliffs, I suppose that’s as good a place as any to breathe some refreshing sea air. It’s just after dawn. Nobody will be there yet. I can center myself and reorganize my thoughts before I’m forced to endure hours upon hours of socializing.

I grab the garment bag hanging from the back of the closet door, which contains one of my nicest suits, and head out to my rental car. The morning air is cool and salty, and there’s a hazy fog kissing the damp grass, but the clear sky overhead tells me that the sun will burn off the moisture in no time. It’s going to be a beautiful day for a wedding.

The drive to the cliffs is quick, but the scenery is so stunning that I find myself slowing down on the narrow, winding lane. I pass by several old manor houses, each of them guarded by gates of stone or iron. The GPS directs me up a steady incline to the very tip of a massive cliff jutting out proudly into the sea.

An enormous, incredibly elegant mansion stands like a Greek-columned castle at the top of the cliff. I stare up at it as I pull into the parking lot far below. Even as someone who grew up among the rich and famous, I’m in awe of this place. Elijah told me thatBlakeley Manor was nice, but I certainly didn’t picture anything like this.

Because I’m so blown away by the overwhelming beauty of the manor and the grounds and the roaring Atlantic beyond, it takes me several minutes to realize that I’m not the only car in the parking lot. There are at least a dozen others: a minivan overflowing with flowers, currently being hauled toward the manor in huge bunches by a small crew of burly men and one very tiny older lady; another van with the wordsLee Cateringprinted in curling script on the side, with groggy kitchen staff rummaging around inside; and also a gorgeous old-school Mercedes, white as seafoam, parked in the lot.

The ceremony doesn’t start until two, but I’m obviously not the only one who thought to get an early start. It’s not even seven o’clock yet.

As two more cars pull into the lot, I realize that I certainly am not going to be able to enjoy any solitude up here. A silver-haired woman climbs out of a rusty Subaru, joined swiftly by the blonde twins from the water balloon prank last night. The girls are chatting, their heads tilted together as they march up the winding gravel path to the manor, but the old woman pauses to glance in my direction, as if she could feel my gaze on her.

Then, like she knows me, she smiles. The woman is clad in layers of multicolored, draping cloth. Her wrists are weighed down with bangles, her neck decorated with half a dozen necklaces. She nods her head toward the manor, as if encouraging me to go inside, then turns to follow the twins up the path.

I consider going back to the cottage, but I’m already here and, honestly, I feel antsy. Restless. Maybe I can distract myself by asking one of the wedding staff to put me to work for a while.

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