Page 7 of How to Say I Do
“Your brunch will be out momentarily,señor.”
I nodded, uncapped my pen, and stared at the horizon.
“Noël?”
Fuck. Who was theonlyperson at this resort I never wanted to see?
Naturally, I twisted at the sound of my name, gaping up the beach.God, please no. Please, please, no.
Oh, yes—there he was. There was Wyatt, strolling toward me from the El Amanecer. He was barefoot, in board shorts and a tank top, and he still wore that cowboy hat.
God, he wasTexan, sun-bronzed and solid, the kind you never saw in Manhattan. New York men honed their bodies into manorexic model physiques, with mere suggestions of muscles rather than building up the real thing.The camera adds ten pounds, you know. Real muscles look fat. And who wants to look like a bouncer, anyway?That was what I’d heard from all the models at all the shoots, their voices scathing as they shot rancid, starving glares at the buffet tables. You’ve never seen an eye roll until you’ve seen a model sashay away from craft services.
Wyatt had the kind of strength that came from working his body all day, every day, and the tan he sported said he did most of that outside.
Wyatt shuffled to a stop in the sand outside my lanai. A twirl of fabric billowed in front of his face. He tipped his hat to me again, the way I’d only ever seen in movies. “You look like you’re doing better this morning.”
Lord, his drawl was just as Texan as I remembered, slow and deep and full of sunshine. But what was hisdeal? He should be howling, pointing at me from the El Amanecer and elbowing anyone he could reach.See that guy? Guess what happened to him.
“Yeah, I, um…” God, I thought it was absolutely impossible to embarrass myself any further in front of Wyatt, but now it seemed like I was going to give humiliation my best shot. Or, no, what came next after humiliation? Was there some new word I could create thanks to this situation?Oh,him? Well, he did a Noël Bettancourt. You know, when you’re so, so mortified that you’ve movedpastwanting to die? Where all you can do is tell your heart,Stop. Just, stop. We’re done.Yeah,thatkind of embarrassed.
“Thank you for the water,” I managed. “And the pretzels. And the burgers. And—”
Wyatt bounced on his heels and looked pleased as punch. “Happy to help.”
Luis reappeared, brandishing his champagne bottle. I’d already downed two glasses, and he kept checking in with me to see if my “amor” had joined me yet. In between those checks, he’d brought me platters of mango-and-cream-cheese-stuffed french toast, poached eggs with fresh crab-and-lobster salad, and bacon drizzled with a pineapple-and-maple glaze, along with piles of fresh fruit and carafes of juice, coffee, and cream. A basket of danishes crowded out the corner of the table, overflowing with sweet pastries, buttery croissants, and jumbo-sized muffins.
I hadn’t touched a thing.
Brave words I’d thought earlier about facing down the world and my new single status.How much longer can you hold on?that same small voice was whispering.
“Señor!” Luis gestured to the empty chair across from me as he filled up a brand-new glass of champagne for Wyatt. “Buenos días! You made it!”
Wyatt shot a wide-eyed, panic-stricken look my way. I stared back, frozen.Oh, shit.Of course. Two people were supposed to arrive for the Bettancourt Honeymoon, and, according to the resort, two peoplehadarrived. Somewhere, someone had scratched out the Mrs. next to my name and added another Mr.
“I’m sorry—” Wyatt started.
Wait, wait. I fumbled to my feet, dropping my napkin and almost knocking over my champagne, and then gestured to the empty chair across from me. I spoke over Wyatt. “I’m glad you made it. The food is amazing.” The least I could do, the absoluteleast, was treat Wyatt to athank you for saving my liver and my lifebreakfast.
Wyatt looked from me to Luis—holding out a glass of champagne—and then back to me.
Maybe Wyatt wasn’t the kind of guy who was comfortable with the insinuation that this was a Mr. and Mr. honeymoon. Or maybe he didn’t want to be associated with the Bettancourt Honeymoon Party. Who could blame him for that? I was the definition of a hot fucking mess.
Wyatt accepted Luis’s champagne with a tight smile. We sat at the same time. All eyes were on us now—such a familiar feeling for me after the past two days—and there were definitely whispers flying at El Amanecer.
Luis piled Wyatt’s plate with french toast, bacon, eggs, and mango slices, topped up the single sip of champagne Wyatt had taken, and then backed away with a “Buen provecho.”
We stared at each other.
Wyatt had gone fire engine red, from the tips of his ears to the golden skin peeking above the curve of his tank top. He had to besoover me.
Heat ran up the back of my neck. “I asked you join me because I wanted to thank you. I was such a disaster yesterday. I’m sorry about how I behaved at the airport…andon the plane…andwhen I dragged you here in the limo… and now, for making them think—”
“Well, I think I should thank you for that ride, actually. That was very kind of you to bring me here.”
“Except, you know, it led tothis.”
Wyatt speared a french toast slice and popped it into his mouth. He chewed and grinned. His cheeks were still flaming red. “You know, I can’t say I mind too much right now.”
