Page 18 of Stolen for Keeps
“Of course,” I said, stepping in. I unbuckled the straps from Claire’s shoulders while she leaned forward slightly to help.
“Oah!” the kid announced in his signature greeting.
“Good to see you too, buddy,” I murmured as I slipped the carrier on.
Claire smirked. “Oh, and while you’re being helpful…mind hauling these boxes to the tent?”
I followed her gaze to the ever-growing lineup of tents and marquees. It seemed like a new one popped up every day, spreading across the property like a rabbit colony.
“This stack goes to that tent,” she pointed.
I squinted. “That one?”
She nodded. “That one.”
“Got it.”
Claire leaned down and kissed Dylan’s forehead. “Be good, okay? Mommy won’t be long.” Then she called over her shoulder, “Come on, Bo!” and the husky trotted after her, likely off to run through their usual routine—her way of easing Bobo’s separation anxiety—before stepping out.
Dylan babbled something important-sounding. Probably instructions on how I should carry the boxes.
The scent of something floral carried over the breeze—Claire’s magic touch as the place got dressed up for pre-wedding photos. It settled something in my chest. Not enough to fix what was broken, but enough to make me breathe easier.
“Right, Dylan?”
I adjusted my grip on the stack of boxes, shifting the weight. He let out a tiny coo.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Dylan waved his arms while babbling bossily.
“Alright, let’s get this thing inside the tent.”
I whistled as I walked, letting the quiet stretch, soaking it in.
This was better than a high-rise office and a job that never let me breathe.
I made it to the tent Claire had sent me to and shoved the flap open with my shoulder.
A loud, pissed-off scream tore out, aimed straight at me.
The top box wobbled, tipped, and hit the ground with a spectacular crash.
“What the fuck?” The voice, sharp and furious, belonged to a woman.
A woman who was mid-changing in front of a mirror.
Shit.
Her arms shot up, her hands flying to cover very bare skin as she bolted behind a standing mirror.
Holy. Fucking. Hell.
It was her.
The bride-to-be.
“Sorry!” I threw my hands up, including the ones still holding boxes, which did exactly zero good. “Sorry! Sorry! Wrong tent!”
