Page 14 of The Wedding Shake-up

I know better than to leave out the important part. If Lila shows up for the booze brawl, she’ll recognize Gabe.

“He’s the guy who came for the crabs.”

“The green-shirt hero?”

I nod, my nose over the mug. The steam has cooled away, but it’s still aromatic and calming.

“How did this happen exactly?”

I’m not sure how to explain it. The mermaid drink. The challenge that rose in me. The talk of crabs and cherries.

I’m saved by the baby. Rosie presses her face into the mesh side of the pack ’n play and lets out a howl that hits all of us straight in the heart.

Then Garrett comes out of his room in his swim trunks, a towel thrown over his shoulder. He sizes up my pajama shorts and tank. “What gives, lazybones?”

“I’m going!” I gulp the last of my coffee and rush for my bedroom. The rest of the story will have to wait until later. And time will be tight. We’ll get back, hug Garrett, and I’ll have to walk down the beach to the hut.

Maybe between now and then I can come up with an explanation that will make sense to Lila.

And to me.

Chapter 6

GABE

I don’t get nervous about much.

I grew up on this island. There’s nothing about life here that surprises me. Not crabs. Not hurricanes. Not my work or the people.

But as I stand in front of my locked-up hut waiting for Tillie to arrive, my stomach keeps clenching.

That pisses me off. I don’t have any stakes in what happens at this cocktail challenge.

And she’ll be gone in a few days no matter what. That’s what tourists do. They come. Then they leave.

A dark-haired woman walks along the shore, watching the waves. My belly flips.

I want it to know that I mean business, so I say, “Stop it. I’m not putting up with this bullshit.”

The woman down the beach turns toward me, and I realize it isn’t Tillie. Her hair is too short, too flyaway.

But then a voice beside me asks, “Are you always so angry when you talk to yourself?”

Damn it.

I turn around to face her. “You always sneak up on people like that?”

She smirks. Her hair’s damp from her snorkeling trip. The black ringlets are glossy and sleek. They fall past her bare shoulders. She wears a red tube top and cutoffs. I know I’ve stared too long when her smirk is joined by raised eyebrows.

“I just walked up,” she says. “I can’t help it if yourmedoesn’t like yourmyselfor yourI.”

This woman is exasperating. I have to focus on the task at hand. “Let’s look in the bar and see if I’ve got what you need. If not, we can head to the wholesaler and pick up anything we’re missing.”

“So we’re doing this thing?”

I’ve taken two steps toward the rear of the hut, but this makes me pause. “Do you want to back out? I don’t think Mendo has put up the flyers.”

Her chin lifts, like she’s challenging me. “Are you chickening out?”

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