7. Remote Island

SEVEN

REMOTE ISLAND

BAILEY

T he second we enter the lodge and check in my coat, it’s like Kris gives himself carte blanche to touch me. His hand presses into the low of my back just above the seam of my dress. His palm against my skin sets off sparks as we enter the ballroom. I try to keep up with my rapidly increasing pulse.

The decor is exquisite, but I expect nothing less from Vanessa and her mother. They always do things with good taste.

“Whoa. I have never seen anything like this,” Kris exclaims.

“Then you’ve never been to a Scott wedding. Each one has to outdo the other. My last brother to get married had his around Christmas time at our family ranch. They created an entire winter wonderland with games and activities for everyone to take part in. Although this one is tame compared to most.”

I sweep the room filled with red roses everywhere, and take it all in, from tall candelabras adorned with them, to roses cascading down a multi-layered cake, to the ceiling above the dance floor blanketed in red flowers. The linens are also red; the chairs are gold, with some pale pink accents here and there. A rather monochromatic color scheme.

Vanessa and I would often dream and talk about our future weddings growing up. She knew she wanted red roses back then and got her wish. I always vacillated. One day I’d want a wedding at Disneyland, the next on the beach, and later dreamed of one in a hot-air balloon. If I ever do get married, my groom will have a hard time pinning me down to make a decision.

Someone catches my eye when we’re barely in the door. My mother’s sister, Aunt Matrice, waves and approaches. The last time I saw her was at Mom’s birthday party last year. She’s funny and I always enjoy being around her, maybe because she’s not a lawyer but a restauranteur.

Even though I like her, I stiffen next to Kris and tell him, “Get ready for our first test. My Aunt Matrice heads this way.”

“Don’t worry, we got this.” He takes my hand, gives it a squeeze, and places it in the crook of his elbow. Fireworks crackle within me, not helping me to calm down.

“Bailey, darling, so good to see you.” We kiss on both cheeks. “And who is this yummy creature?”

Stunned by so little conversation leading up to the question, I freeze. I peer up into Kris’s eyes, begging for help. “Aunt Matrice, this is Kris Kringer. He’s um… My-my um.” We hadn’t talked labels in the car; I wasn’t prepared.

“Boyfriend.” The corners of his eyes crinkle, and he turns on the Kringer charm he’s known for. He takes her hand and kisses the back of it in dramatic fashion, which for fun-loving Aunt Matrice works. It won’t for my mother. “How lovely to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you, like how you own a restaurant in my favorite city, Denver.”

Kris’s extroversion keeping a conversation going with Aunt Matrice for several minutes allows me to scan the room once again. I spot a few of my brothers nearby, then our parents seated on the other side of the dance floor. And two sets of steely eyes glare at me from the head table belonging to the bride and groom.

I hold my head high, vowing they won’t bring me down tonight. Aunt Matrice finally moves on when another couple arrives behind us. Kris’s hand resumes his position on my back, so comforting and strong. It’s like I can lean against it and not worry if I’ll fall.

“You handled that well, with flying colors,” I praise him.

“I aim to please…you.”

“Well, Aunt Matrice was easy. Let’s find our table.” I gesture to a gold-framed poster with two hundred names printed in gold calligraphy, the penmanship exquisite.

“Right here. Table twenty,” Kris points at my name plus one on the poster. Then he whispers in my ear, “Twenty. Like two tens, Irish.”

I roll my eyes and grin, secretly enjoying this running joke about the number ten between us. When we find it, table twenty is in the way back corner, far from the bride and groom’s table. I expect nothing less, and I’m certain there was no arguing between the family and the couple where to seat me.

“Except getting there, we have to pass by my parents’ table.” I point.

“Not if we take this route around the back side of the room.” His finger traces an alternative path on the poster.

“Are you nervous? If this were real, and we’d just started dating, I wouldn’t have introduced you this soon. So I’d understand if you want to skip meeting them.”

“Not nervous, but I don’t see why we have to rush it. Let me get some food in my stomach first.” He winks.

We start off on his proposed path, near my brothers. I stop several feet away and face him, bringing my hands up to his tie. I pretend to straighten it. “Next challenge, heartbreaker, if you’re up for it. Three of my brothers are right over there. Ryan, Cillian, and Liam. I don’t see Niall and Ronan, probably off with their wives and children somewhere around here.”

“They appear to be solid Irish lads,” he attempts a silly Irish brogue, sending me snorting in a fit of laughter. “You should do that more often.”

“What? Straighten your tie?”

“No. Laugh. I think it’s the first time I’ve heard you do it. You look happier.” He reaches up and tucks hair behind my ear. The amusement in his eyes runs deep. He’s right. It’s been a while since I’ve had much to laugh heartily about, and my cheeks pink under his intense gaze.

“They are good guys for the most part, although my mother calls them scoundrels for not marrying anyone yet. Ready?”

“I can handle these guys.” He exudes confidence, and it turns out I have nothing to worry about. My brothers recognize him instantly as the hockey star he is.

Funny, but at the dinner table at family holidays they only talk of boring lawyer stuff. I usually dread going to them. I hadn’t a clue they were into hockey that much. The four men become instant friends, keeping a conversation going about the league and the Glaciers’ chances to win, right up until it’s time to eat and servers are passing by with plates of delicious smelling food.

Thanks to Kris, my brothers don’t tease me or say anything about my chosen profession. Cillian, my favorite one, hugs me before we part for our tables and whispers, “Kris is a keeper, Bailey. I approve. But as always, if he gives you any trouble, you know to call me.”

“I do. Thank you.” I kiss his cheek and return to Kris. I explain to him while we make our way to our assigned seats. “Cillian is the closest in age to me by a year, but there are five years separating us from the rest of the siblings. We were the surprises that came later for our parents, so I feel the closest to him. Ryan has always been sweet to me as well.”

Cillian had been the only brother to offer to kick William’s cheating ass when news of our breakup surfaced, but I wouldn’t let him. If we had caused such a rift with Vanessa’s family, Dad would have been furious.

When we get to our table in the back, we realize we’re alone. No one else is seated with us. The table is even set off away from the rest, like a remote island.

“I guess this is as far away as they could seat us.” Anger burns my face as Kris pulls the chair out for me to sit. He scoots his own closer. At least we face the front of the room and have a view of everything going on from here.

“I knew this would be a challenging night, but I didn’t expect to be treated this way and cast out. They didn’t even seat me among my family.” I gesture in disgust.

With his arm on the back of my chair, he leans over and brushes his lips on my shoulder, whispering. “I don’t know, Irish. I like it here. It’s very, very private.”

I forget all about being angry. His hand finds my thigh under the table, and slowly gathers my gown, bringing the hem up, exposing my flesh. His caresses send my breath hitching and my nerve endings fire off while his lips graze higher on my neck.

I nervously gaze around us, only to be assured no one is watching. We’re invisible. Kris could probably screw me on the table-top and none would be the wiser.

I clear my throat and push lightly away as the server arrives and sets plates in front of us, which stops Kris’ pursuit of me.

“Time to eat, darling,” I announce.

“Good, I’m starving.”

“For me or the food?”

He growls, brushing his lips one more time on my shoulder. “Nice one.”

“We didn’t negotiate anything but a kiss, in the car.” I reach for my flute of golden champagne and down half of it, my heart still racing from his touch. I lift my fork to pick at the salmon salad.

His is already half eaten before he replies, “I’m open to renegotiation.”

I swallow hard, speechless. I can’t concentrate on eating when the only thing I’m picturing is what the hot guy next to me could do to me in a bed.

With every course delivered, I entertain myself watching him devour them. From his ale-braised beef brisket to my Black Truffle Chicken, which I gave him to finish after I had a few bites, he acted like he died and went to Heaven with each dish.

“What can I say? I’m a foodie. Not to cook, but to go out and try new places. Do you cook?” He asks, finishing off one last bite.

“If I had to, I could manage a few traditional Irish dishes my mother taught me. That’s it. But I’ve always wanted to take one of those evening cooking classes offered by a restaurant downtown.”

“We could go together. I’d love to learn. I need some hobbies anyway.”

That sounds close to a date to me. I don’t have a clue what to say next. Tonight isn’t real. We’re faking being close. He’s only here to support me and help me get through this. I never expected it could lead to anything after this is over. Either that or he’s getting into acting his role as boyfriend too well.

“Will you relax, Irish? Ah, dessert. My favorite part.” He leans over the fresh plates the servers put in front of us and examines it. Each boasts a sampler of five fancy bite-sized desserts with a dish of chocolate mousse in the middle. “Come here.”

Suddenly, he lifts me off my seat and into his lap. I stifle a yelp. “You lift me like I weigh nothing.”

“You’re lighter than you think.”

“Kris, what are you doing?”

“Trying to get you to relax. You hardly ate a thing.”

“That’s because this dress shows every bulge.”

“Psh. What bulge? You’re fine.” He takes up a spoon of mousse and holds it to my lips.

“People will see us,” I protest.

“See two people enjoying dessert together? Let them. If you see them staring, it’s only because they’re jealous.” The spoon is at my lips again. “Now, open up, take it like a good girl, and swallow,” he says, his tone low and tempting.

Something happens to me. I release control and forget about everyone else in the room. My lips open, welcoming the silver spoon and the smooth chocolate.

“Mm.” I moan, closing my eyes, not only because it is so good, but because under my buttocks, I feel what I’m doing gets a rise out of him in his pants.

“That’s it, baby. Take another.” His tongue darts out, licking his lips, watching me eat. His eyes are dark and laser-focused on my mouth, never veering away until I finish a whole dish.

He brushes my lips with his thumb, catching any remaining chocolate. I expect him to lick it next; instead he pushes his thumb between my lips to suck it off. I take up the challenge, twirling my tongue around it, and hollowing my cheeks, letting it go with a pop. My heart beats a thousand miles a minute, being the center of his attention and on show for him.

Something is happening to me the longer we spend time together. Like an awakening. I’ve been dead inside for the past year. Heck, longer than that. I don’t recall a single time with William when I was this turned on, this alive. In one night, Kris has lit a fire inside of me, my blood blazing through my veins.

We’re in a bubble, at our remote island, our private table, enjoying dessert together like it’s foreplay. And I’m craving more of him. Only this isn’t real; I have to remind myself of that. He’s playing the part of the perfect boyfriend, a very convincing role. I fear when our evening is over, the fire he lit inside of me will be snuffed out.