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“Yes,” I say, as Lucille’s mouth presses into a thin line.
“Great,” Daisy says. “Just let us know when to expect the deliveries of the other wines and we can store them here for you.”
I’ve always been impressed by her professionalism, and how she’s tackled running the tasting room at such a young age. She’s only twenty-four—the same age I was when Caden left.
We walk out onto the wide veranda that overlooks the little vineyard and I try to stifle my frustration at my future mother-in-law. Everton wines are top notch. It wasn’t like I was asking to serve Franzia.
I’m glad Luke stood up for me.
As Lucille talks to Daisy about what sort of furniture they have available for the outdoor space, there’s the sudden roar of an engine and a motorcycle speeds down the driveway, kicking up dust in its wake. It pulls up to the house and I see a familiar figure in a black leather jacket climb off it.
I turn away, my heart pounding. Since when does Caden ride motorcycles? And isn’t he supposed to be at Reggie’s? What’s he doing here?
Oh my god, Isla, he lives here,I remind myself.
“Goodness,” Lucille says with an exaggerated cough, swatting at the dust in the air. “What on earth was that?”
“Sorry,” Daisy says, her cheeks burning. “My brother just got a motorcycle.”
Luke is watching Caden with a stormy expression. I see a muscle twitch in his jaw.
“I promise that won’t be an issue on the day of the wedding,” Daisy continues. “He won’t be here then.”
“Good,” Luke says.
“Thanks so much for accommodating us on short notice,” I say to Daisy. I turn my back to the house and look up at the lodge. A thrill runs through me—I can actually see my wedding playing out here. I can see all the flowers Lucille and I have picked out, see the dress I had the final fitting for two days ago, see my friends and family gathered around, eating canapés or having a blast on the dance floor.
It hits me suddenly that it’s the end of July. The wedding is only three weeks away.
The pacing of this whole thing makes me feel a little dizzy. That’s just how Luke is, though—everything immediate, everything a whirlwind. From the extravagant trips to the last-minute yacht outings to the proposal itself. He took me to Aruba in a private jet to surprise me at sunset on a beach. Sometimes it’s the most exciting thing ever, but sometimes I just want to curl up with a mug of tea and a good book.
The afternoon wears on. We go back to the Richards’ mansion to try some more appetizers for the cocktail hour. They all taste great to me but Lucille rejects half of them. Luke seems more relaxed now that we’re at his house—at least, he stops hovering over me. When his phone buzzes, he glances at it and sighs.
“I gotta run into the city,” he says. “Work stuff.”
“Now?” I ask. Wedding planning has been more fun with my fiancé around. “It’s nearly five. And it’s Friday.”
“Isla, dear, when a man needs to work, a man needs to work,” Lucille tuts. I get that Luke’s new responsibilities are important, but I can’t see what kind of work he’d need to rush in to do on a Friday night.
“Sorry, babe,” he says, kissing my cheek. “I’m going to have to crash at mine tonight. Why don’t you come into the city this weekend? I’m getting kinda sick of Magnolia Bay.”
I try not to let the offhand comment sting.
“Sure,” I say, leaning up to peck his lips. “That sounds great.”
Luke leaves and I spend as much time as is polite with Lucille before excusing myself. I drive back to my apartment to find the cocktail dress I bought for the rehearsal dinner has arrived. I should try it on and make sure it fits.
Instead, I flop onto my couch. I’m feeling a bit wedding-ed out at the moment. What I need is some pure Magnolia Bay time. I wash my face and change into my favorite rainbow-patterned romper. Then I grab a book and my purse and head out to the Crooked Screw.
It’s bustling like usual on a Friday but there’re a couple open seats at the bar.
“Hi Isla,” Jake says, sliding a napkin in front of me. “What can I get for you?”
“Something sparkling,” I say.
“You got it. Hey, I can’t wait to check out your Magnolia Day booth this year. Mrs. Greerson won’t stop talking about it. She’s like a walking billboard.”
I grin. “I should have her stand out front to get customers.”