Page 4 of Beautiful Revenge

“Tomorrow,” I promise right back. “I can’t wait. Make my excuses to Janie. Once she realizes I bowed out early, she’ll have a fit.”

“I’ll take care of her.” He gives my shoulders a light squeeze. “Sleep well, Harlow. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And just like that, I get what I want.

No.

What I need.

Finally.

I grab my cell and clutch and hurry through the lush English gardens toward the paved paths that wind their way around the property in a maze.

But when I come around the bend, I stutter to a stop.

When we checked in, I was assigned an assistant to usher me around in a shiny, white golf cart so I don’t have to hike in my heels. Her name is Marsha. She’s lovely.

She’s also not the one sitting in my bridal cart. In fact, the man reclining in the driver’s seat couldn’t be more opposite of the woman who’s been at my beck and call since I got here.

“Hey.” His tone is low, clipped, and so out of place given the pristine perfection surrounding us.

I tip my head. “Hello. Where is Marsha?”

“Marsha had to step out. I’m here to take you where you need to go. Hop in. Consider me at your beck and call until you drive off into the sunset to live happily ever after.”

He’s older, handsome, and has an English accent.

A triple whammy to the female population in the United States, and I’ve traveled everywhere. But when you’re here in the good ol’ U.S. of A. and hear that deep, male English accent, it just hits different.

Wearing a suit, his dress shirt is open at the collar—no tie—he leans back in the driver’s seat with his leg hitched, resting a loafered foot on the shiny white dashboard. That’s a feat since he’s tall. Taller than Albert by at least a couple inches, he looks like he’s taken my cart for a serious spin. His thick, dark hair looks tousled, and I assume out of place since I have no idea what it looks like normally.

What I can’t see are his eyes. They’re hidden behind a pair of dark-tinted Wayfarers.

My feet hurt. I’ve been in these heels for hours, and as nice as my dedicated golf cart is, it’s still a jaunt to get to it. I’m desperate for a ride to the main estate, but there’s something about this guy that I cannot figure out.

“Will she be back?” I press.

He exhales like he’s exhausted and not in the physical sense. More like he has a million things on his plate and doesn’t know where to start, but that start doesn’t include driving me around.

“She will not,” the man clips.

I tuck my clutch under my arm and contemplate running barefoot back to my room. We booked the entire place for the weekend and were told security wouldn’t be an issue. In fact, Stonebridge has been working on this for weeks, and they don’t mess around. They were even impressed with the owner’s precautions. But still, this doesn’t sit well with me. “Is she okay?”

“I doubt it.” The man sits up straight in the driver’s seat, rests a forearm on the steering wheel, and looks anxious to dump me wherever I need to go. “She’s out of a job. That’ll happen when you’re caught shagging the pool boy in the coat closet. So now I’m down an event coordinator, who was moonlighting as a bridal assistant, and a pool boy, not that you needed to know any of that. My staff is spread thin this weekend as it is. We’re all-hands-on-deck, but I can’t trust anyone else enough toferry you around, so that means you’ve got me. Name is Donnelly.”

Donnelly.

Now I’m not sure who is worse, Albert or this Donnelly guy. “That’s an unusual name.”

He shrugs. “It’s not my first name.”

I guess Mr. Donnelly will have to do. He has no idea what’s in store for him. What I do know is that Marsha is getting more action than I’ll see in my near future, and tomorrow is my wedding day.

“Look, Ms. Madison—or should I say, Mrs. Humphries to be—I don’t bite. If you want to go somewhere, I’ll make sure you get there. You want to go somewhere after that? I’m a call away.”

“How do you know my name?”

His thick brows rise before he reaches up and plucks his shades off his face.