Page 47 of Windlass (Seal Cove #3)

Stormy had whipped up a breakfast the likes of which Stevie had only ever experienced in restaurants. She downed a mimosa, poached eggs, savory scones, some sort of baked apple confection, and a sausage she didn’t even care was plant-based.

“Work up an appetite?” Stormy asked, all innocence as she joined them with a plate of her own.

Stevie choked, mouth full of faux meat. Morgan patted her back.

“You had some pretty intense dreams,” Angie agreed, widening her eyes.

Stevie kicked her beneath the table.

“Sabotage,” Stevie said when she could finally swallow. “Attempted murder. Just because you’re going to lose to me at croquet doesn’t mean you need to take out the competition.”

Stormy chuckled darkly. “Oh, I’m not the one taking the competition out—to eat. Another mimosa?”

“No thanks.” Stevie refused to blush, this time.

“I’ll take one,” said Angie. Her face was full of high color this morning, and she looked better rested than Stevie had seen her in some time. She looked, in short, like she’d been thoroughly fucked, and Stormy clearly thought so too.

Whatever. She didn’t care right now. Her hand rested on Angie’s thigh beneath the table, where she gently rubbed her thumb over the bare skin just below Angie’s sleep shorts. She was so unbearably soft.

The tinkle of glass brought everyone’s attention to Lilian, who sat at the head of the table while Ivy lounged to her left, looking effortlessly collected in a navy jumpsuit and wearing a faint smile of suppressed amusement as she watched her girlfriend.

Letting Lilian think she was in charge was absolutely the right way to handle her.

Stevie nudged Angie subtly, hoping she picked up on it too.

“Good morning,” said Lilian. “Everyone sleep okay?”

“Yes, mom,” said Stevie.

“The beds are great,” said Morgan with a stretch.

“Which I might have gotten to enjoy, if you’d shared ours even a little. Between you and the dogs I had about two feet. A lovely two feet, though.” Emilia’s smile suggested she was joking.

“Forget the beds,” said Stormy. “The view out my window makes me want to take a bulldozer to that stupid boutique across from my shop.”

“Can I drive it?” Stevie reached for more food she couldn’t possibly fit into her stomach as she spoke.

Lilian brought their conversation to heel.

“For those of you keeping up with the itinerary this morning is up to you, but there’s a beach picnic and then some croquet, which, yes, you can drink during if that makes it less like, and this is a direct quote, ‘mini golf for rich people with too much lawn.’”

“No idea who you’re quoting,” said Stevie, who had said several variations of those words over the last few days.

Ivy’s laugh was a small relief, however; she did not want to offend her.

Croquet had been a brilliant idea on Ivy’s part as it played into Lilian’s penchant for Regency romance novels.

Angie occasionally read aloud from some of the saucier romance novels on the shelf her books had shared with Lil’s, and croquet featured often.

“There is one important rule to croquet, however, which I need to bring to your attention. We’ll play as many rounds as you’re up for, but the winner of the first gets to choose the songs for karaoke.”

Stevie and Morgan exchanged looks of horror. Angie burst out with a cackle of laughter that was downright villainous, and Stevie silently vowed to win at all costs or at least prevent Angie from winning.

Ivy pulled her aside as they cleaned up their dishes after a leisurely meal and stepped onto the porch. She looked less collected now, with a worried pinch about her eyes.

“Okay.” Ivy ran her hands through her hair. “Tonight.”

“Don’t lose the ring.”

“Why would you even say that?” Ivy blinked with genuine horror, and Stevie winced as she realized too late that Ivy was too keyed up to tease.

“It’s what happens in rom coms. I’m sorry. You won’t lose it, and if you do, I’ll find it.”

Ivy pressed a hand to her chest, drumming her fingers on her collarbones. The ocean view backlit her magnificently.

“What do you need me to do?”

“If she says no, I’ll need you to help cover for us. Keep people distracted. Lil can tell you if she wants, but I don’t want her to feel like I trapped her into this.” Ivy messed with her hair again. “God, I didn’t, did I?”

“No.” Stevie firmed her voice. “You want to celebrate with the people who matter most to her.”

“And me. You matter to me, too.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that because otherwise I’ll get sentimental on you, Holden. You’re not trapping her. She’ll say no if she isn’t ready, and just because she isn’t hypothetically ready now doesn’t mean she won’t be ready later. This won’t ruin things.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Stevie glanced around to make sure no one else had come onto the porch yet.

“You’re going to be okay. When she says yes, this will be an incredible memory.

I’d say magical, but then I’d have to be sick because I can’t handle anything else sweet after the number of muffins I ate.

And if she says no, she still loves you, Ivy. Anyone with eyeballs can see that.”

Ivy took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Thank you.”

“And seriously, don’t drop the ring down the rocks or anything.”

“Oh my god.” Ivy flicked her on the shoulder. “If that happens, I’ll make a new one out of your eye socket.”

“That got dark fast.”

“I’ll ask her if she wants to tell you all, assuming she says yes—”

“She will.”

“—and if she does, can you grab the champagne? Doesn’t matter what time of day.”

“We just had mimosas. I’m not judging. Are you sure you won’t want to, like, be alone together or anything?”

“If we do, we will.” Ivy took another calming breath. “Do I look . . .”

“Terrified? Only a little. Put your sunglasses on. That’ll help.”

“My sunglasses, where did I . . .”

“They’re on your head.”

“Fuck,” said Ivy, feeling for them. “Am I going to lose the ring?”

“Do you have it right now?” Stevie asked.

“Yes.” Ivy patted her jumpsuit pocket.

“Those made for women?” Stevie eyed the pocket with suspicion.

“Yes?”

“Then the pockets are definitely too small. I’d say put it in your bra, but—and I mean this with the greatest admiration and respect—you are obviously not wearing one.” Did no one wear bras anymore? Not that Stevie was one to talk. “Do you have a safety pin anywhere?”

“Probably.”

“Put the ring in a baggie or something and safety pin it to your pocket lining.”

“That’s actually genius. Thank you.” She paused. “Really, thank you. You’ve been a huge help.”

“I haven’t done that much.” She really hadn’t, besides listen, but that had apparently been what Ivy needed. Most people were simple that way.

“I hope things work out for you, too.” Ivy’s eyes didn’t drift toward the house, but Stevie understood her meaning plainly.

She noted with great interest the paint chipping from the floorboards. Not a lot of paint, only enough to indicate the job was a few years old. Probably maintaining houses on an island like this was a nightmare, what with the salt air, humidity, storms—

“You’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“So things are good?”

Stevie forced herself to look up, and because she was the biggest idiot alive broke into a smile that hurt her face and nodded.

“I’ll take that as a good omen. Don’t get sunburned.”

With that non sequitur, Ivy touched Stevie’s arm lightly in thanks, and walked quickly back to the house to locate a safety pin and her future fiancé.

Mildly woozy from too much time in the sun, but not so much that she needed to lie down, Angie lounged in the mossy shade at the edge of the small green surrounding the island’s white chapel.

Cool, clean, pine-scented air blew over her, stirred by the constant breeze off the ocean, and she savored it while she watched Ivy and Lilian set up the wickets with Morgan and Stevie’s help.

The latter three mostly moved the hoops around, relocating them to Lilian’s liking.

Stevie rearranged a few behind her back.

Angie caught her eye and nodded her acknowledgment of the sabotage.

“How are things?” Emilia asked the question with some hesitance as if she were not sure she was allowed. “In the house I mean.”

“Good.” Angie watched Stevie. A memory of the night before that was so jarringly powerful she had to recross her legs with haste hit her. How had she ever thought Stevie naive? The woman knew exactly what to do with that mouth, and her hands.

“Just good?” Emilia pressed.

“I mean . . .” What could she say? Her eyes wandered back to Stevie. Morgan, Stevie, Ivy, and Lilian had gathered in a circle, apparently discussing the course as Ivy was pointing at a few places meaningfully.

“Ange.” Stormy spoke this time.

“What?”

“Put her out of her misery.”

She pinked, though that could also have been too much sun exposure. “She’s not miserable.”

“You know what I mean.”

She was glad Stormy did not bring up Lana in front of Emilia. She wasn’t sure how much Emilia knew about that situation and didn’t want to add to that store of knowledge.

“Put yourself out, too,” said Emilia, smiling a little too shrewdly.

Shit .

“Hey,” Angie waved at the lawn, “speaking of croquet—”

“Which we weren’t,” Stormy pointed out.

“—who’s up for some good old-fashioned collusion? I want to make Donovan sing Celine Dion.”

Emilia’s laugh pealed across the clear air. “Imagine ‘My Heart Will Go On.’”

“And speaking of going on and on,” said Stormy, “how many times did Stevie make you come last night? Eight?”

Emilia choked on her next breath, and Angie flushed what she knew to be a deep shade of crimson.

“I—”

“No shame. I put on headphones. So? What’s the count?”

Immolation seemed the most likely outcome of this conversation. She prayed it happened soon.

“Storm—” Emilia began, a note of concern in her voice. Angie met Emilia’s brown eyes and realized the concern was for her.

“Angie.” Stormy ignored Emilia.