Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Sarai’s dad is the general manager of the resort. It’s probably a good thing she’s only on the island during her university breaks.
“Look. Here they come now.”
My gaze glides past her to the trio emerging from the canopy of lush greenery. Oliver Deubel’s unmistakable broad-shouldered silhouette, and Evie walking next to him, her hand in his hand. Their third—Mr. DeWitt, I assume—strolls alongside, the sun glinting from a head of dark-gold hair.
“Do I look okay?”
My attention snaps back as Sarai pulls on her blouse. The hospitality staff wear a corporate version of the traditional kebaya outfit, though in much more subdued tones: a wrap blouse, an ankle-grazing sarong, and a cotton cummerbund. With her clear skin and luminous dark eyes and hair, she looks like a picture from a glossy travel advertisement, right down to the pink lotus flower pinned to the back of her head.
“Mila?”
“Sorry. You look lovely.” I pull my attention away as a niggling sense of unease pokes at me. I slide my hand over my hip, cursing my choice of dress. Linen might be good for the climate, but it currently resembles a dish towel. “Do I look okay?”
“You’ve got satay sauce here.” Sarai taps her sternum.
“What?” My stomach dips, my eyes along with it. “Ah, hell.” I put my iPad down, lick my finger, and frantically rub the nonbudging stain. “Why didn’t you say so earlier?”
She shrugs, but I only see it in the periphery of my vision as the happy couple steps into the shade of the pavilion, leaving their friend just beyond.
“Mila.” A smiling Evie slides her sunglasses to the top of her head as Sarai dashes out the other way, pausing only to greet the pair with a traditional but hurried prayerlike sembah greeting. A bit like a namaste. “How are you?” Evie’s tone is warm as she offers me her hand.
“Wonderful, thank you.” I keep one hand over the stain as we shake hands. “How was your flight? Flights?” My attention briefly follows Sarai, taking in her animation and her gesticulating hands as she advances on the other man. Tall and fair, he’s dressed for the office, not the climate. He slips off an expensive-looking suit jacket and throws it over his shoulder, using his finger like a hook, all ease and supreme confidence.
Just imagine the penis on that, a little voice whispers in my head. The weight—the girth! For some reason, the voice sounds suspiciously like Ronny’s. It’s the kind of observation she’d make, anyway. But I know what she—I—mean, because he has big dick energy written all over him.
“There was a little weather.” Evie’s voice pulls my attention back, and I fix on my go-to professional smile. “But we’re glad to be here. Right, Oliver?”
Her fiancé makes a noise of agreement, though he barely looks up from his phone as he thrusts out his hand.
“Mr. Deubel, it’s good to see you again.”
“Oliver,” he corrects, not for the first time.
He’s just so intimidating, it’s what my brain seems to reach for every time he’s near. But as Sarai’s laughter carries, his attention shifts.
“What is he doing?” he murmurs as he slides his phone away.
“What he does best.” Evie’s eyebrows seem tellingly raised. “Charming the female population.”
Someone definitely needs to have a word with Sarai’s dad.
“Mr. DeWitt is the owner here. Do I have that right?” I keep my tone mild. My job isn’t just about bringing the bride and groom’s dream wedding to reality. It’s also to be a friend. A paid friend, yes, but a friend nonetheless. And friends care. And wedding friends care about the tiniest details, the things that only the couple (the people paying my fee) give a stuff about. Like, are the aisle markers uniform? Are the decor accents in line with their vision and color scheme? I also care enough to keep any eye on potentially troublesome characters. Those who might impact the couple’s big day, because no one gets in the way when I plan a wedding day.
“Major shareholder,” Evie says with a vague wave. “I think it’s a family thing.”
“Fantastic.” Rich and entitled and abusing his position. I’ll be watching you like a hawk, Mr. DeWitt.
“He and Oliver are partners in Maven Inc. He’s also Oliver’s best man.”
“Some might take issue with the title,” Oliver grumps, eyeing the rows of tastefully festooned chairs.
It’s my experience the title best man often brings out the worst in the male of the species. Not every man and his inner dog, but enough of them.
“It’s not his fault women adore him,” Evie says.
Like he doesn’t even encourage it, I think cynically. But I say nothing. Which is sometimes the best thing a wedding friend can say.
“When are the rest of your party getting here?” Because you’re cutting things a little fine.
Evie pulls a face: all scrunched nose and discomfort. “I’m afraid that’s another story.”