Zeta, his counterpart in today’s events; the Chief Bridesmaid to his Best Man.
Zeta, the annoying, no-filter, manic-energy American who’d rubbed him the wrong way the very second he met her at Owen and Bria’s engagement party last year. Who’d insisted he was an arrogant, inconsiderate “ass” because he made a joke about Owen’s previous brain-cancer scare. Zeta, who’d taken up space in his head, rent-bloody-free ever since.
Zeta.
“Wow,” Owen murmured at his side.
Mick tore his stare from Zeta—had to, otherwise she’d notice and who the hell knows what she’d think—and shot his brother a glance.
Owen gazed at Bria, and any doubt Mick harbored that Owen was utterly and irrevocably in love with her were obliterated. Pure, one-hundred percent love radiated from Owen as he watched his bride approach them across the sandy beach.
“Wow,” Owen murmured again.
A warm beat of happiness throbbed through Mick for his brother and he looked back at the bridal procession making their slow way across the sand towards them.
Elisa came first, her eyes only for Angus, her smile shy and proud and promising Angus things Mick didn’t want to know about.
At the back of the procession, Bria walked on her father’s arm, all sorts of promises on her face as well as she looked at Owen. Promises, Mick was pretty certain, that shouldn’t be made while walking next to her dad.
And in the middle…
Of its own accord, his stare moved to Zeta.
The last time he’d seen her, the first and only time he’d seen her, her golden-auburn hair had been pulled back in a scalp-scraping ponytail that looked so tight his own head ached. Now, it tumbled around her face in a mess of soft waves that made his fingers itch with an unsettling desire to touch it. Last time, her direct blue eyes had been framed by fair lashes. Now they were framed by dark sooty makeup that sent a hot lick of something filthy straight to his groin. At Owen and Bria’s engagement party, she’d been wearing faded denim jeans and an oversized jersey for some sports team from San Diego.
Now, the bridesmaid’s dress highlighted all the curves and dips and planes of her body, and fuck a duck, she had no damn right looking so fucking gorgeous.
He swallowed. Tried to drag his stare away. Tried to turn back to the beach. The celebrant. Hell, the clouds in the sky.
But he couldn’t. He couldn’t stop looking at her.
And he couldn’t stop his body reacting to her.
Damn it.
This was a serious fucking problem.
Because the last time they’d met, she’d accused him of being an arrogant, insensitive jerk, and he’d accused her of being an ignorant American.
Following Elisa, she drew closer to where he, Owen, and Angus stood under the wedding arbor made from ghost-gum eucalyptus, wattle flowers, gum leaves, and draped in a long flowy length of white gauzy fabric.
Closer.
Her dark-framed gaze seemed to pin him to the spot, unreadable. Indecipherable. What was she thinking? Was she even thinking about him?
Of course, she wouldn’t be. Why would she? She hated him. Had made it very clear the last time—also the first time—they’d met.
Whereas, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her. About how annoying and snarky and…and…American she was.
His mouth turned to a desert. His heart beat faster. Harder. His groin tightened. Grew heavy.
Shit, what was going on with him? This was mental. She was annoying, not…not…
“You’re in big trouble, Mick,” Elisa whispered, giving him a cheeky smile as she arrived at the end of the sandy stretch of beach acting as the aisle.
His already pounding heart hammered faster. He swallowed.
Wait. What? “What?” he whispered.