It was true of course. Owenwouldget him back for this, but that hadn’t stopped him painting Owen’s toenails. Nor had it stopped him hiding Owen’s dress shoes. The ones he would put on after the beach ceremony.
“Just let it be known,” Angus muttered, tugging at his collar as if he’d never worn a suit before, “that I’m innocent in all of this.”
Owen snorted. “For once.”
Angus grinned. “Oh, and when the time comes for the reception, I have no clue where your shoes are, Owen.”
“Traitor,” Mick gasped around a laugh.
“My shoes?” Owen looked confused. And then horrified. “Fuck a duck, Mick. What the hell have you done with my…”
He trailed off, his stare locked on something, or someone, over his shoulder, a heartbeat before Chloe Blackthorne—world-famous cellist and Owen and Mick’s second cousin—started playing something Mick didn’t recognize but was probably romantic and soppy.
“Oh boy,” Owen whispered, his AWOL shoes seemingly forgotten, his face going just as soppy as the music. “Oh boy.”
“Here we go,” Angus intoned, twisting a little to look behind them.
“So she didn’t do a runner, after all?” Mick grinned, giving Owen’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Guess she trulydoeslove you, mate.” He tossed a look over his shoulder to check out the bride.
And forgot how to breathe.
Holy fuck, she looked gorgeous.
Not the bride, although Briadidlook incredible.
Not Elisa either, who glowed with pregnant beauty.
Zeta.
Zeta looked gorgeous.
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. Zeta, 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 knowswhatshe’d think—and shot his brother a glance.
Owen was gazing at Bria, and any doubts Mick harbored that Owen was rushing into things were obliterated. Pure, one-hundred percent love radiated from Owen as his bride approached them across the 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 andonlytime he’d seen her, her golden-auburn hair had been pulled back in a ponytail so tight his own head had 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.