ASHLEY
Iwobble out of the chair, mumble something about needing my planner, and stumble past Beckett on my way inside.
By the time I return, he’s already rolled the room service cart back inside the cabin. I slide into my seat, flip open the dog-eared pages, and start scanning my checklists.
“Okay…” I mutter, dragging my finger down the columns. “Luna says she and Noah have an appointment to get blood tests in Mazatlán, results to be faxed to the licensing office in Ensenada. I’ve confirmed the caterers, but probably should do that again tomorrow. And I need to touch base with the photographer tomorrow. What else? Oh yeah, the flowers are supposed to be delivered to the winery, but I don’t have an exact time. I’m afraid if they get there too early, they’ll start to wilt.”
Beckett pulls his chair closer, leaning over to peek at the mess of highlighter yellow and scribbles. “Can we ask the people at the winery to refrigerate them?”
“Sensible question,” I murmur, scribbling a note.Ask Benito about cooler.Okay. What other bright ideas do you have?”
He grins. “Did you get a list of shots from Luna, to give to the photographer? Something you could email him?”
“Her,” I correct him. But…
It’s a good point.
While the ocean turns a fathomless black below us, Beckett is more than helpful—offering quiet, thoughtful comments that prove he remembers our wedding.
Like when I mention that Luna doesn’t want a first look, and he reminds me how we didn’t plan one either…
But still we somehow ran into each other anyway.
“Hey, it was your dad who told me to wait in that kitchen,” he says. “Not my fault that you skipped breakfast.”
“I was starving.” I’d gone looking for a snack and found Beckett instead.
Which, as far as snacks go, I’d had no complaints.
And when I tell him what’s on the menu for Luna’s reception, he gives me a little nudge, joking that he would have loved Mexican food, instead of the chicken my mom insisted on.
“Oh, gosh! I forgot about that.” That chicken was dry and tasteless.
While going over the plans, despite the stress from today’s epic failure, Beckett makes me laugh, and the knot between my shoulders slowly relaxes.
It feels good.
“Anything pressing for tomorrow?” he asks.
“I’m supposed to meet Luna for—oh no.” I jerk upright.
“What?”
“Luna has her final hair appointment at eight tomorrow—morning.But the stylist needs to work with the veil this time.”
He frowns. “That’s a problem because?”
“The veil! Luna is going to be wearingmy veil. Fromourwedding.” His eyebrows rise, and I rush on, “Oh Ship!The veil, it’s miles long—not the right style. So I promised her I’d shorten it. But I didn’t have time before we left.”
Before he can say anything, I’m off to dig through the closet, locate the packing cube I need, and haul it back to the room. One tug on the zipper, and an explosion of embroidered tulle spills across the bed.
Beckett stands in the balcony doorway, arms folded. “Okay. Now what?”
A month ago, a week ago, I never could have imagined having this conversation with him—because he wouldn’t have cared.
But I don’t have time to mull over that right now. How had I forgotten about the veil?
“I need to trim it to something manageable,” I say, untangling the fabric. “I was going to do this with Luna, but after seeing how green she looked earlier? Yeah, no. She’s in no shape to play dress-up. I just need a stand-in.”
