I held out my hand, which Barb accepted in a bone-crushing grip. Not making eye contact with me, she stared over my shoulder.
I released her hand and followed her line of sight. “Are you expecting someone else?”
“The rest of your team?”
“No team. Just me.”
The exasperated look on the woman’s face said you’re freaking kidding me. “There’s no way one person can control this circus. And by your puke-inducing video pitch, I expected your fiancé here throwing rose petals and sugar at your feet.”
Heat filled my cheeks, and I fiddled with my bag strap. “Like I said in my email to Violet, he’s on business. As for one person controlling everything, I’m sure you can tell from my emails and phone calls, I have it all under control. And you’ll be happy to know the marriage license arrived this morning thanks to an acquaintance of mine rushing it through.”
“And that’s supposed to impress me?” Barb’s eyes narrowed to slits, and she opened her mouth as if to say something else, but before she could get any words out, the cell clasped in her hand trilled like an old-fashioned rotary phone. Holding up her finger again, she marched away. Six days of Sergeant Crawford bawling orders would be a bundle of fun, but I wasn’t fazed. I’d worked with enough bridezillas and monsters of the bride over the years to know how to handle anyone.
While Barb continued to suck the soul from whoever was on the other side of the line, I made my way to the office.
“Brendan, you in there?” I pushed the creaking office door open.
Brendan McCabe, the castle’s owner, perched at the edge of his paper-strewn desk with a phone trapped between his thick cauliflower ear and wide neck. Sweat beaded across his flame-red forehead and cheeks, and his usually flawless salt n’ pepper hair stuck up in weird angles as if he’d spent the last hour tearing it out. If he wasn’t one of the healthiest men I knew, I would’ve said he was a sitting heart attack.
“You okay?” I mouthed.
He shrugged his broad shoulders and smashed the phone into its cradle. “Bloody reporters. So bloody much for it being a bloody secret. Someone’s only gone and leaked that Violet bloody Hale is getting married in a castle in bloody Ireland this bloody weekend. The place’ll be crawling with paparazzi and fans before you know it.”
“Crap.” I chewed on my lower lip. “No one working here knows, and I know you haven’t said anything.”
“Not a word.”
Brendan wouldn’t have gone to the media, so the blabbermouth must have been someone on Violet’s side looking for a quick buck. Not that it mattered whose camp it came from because if Barb discovered the press were sniffing around, the blame would stop at my door.
I sat beside Brendan, being careful not to send any of the stacked paperwork tumbling. “Did they say they knew for sure the wedding was here?”
“Not in so many words, no. They were fishing.”
“How many wedding castles are there in Ireland?”
“Too many if you ask me.”
“Exactly,” I said. “They’re phoning every single castle searching for a scoop. No one’ll figure it out, and if they do, we’ll handle it. But to be on the safe side, I’ll arrange for extra security this weekend. Let’s keep this between us for now.”
Brendan nodded, seeming satisfied with my solution. “I suppose you’ve met the T-Rex.”
“Barb?”
“Aye. That one’s a right piece of work.” He laughed. “Wanted me to paint the honeymoon suite pink. Can you believe that? Pink? She said it’s Violet’s favorite color. I said, ‘A fourteenth-century castle with pink walls? You’re having a laugh?’”
“Don’t worry. I’ll veto the pink walls.” I patted his hand. “As for the rest, it’s just for a few days. Imagine how many people are going to want to get married here next year, and then you’ll be able to afford the rest of the renovations and make this place a haven. Wait and see, people will flock here.”
“I know, chicken, you’re right. But if this week doesn’t kill me—”
A pounding on the office door stopped our conversation.
“Ms. Maken,” Barb called. “There’s someone out here who’s just dying to see you.”
“Be right there.” I wasn’t expecting anyone. All contractors had already arrived, and no one else was due. Puzzled, I left the office and went into the foyer with Brendan in my wake.
A man fashioned from pure testosterone, dressed in a charcoal gray suit and a black wool overcoat, stood with his arms folded.
His high cheekbones and full lips would make women all over the world drop their panties. Snow dotted his tousled brown hair. Snow. Shit. The Universe hadn’t answered my prayer for no snow but had made up for it by sending some eye candy my way.
His ice-blue eyes were colder than frost, but when they caught my gaze, tingles warmed my skin, and my vow of chastity packed its bags, waved goodbye, and slammed the door.
He flashed me a lethal smile and strode my way. I made a move to get out of his trajectory, but before I could, he trapped me in a bear hug and hoisted me from the ground.
“Sweetheart, I didn’t think I’d make it.” His Irish accent held a slight American twang and flowed as smoothly as a freshly poured pint of Guinness. “I rearranged my schedule so I could be here for you.”
“I’m sorry, I don—”
The stranger lowered me and twisted a lock of my hair around his finger. “By God, you’re a sight for sore eyes. I’ve missed you.”
A bead of sweat slid down the valley of my
