Meant to Be (Sweetbriar Cove #1)(86)

As the caterers wheeled the cake to the top table, she heard the hum of approval; guests stopped, and turned to watch, and by the time they carefully placed it on the table, there was a smattering of applause. Summer glowed, but the look on the bride's face was the real prize: she lit up like the fourth of July.

"Oh my god!" The bride squealed. She clapped her hands together, and did a little bounce. "It's too perfect. I can't bear to cut it."

"If you don't cut it, you won't get to taste," her groom pointed out good-naturedly, and she laughed. 

"Good point. But we need photos!" she beckoned over the photographer, and then they posed beside it, the bride fussing to make sure the cake was the center of the shot.

Summer grinned. Now there was a woman who had her priorities right.

And speaking of priorities … . She spotted the buffet across the patio, and made bee-line through the crowd. She'd been snacking on gas station chips and junk food all day, which was a crime against nature  –  and calories. Surely nobody would notice if she snagged a crab puff …  or two?

She was just loading up a plate when felt her skin prickle, like someone was watching her. When she turned, she found a dark-haired man staring from across the room. He was tall, and broad-shouldered, but unlike the other men in smart tuxedos, he was wearing a crisp white button-down with jeans, and a scruffy winter beard.

Hello.

She smiled, but he just stared at her stonily, with what looked like disapproval on his face. What was his problem?

She turned back, and defiantly took another puff. After all, she'd earned it.



Grayson noticed the brunette the moment she walked in. It was hard not to. He liked to think he could spot chaos at a hundred paces, and this woman was definitely a disturbance to the atmosphere. Take her outfit, for a start. Cut-off jeans that hugged her bare legs, and a paper-thin T-shirt that hugged everything else  –  a far cry from the fancy cocktail dresses on display. She lurked by the buffet table, watching the happy couple, and Grayson wondered what disruption was about to ensue.

A jealous ex-girlfriend come to ruin the event? A scorned family member about to make a scene? Either way, it was clear from her rumpled curls and those danger-sign curves, someone was about to wave goodbye to peace and quiet for good.

Luckily, it wouldn't be him.

He strolled over to the bar, and looked around. There was no bartender in sight, so he slipped behind the polished wood and found himself a good bottle of scotch. He liked the view from back here, at arm's length from the rest of the party, with an unobstructed view of the ocean.

Grayson wasn't a man for crowds.

He wouldn't have come at all, except the groom's father was on the city council. They'd done a deal on some land that backed onto Grayson's property, and he had his eye on another couple of acres across town, so he figured it was worth making a brief appearance at the festivities. As an Englishman on Cape Cod, he was an automatic outsider, which he liked just fine, but a handshake and a few well wishes would go a long way come winter, when he wanted to make his move.

Plus, there'd be cake. Grayson always had time for cake.

"Excuse me?"

He glanced over. The brunette had materialized at the bar, setting down two plates of hors d'oeuvres and wriggling up on a stool. "Scotch, please and thank you."

He looked around, but the bartender was still nowhere to be seen, so he plucked a bottle of Jack Daniels down, and slid it down the bar towards her.

"Thanks," she said, catching it with surprising deftness. "But I meant real scotch. This is technically whiskey."

See? He knew she'd be a disturbance.

"Delicious with peaches, or spicing up a banana bread," the woman continued, scanning the bar behind him. "But I was thinking more …  Glenlivet. Single malt. On the rocks."

Grayson felt marginally less annoyed. "That's what I'm drinking," he said.

"A man of good taste." She smiled, her whole face lighting up with a mischievous grin, and suddenly he didn't mind the interruption so much. "I didn't know anything about scotch, until I wound up working in an Scottish pub, in the middle of Paris of all places," she continued, as he set the fresh bottle in front of her. "Now, that nation has opinions about their booze."



       
         
       
        

"Don't get between a Scottsman and his drink," Grayson agreed. "They've been known to take offence."

"You're telling me. I once made the mistake of ordering a Jack and coke. I thought they were going to lock me up for re-education. You know, strapping me down and making me do blind taste tests until I knew my Laphroaig from my Glenfiddich."