The Unexpected Honeymoon. Barbara Wallace

finding his suggestions amusing. “Little late for that.”

      “Not at all. We can make changes right up to the last minute. So long as you’re happy.”

      “Because everyone knows, it’s the bride who matters, right?” A shock of blond curls flopped over one eye. She swiped them away with a sloppy wave of her hand. “Long live the bride.”

      Her groom was going to have his hands full tonight. Come to think of it, where was her groom? According to their records, Señorita Boyd booked one of their famed wedding packages, but the front desk said she’d checked in alone. Most guests arrived either as couples or with a gaggle of family and friends.

      Only unhappy brides drank alone.

      Stop it. The señorita’s drinking arrangements were none of his business. For all he knew, she wanted to be alone. Her accommodations, however were his concern, and so he repeated his original question. “Is there a problem with your room?”

      “Only that I’m here. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To tell me I have to move?”

      So that was her worry. His shoulders relaxed. “Not at all.”

      “Seriously?”

      “I handled the upgrade personally.” In fact, her friend, Señora Cartwright’s, phone call had been one of the few positive highlights of his first week. “For the next week, consider this villa your home away from home.”

      “Really? Wow. I have the best friends.” She looked down at her glass, her eyes growing so damp that for a moment, Carlos feared she might cry.

      “If I recall, Señora Cartwright said you’d admired the photos in our brochure,” he said.

      The comment did its job, and distracted her. “More like drooled. This place is amazing. More than amazing, actually.”

      “I’m glad you approve.”

      “Oh, I do.” Draining her glass, she reached for the bottle again. “So, Señor... What did you say your name was again?”

      “Carlos Chavez.”

      “Car-rrr-los Cha-a-a-a-vez. I like how it flows off my tongue.” She gave a tipsy grin. “You sure you don’t want anything to drink?”

      “Positive.”

      “Then why are you carrying a bottle?”

      The Cabernet. In all the distraction, he’d almost forgotten the point of his visit. “My desk manager told me you talked with the Steinbergs while waiting to check in.”

      She drew her brows into a sensuous-looking pout. “Who?”

      “The couple from Massachusetts who were staying at the Paradiso.”

      “Oh, right, Jake and Bridget. They’d walked up here from the beach. I told them they were wasting their time getting married at the Paradiso. I researched every destination wedding location in the eastern hemisphere, and none come close to being as romantic as this place.”

      Given his family’s outrageous investment in creating said romance, Carlos certainly hoped so. The Chavez family prided itself on owning the most exotic, most enticing resorts in Mexico. “Apparently your enthusiasm was contagious because they placed a deposit for next spring.”

      “I’m not surprised.”

      She paused to wipe champagne from her upper lip with a flick of her tongue that left Carlos gripping the bottle a little tighter. He didn’t know whether she always moved with such sensuality or if the alcohol unleashed some hidden sexuality gene, but he found himself reacting in a most unwanted way.

      “They said they stopped by on a whim, but no one hikes four miles along a beach on a whim. Besides, Bridget had that look, you know? After five minutes, I knew she’d made up her mind. Can you believe the front desk wanted to send her away with nothing more than a brochure?”

      Yes, Carlos could. “Unfortunately, we are between wedding coordinators at the moment,” he told her. No need to explain the disaster he’d been sent to fix. “Thankfully, you were there to speak on our behalf. I wanted to come by and personally thank you for assistance, and to give you this with our compliments.” He presented the bottle. “Cabernet from Mexico’s own Parras Valley.”

      “How sweet. Mexican wine.” She reached to take the bottle from him, only to stumble off balance and fall against his chest. Champagne sloshed over the rim onto his shirt, but Carlos barely noticed as he was far more focused on the hand pressed against his chest.

      “I like how you pronounce Mexico.” There it was, the husky whisper. Carlos’s body stirred instinctively.

      “Perhaps you and your fiancé can toast to a long life together.”

      Gripping her shoulders, he righted the señorita and thrust the bottle into her grip. A bit rougher than necessary, perhaps, but he wasn’t in the mood to play substitute. The force caused her to stumble backward, although thankfully, she managed to catch her balance without assistance. Giving a soft “whoops,” she smiled and swayed her way to the writing desk. “Nice thought, Señor Carlos. Unfortunately, he’s off having a long life with someone else, and I don’t feel like toasting that.”

      “Pardon?” She had booked a wedding package, hadn’t she?

      “My fiancé—ex-fiancé—decided he’d rather marry someone else.”

      No wonder she was drinking. He felt a stab of sympathy. “I’m sorry for...” Did one call a broken engagement a loss? No matter, he hated the phrase. Loss was such an empty and meaningless word. Having your world implode was far more than a loss.

      “You’re here alone, then,” he said, changing the subject.

      “Honeymoon for one.” She raised her glass only to frown at the empty contents. “Wow, this stuff goes down way too easily.”

      “Perhaps you ought to...”

      Blue eyes glared at him. “Ought to what?”

      “Nothing.” Wasn’t his place to monitor her behavior. She was a guest. His job was to make her happy.

      “Do you know what he said? He said I cared more about getting married than I did him. Can you believe it?”

      “I’m sorry.” What else could he say?

      “Yeah, me, too.” She swayed her way back to the coffee table. “Like it’s a crime to be excited about getting married. News flash: It’s your wedding day. The one time in your life when you get to be special.”

      Hard to believe a woman who looked like her needed a specific day to feel special, but then as he knew all too well, there existed women who needed constant reassurance, despite their beauty. Perhaps the señorita was one of those women.

      “Besides, if Tom was that upset, why didn’t he say something sooner? He could have said, ‘Larissa, I don’t want a fancy wedding,’ but nooo, he let me spend fifteen months of planning while he was busy having deep ‘conversations’ with another woman, and then tells me I’m wedding obsessed.

      “Seriously, what’s so great about having deep conversations anyway? Just because I don’t go around spouting my feelings to anyone who will listen, doesn’t mean I don’t have them. I’ll have you know I have lots of deep thoughts.”

      “I’m sure you do.”

      “Tons. More than Tom would ever know.” Turning so abruptly, the champagne yet again splashed over the rim of her glass, she marched toward the balcony.

      He should go, thought Carlos. Leave her to wallow in peace. But he didn’t. Instead, something compelled him to follow her outside to where she stood looking at the Velas Jungle, her shoulders slumped in defeat.

      “I would have listened to him, you know,” she said, the energy depleted from her voice.