Page 85 of Won't Back Down

“Oh, are you helping out there?”

He rolled his eyes. “I got voluntold I’d be helping coordinate getting the floats in order.”

I snickered. “Miles is good at voluntelling people all kinds of things. I’ll see you there. And thank you again.”

With a smile and a wave, Roland disappeared into the crowd.

For a moment, Sawyer and I only stood there, beaming at each other.

“It’s really over. We successfully gave a great big double middle finger to my parents. My dad’s got to be furious.”

“He made a play, and he lost. Because he was wrong on every level. And you, my wife, have a big, bright future to think about.”

Biting my lip, I did a quick dancing squee. “Okay, but after today. I’ve gotta go be responsible.”

Down at the marina, I could see Miles and the other founding family representatives waiting out on the pier where we’d be launching the races. “I’m off to be a Sutter.”

“You’ll shine brilliantly. But if you get overwhelmed, I don’t give a shit what Miles wants. I’ll come. Just send me a text, and I’ll be there.”

“Where will you be?”

“Ed and the other Gray Beards are saving me a stool up at the Brewhouse. We were gonna hang out there during the regatta, and then I planned to come find you before the wreath-laying ceremony.”

“You might as well just hang out and get comfortable until after the parade is over. I’ll just be going from the cemetery back for that, and the float judging after. Then I’ll be all yours.”

He waggled his brows and slid his hands over my butt. “All mine?”

I wrapped my arm around his shoulders, rising up to touch my lips to his. “Every naked inch.”

“I’m holding you to that, wife.”

“You better. We have some serious celebrating to do.” Kissing him quickly, I slipped past the barricade and went to do my duty.

CHAPTER 38

SAWYER

“You sure you don’t want an actual beer, Malone?”

I looked over at Ed Cartwright, where he stood manning the taps at one end of the bar at OBX Brewhouse. Technically, this was entirely Bree’s domain now, but he hadn’t completely retired. During extra busy times, or simply when he felt like it, he resumed the position he’d occupied for more than thirty years, pulling pints and chatting up customers. As the afternoon had worn on, he’d kept my glass of ginger ale full. But my fingers were, even now, tapping the glass.

“Nah, I’m good.”

I wasn’t. Even without the kind of social anxiety Willa had, this was too damned many extra people on-island for my taste. There were too many unknown factors, and I didn’t like being this far from my wife. Not that I thought anything was likely to happen to her in broad daylight in front of this many people, but the niggle of unease that had been in the back of my brain since her failed attempt to remember at Osprey Beach was burrowing deeper. Maybe I’d have felt better if I’d heard a damned thing from Jace or Dax, but all had been radio silent from that direction.

Cheers carried on the breeze from down by the water. Presumably the winner of the latest race had just crossed the finish line. I knew—because I’d gone to look twice—that Willa was in the thick of it, congratulating the winners and encouraging competitors. I didn’t really understand why she needed to be there for all that. But she’d seemed to be holding up okay when I’d checked. So I kept returning to this barstool, occasionally engaging in conversation with Ed and the rest of his cronies, affectionately dubbed the Gray Beards by Bree.

“That there is a man itching to get back to his woman,” Wally Briggs announced.

Duck Adams—so named for the unusual waddling gait he’d acquired after his hip replacement—nodded sagely. “Still in that newlywed phase. Can’t go too long without gettin’ some.”

“Eh? Without gettin’ what?” Milt Mitchell asked. The man was practically deaf as a post and refused to get a hearing aid.

“Lucky!” Duck shouted.

“Who’s lucky?” Milt wanted to know.

Duck rolled his eyes. “Sawyer! Keep up, man.”