Chapter 3 - Dawn of the Big Day
The sun rose over Holloway Point like a sheet of hammered gold, burning away the ocean mist and painting the Atlantic in shimmering hues of amber and turquoise.
Mara woke up with her head resting against the solid, warm curve of Grant’s shoulder.
She bolted upright, her eyes flying open. The stone bench on the east terrace was hard beneath her, and the wool blanket had slipped down around her waist. She blinked rapidly, her heart hammering not from fear, but from the sudden, dizzying realization that she had fallen asleep—*actually fallen asleep*—next to the most powerful, guarded man in New England.
Grant was already awake, sitting perfectly still so as not to wake her. A faint, knowing smile played at the corners of his mouth.
"Good morning," he said, his voice raspy with morning sleep. "Did you sleep well?"
Mara scrambled to her feet, smoothing down her apron and desperately trying to look like a professional wedding coordinator who hadn't just spent half the night holding hands with the billionaire brother of the bride.
"I didn't sleep. I merely lost consciousness due to oxygen deprivation from listening to your existential crisis," she fired back, though her flushed cheeks betrayed her defense.
Grant stood up, stretching his tall frame with an easy, fluid grace. He looked entirely unbothered by the romantic implications of their night on the terrace. "Right. Oxygen deprivation. We'll stick with that story."
Before Mara could snap a witty retort, the heavy glass doors behind them swung open, and Tess burst onto the terrace looking like she had seen a ghost.
"Mara! Grant! Code red! The bride is missing!"
Mara froze. "What do you mean, missing? The ceremony starts in four hours!"
"I mean," Tess panted, waving her clipboard frantically, "her bedroom is empty, her phone is on the nightstand, and the only thing left behind is a note written on a cocktail napkin that says: *'Gone to find myself, don't look for the veil.'*"
Grant didn't panic. His expression didn't even flicker. He simply closed his eyes, let out a deep, steady sigh, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"She went to the old lighthouse," Grant said flatly.
Mara blinked. "The what? The one half a mile down the rocky cliffs?"
"She used to hide out there whenever our mother had a bad episode," Grant explained, already walking toward the Land Rover. "It's the one place where she felt completely invisible. Get your boots, Mara. We're going hiking."
***
The trail down to the abandoned Newport lighthouse was steep, narrow, and aggressively overgrown with briars and sea-salt-battered shrubs.
Mara trudged behind Grant, her heavy leather boots crunching against the loose gravel. Her floral tool belt bounced against her hip, and her hair had escaped its bun, flying wildly in the coastal gale.
"If she breaks her ankle, I am billing you for emergency floral extraction," Mara called out over the crash of the waves below.
Grant didn't slow down. He cleared a low-hanging branch with one broad hand, holding it back so Mara could pass. "She won't break her ankle. Lily has the balance of a mountain goat."
"And the emotional stability of a roman candle," Mara muttered, ducking under the branch.
They reached the edge of a jagged rock shelf overlooking the churning grey-blue bay. Standing right at the precipice, wrapped in an oversized vintage denim jacket and staring out at the horizon, was Lily Holloway.
Grant slowed his pace, motioning for Mara to stay back. He walked forward alone, his footsteps silent on the damp earth.
"Hey, kiddo," Grant said softly.
Lily jumped, spinning around. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and her hair was whipped across her face by the wind, but there was a fierce, defiant light in her expression.
"I can't do it, Grant," Lily blurted out, her voice trembling. "I love Evan. I do. But looking at all those people, the expectations, the society magazines, the pressure of making sure the Holloway name doesn't crack... it feels like I'm stepping into a cage made of crystal."
Grant stopped a few feet away. He didn't rush her. He didn't pull rank or offer a corporate solution. He simply took off his heavy jacket and draped it gently over her shivering shoulders.
"It’s not a cage, Lily," Grant said, his voice dropping into that deep, steady register that had calmed her down since she was ten years old. "It's a launchpad. Evan isn't our father. He isn't the society crowd. He's just a man who loves you when you're messy, when you're scared, and when you're hiding in old lighthouses."
Lily sniffled, pulling the jacket tighter around herself. "How do you know he won't leave?"
"Because I checked his background," Grant said deadpan.
Lily let out a sharp, watery laugh, wiping her nose with her sleeve. "You're impossible."
"I am," Grant agreed, stepping closer and wrapping his arms around his sister in a fierce, protective hug. "Now come on. Your florist is going to murder both of us if we miss the lighting schedule, and I’d rather face a tidal wave than Mara Bennett with an angry pair of shears."
Mara, standing a few yards back, couldn't help the small, fond smile that crept onto her face.
Lily pulled back, looking past her brother’s shoulder. She wiped a tear from her cheek and smiled brightly at Mara. "You brought him to heel, didn't you?"
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"Somebody had to," Mara called out, stepping forward. "Now move, bride-to-be. You have hair and makeup in twenty minutes, and if you ruin this dress, I’m making you walk down the aisle in a bathrobe made of ferns."
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