Chapter 5 - The Vows and the Aftermath
The ceremony was a masterclass in emotional endurance.
Evan stumbled over his vows, causing the entire crowd to chuckle softly, while Lily wept unabashedly into her white peonies, completely ignoring the waterproof mascara warning Mara had given her that morning.
From her post behind the floral arch, Mara watched Grant stand beside his sister, his hands clasped neatly behind his back, his jaw tight as he watched Evan slide the platinum band onto Lily’s finger. When the pastor finally announced them husband and wife, a deafening wave of applause broke out across the lawn, and Grant exhaled a breath so deep it looked like he was shedding a twenty-year burden.
As the guests migrated toward the cliffside reception tent for cocktails and champagne, Mara finally let her shoulders drop.
"We did it," Tess whispered, materializing beside her with a clipboard covered in wine stains and checkmarks. "No fires, no melting cakes, no runaway brides. I think we deserve a bonus."
"You'll get your bonus, Tess. Now go make sure the string quartet transitions to jazz for the cocktail hour," Mara instructed, though her eyes were scanning the receding crowd.
She didn't see him leave, but she felt him before she saw him.
A large, warm hand wrapped gently around her elbow, steering her smoothly behind the structural frame of the floral arch, out of sight from the bustling crowd of socialites heading toward the tent.
Mara gasped softly, spinning around.
Grant stood there, blocking her exit, his dark eyes burning down into hers with an intensity that made the surrounding ocean breeze feel like a gale-force wind.
"Mr. Holloway," she breathed, her back lightly pressing against the wooden beam of the arch. "The reception is starting. Shouldn't you be mingling with the mayor of Providence?"
"Let him mingle with himself," Grant said, his voice low, gravelly, and entirely uncompromising.
He didn't step back. He stood so close Mara could feel the heat radiating from his chest, could smell the faint scent of cedarwood soap and expensive cologne mingling with the salt air.
"You survived," Grant noted, his gaze dropping to her lips before rising back to her eyes.
"I told you I would. I'm professional."
"You're something else entirely, Mara Bennett." Grant reached up, his knuckles gently brushing against the stray lock of hair that had escaped her bun, tucking it behind her ear. His touch was feather-light, yet it sent a violent shockwave straight down her spine. "For twelve years, all I’ve heard about is business, markets, assets, and protection. No one ever told me that someone could walk into my life and make me forget every rule I've ever written."
Mara’s breath hitched. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her emerald-green dress. "Grant... this is a mistake. You're a Holloway. I'm a florist from Boston. This is a Newport wedding romance that’s supposed to end when the cleanup crew packs up tomorrow morning."
Grant’s jaw tightened. His hand dropped from her hair to cup the side of her face, his thumb softly tracing her cheekbone.
"Do I look like a man who cares about what's supposed to happen?" he asked fiercely, his voice dropping an octave. "I don't care about the Boston florist label, Mara. I care about the woman who stood in a freezing truck at midnight and argued with me about rose placement without blinking."
Before Mara could formulate a coherent thought—before she could construct a single sensible argument against the billionaire empire standing in front of her—Grant leaned down.
His lips met hers.
It wasn't a tentative, polite kiss. It was deep, hungry, and charged with every ounce of suppressed tension that had built up over the last forty-eight hours.
Mara’s hands instinctively flew up, gripping the lapels of his bespoke charcoal suit as a shockwave of heat rushed through her veins. The roar of the Atlantic faded into absolute silence. For a few stolen seconds, there were no boards of directors, no multi-million-dollar contracts, no wedding crises, and no social divides.
There was only Grant.
When he finally pulled back, his breathing was as ragged as hers. His dark eyes burned with an unreadable, intense fire, his thumb resting gently against her lower lip.
"Don't leave tonight," Grant whispered against her mouth. "Stay."
Mara stared up at him, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She knew the danger. She knew the tabloid headlines, the vicious whispers of the Newport elite, the sheer impossibility of bridging two entirely different worlds.
Yet, as she looked into his eyes, she realized the armor had already cracked.
May you like
"I'm not going anywhere," she whispered back.
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