to a stop in front of what looked like a plantation house. The mansion was impressive, even by California standards, he had to admit. But still. What the hell was wrong with a priest in a church or a hotel, with a reception in a ballroom just like his sister had done?
He was still wearing the dagger marks from the glare Rachel had slashed him with when he’d suggested the very same thing last night. Apparently a hotel wasn’t good enough. And what had she said this morning? Oh, right. His future in-laws had standards to uphold. Because clearly marrying a Marshall wasn’t enough.
It had to be the château in France like the one he’d been roped into viewing online last night, a private island somewhere in the Caribbean or this here ranch.
Luc stifled another curse and threw open the door. He alighted to be greeted by the smell of horse shit. Fucking hell. Was he really supposed to take his vows while inhaling the aroma of freshly turned manure?
“Isn’t the house amazing? Wait till you see inside,” Rachel gushed as she slid her fingers through his. “It’s been in the same family for four generations.”
“Hmm,” he responded noncommittally. For a moment, he wondered whether he should give his mother a call, let her deal with this venue-chasing nonsense.
He sighed inwardly. He couldn’t call, because she was pissed off that Rachel wasn’t using a wedding planner from MSM. Stefano was her mother’s best friend’s, and she was going to be the bride, so... He fingered his phone all the same, the need to scroll through the wedding pictures his mother had sent to him this morning biting hard again. There were a couple in particular he hadn’t been able to stop looking at or thinking about. The one where Vanessa was standing alone, staring at the bubbles in her champagne glass. Fuck, she’d looked so gorgeous, basked in a single spotlight—
“Luc, are you sure you’re okay? You barely said a word on the ride over,” Rachel muttered heatedly under her breath as the owners of the mansion—a husband and wife wearing almost identical Stetsons, plaid shirts and jeans—led them through the endless reception areas on the property.
“I was thinking we probably should’ve taken the chopper instead of driving. We could’ve been done with this fucking thing an hour ago,” he replied, then belatedly bit his tongue.
He’d just invited another mood killer.
Predictably, Rachel’s expression dimmed. Flashing a fake smile at their hosts, who were busy drawing back drapes to show them yet another landscape, she turned her back on them and glared at him.
“This fucking thing? You mean our wedding? Or am I getting married to myself here? You said you wanted this. You said you didn’t want to wait to get married. Were you lying to me?” Her voice wobbled along with her bottom lip.
Jesus. Here come the fucking waterworks. The last thing he needed.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry, Rach. Of course it’s what I want.”
“Then what’s wrong? You’ve been grouchy all week. Did I do something?”
He rubbed a weary hand over his jaw, suppressing a sigh. Not even the thought that Rachel usually followed every did-I-do-something? query with a very physical demonstration of an apology could shift his mood. In fact, he was relieved they were in public so she couldn’t do anything like that.
The reason behind his relief darkened his mood further.
The wedding photos Mariella had sent weren’t the only things bugging him. He’d been unable to stop thinking about Vanessa since he walked out of Elana’s wedding. And the couple of times he’d gone to Casa Cat this week, he’d been damn sure she’d gone out of her way to avoid him.
What irritated him more than anything else was the fact that his head and heart couldn’t seem to take the hint. Why the hell couldn’t he stop thinking about her?
“Luc?”
He refocused on Rachel. “No, you didn’t do anything.” He attempted a smile, breathed a sigh of relief when the pinched look left her face. “I’ll do better. Promise.”
He followed her into the next room, made the right noises. Right up until they started discussing which brand of soap Rachel would prefer her bridesmaids to have in their bathroom. Fuck that.
He mentally checked out. Spent a not-so-blissful twenty minutes inside his head as the tour moved from the kitchens to the pillared terrace that overlooked a manicured garden almost as big as the one at Casa de Catalina.
“Mama says the guest list could get as high as fifteen hundred. Do you think we’ll need three or four tents? Luc? Luc!”
He jerked away from the pillar he’d been leaning against. A quick glance showed their hosts again at a discreet distance.
He preempted another outburst from Rachel by diving straight into it. “Look, it’s not you. It’s me. You’re right, my head isn’t in the game.” Wow, could he sound any more like one of the actors from D-grade rom-coms Rachel made him watch?
If he’d thought his answer would placate her, he was seriously deluded. She widened her eyes, arms folded, waiting expectantly for him to elaborate.
He latched onto the most obvious excuse with a pang of guilt. “I’m worried about Dad.”
Her face immediately gentled. She started to reach for him. They both stopped as his phone blared to life. Relieved, he glanced down at the screen, then his gut clenched.
“Rafe. Everything okay?” He couldn’t stop the snap in his voice. Luc knew his brother wouldn’t call him just to shoot the shit.
“Did Mom tell you about the new doctor?”
“Yeah, I spoke to her this morning.” It’d been after that phone call that his mother had emailed him a bunch of Elana’s wedding photos. “Apparently his schedule freed up. Great news for Dad, right?” Rachel, hearing his side of the conversation, smiled encouragingly.
“I guess. Let’s hope he performs his miracles sooner rather than later, though. This shit can’t go on much longer.” He heard the hope in his brother’s voice and couldn’t help but absorb some of it for himself. “Anyway, I’m at the house. Mom wants to know whether you’re visiting Dad today.”
“Yeah. Tell her I’ll swing by the clinic later, check out the new doctor.”
“Cool.” His brother hung up.
Luc slowly returned the phone to his pocket, then his gaze swept over the terrace and gardens. He wasn’t sure he believed in miracles. In his opinion, hard work and cold cash in the bank trumped faith any day. It was what had made the Marshalls a success. It was what had made him the man he was today. Except this time, he found himself hoping for just such a miracle for his father.
“He’s going to be okay, Luc. You’ll see.”
He turned at the sound of Rachel’s voice. Stared at the woman he’d asked to marry him. She was beautiful, poised and respectable, and their sex life was unbelievable. And yet, he felt no joy at the prospect of making her his wife. Was he making a mistake? What kind of man thought about another woman while picking out wedding venues with his fiancée? The kind who had probably jumped before he was ready?
“Rachel,
