She’d never had a moment like that, ever.

And Rob still liked her, even after she’d thrown up on him, made a spectacle of herself on their first date, and acted strangely on the second date. He still wanted to see more of her. She’d done everything possible to mess the dates up and he’d still come after her.

Marjorie’s heart felt full to bursting at the thought. Rob said he wasn’t capable of love? That was too bad, because she was half in love with him already. He might not think of himself as a kind man, but his actions toward her had spoken differently. He might have a tough, cuss-laden outer shell, but there was a tender heart beating underneath.

She was still on cloud nine as she wandered in to the Green Dining Hall. Brontë had asked to meet there instead of the cute Seaturtle Cay cafe, and Marjorie scanned the empty room looking for her friend. Brontë was at a back table, a small figure hunched over a mountain of cream-colored envelopes.

“Bron?” Marjorie called, moving forward.

A head rose from behind the hill of envelopes. Brontë’s loose curls were pulled into a bun atop her head and dark rings smudged the skin under her eyes. She waved Marjorie over, a smile on her face. “Hey Marj! Thanks for meeting me here. I hope it’s not a problem if we have someone bring lunch to us instead of going to lunch?”

“No, that’s fine,” Marjorie said, curious as she sat across from Brontë at one of the round tables. Stack upon stack of thick parchment envelopes covered the table. At the other end, Brontë scribbled something on a card, then tucked it into an envelope and stamped it with a wax seal. “What’s all this?”

“Oh!” Brontë looked up from the envelope and tossed it into a small pile of sealed ones. She looked over the array. “That stack is for the hotel employees. Logan wants to bonus them as a thank-you for helping out with the wedding. That other stack is for guests who flew in for the wedding—thank-you cards.” She pointed at another stack. “That one is for vendors who sent wedding presents and need a thank-you card letting them know we received their gift. And that stack there is for those that will be attending and leaving a gift at the wedding even though we requested no gifts. And that stack,” she pointed at another, “is for people that were invited to the wedding but couldn’t make it and sent a gift.” She rubbed her forehead. “I’m drowning in thank-yous, and I’m not even sure I’ve got everything covered.”

Marjorie pulled up a chair next to Brontë. “Need some help? I can stuff and seal after you sign.”

The bride sent her a grateful look. “That’d be wonderful. As Aristotle said, ‘A friend is a second self.’ I could dearly use another pair of hands at the moment.”

They worked quietly for a few moments, Brontë signing cards with her married name and a brief note, and Marjorie carefully tucking them into envelopes, sealing them, and placing them in the appropriate piles. They were able to speed up Brontë’s production enough that the drawn, frazzled look disappeared from her face. “So,” Brontë said, as she wrote. “Tell me about your week. Have you been having fun?”

Immediately, Marjorie’s thoughts filled with Rob. A hot flush stained her cheeks. “I’m enjoying myself. Though I have to admit it still feels decadent to have all this time off of work as a paid holiday.” Since Logan owned the sock-hop diner and Brontë had invited most of the waitresses to come be part of her weeks-long wedding plans, her filthy-rich husband had arranged for the diner to be staffed with temps who could handle things while the others were gone and sunning themselves at the resort. It seemed a ridiculous expense to Marjorie, but then again, maybe that was just something billionaires did. “This place is wonderful. You look tired, though.”

Brontë’s mouth curved in a wry smile. “I never thought having a wedding would be so much work. I’ll be glad when I can get home and just curl up on the couch with Logan.”

Marjorie had a hard time picturing the forbidding Logan Hawkings doing anything as normal as lounging on the sofa with his wife. But maybe Brontë saw a different side of him than Marjorie did. “Well, anything I can help you with, you just let me know. I can’t thank you enough for inviting me.”

“Of course you’re invited! You’re one of my closest friends.” Brontë put down the card she was holding and squeezed Marjorie’s hand. “And I’m so happy you’re here. I’m sorry if I’ve been so absent. There seems to be an endless parade of things to do before the wedding and I can’t keep up with all of them. Are you having a good time despite my neglect?”

“Oh, I don’t feel neglected at all,” Marjorie exclaimed. “I’m having a wonderful time.” That blush seemed to want to take up permanent residence on her cheeks. “I’ve been playing shuffleboard and went to bingo and have been working on my tan and just everything you can imagine.”

“Shuffleboard, huh?” Brontë giggled at that. “I’m picturing you lording it over the shuffleboard court, a bunch of gray-haired ladies shaking their fists at you.”

“Hey, I can’t help it if I’m good at shuffleboard. Long arms.”

“Rounding up all the people in the resort over the age of seventy-five and ensuring they’re having a good time?” Brontë’s smile was knowing.

Shyly, Marjorie sealed an envelope. Should she mention anything to Brontë? But the excitement of a budding relationship—after such a long, long dry spell—poured out of her. “I had a date.”

Brontë gasped and clutched at Marjorie’s arm. “Shut up. You did, Marj? No way! Who?”

“Just a guy,” she said. “I don’t want to say too much and jinx it. But I really like him.” She bit her lip, thinking of last night and how it had gone from a nightmare to an almost magical sort of quality. Rob had been so sweet, so forthright. Blunt, but she liked that . . . and she liked him.

She even had a phone full of silly little texts from him, reminding her about their date later tonight. As if she’d forget! She’d been receiving them hourly, as if he paused during his day to think about her. That was a great feeling.

Her friends—Edna, Agnes and Dewey—hadn’t been too thrilled to hear that she was going out with him again. They’d seen her tear-filled escape from the bingo hall and it had taken a lot of soothing over breakfast to calm her friends down.

It was sweet that they were worried, but they hadn’t been there when the evening had changed from nightmarish to magical. They didn’t know how Marjorie had been pretending to be someone she wasn’t . . . and Rob had been doing the same.

“A date? Really?” Brontë squealed, her hands fluttering in girlish enthusiasm for her friend. “I’m so happy for you! You’ll have to give me all the details when you’re comfortable. Do you think you’ll see him when you go home, too? Or is this just an island fling? That’s how Logan and I met, you know. Right here at this resort.”

“I don’t know if we’ll see each other afterward,” Marjorie said, running her fingers along the thick edges of an envelope. “We’re taking it a day at a time.”

“That’s the best way to do things,” Brontë proclaimed. “Epicurus said, ‘Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not.’”

Marj grinned. Brontë had an incredible brain for memorization, and always had a few words of wisdom from a philosopher at the ready. “I’ve missed your quotes.”

“Logan wanted to get my favorites engraved on charms for the guests, but I couldn’t pick just one quote, so we decided to go with something more traditional instead.” She rolled her eyes.

“How is Logan?” Marjorie asked as Brontë slid a stack of cards toward her. She’d met Brontë’s soon-to-be husband a few times, and he rarely smiled at anyone. He intimidated Marjorie, but the way he looked at Brontë—possessive and hungry—made her yearn for someone to look at her like that. Then she thought of Rob again, and the blush returned. Rob had looked at her like that. Like she was covered in his favorite ice cream and he wanted to lick it off of her. Which was a mental image that made her blush all over again.