It was midmorning two days later when Joe finally hit State Highway 6 that led north from Invercargill to the tourist capital of the South Island, Queenstown, where he planned to casually stop by and take his sister to lunch. He counted himself fortunate that for all Stewart Island’s harsh winters, the one good thing for a doctor was the slowing down of patients at the little medical center. Aside from the normal rounds of the flu, the persistent coughs, and everyday illnesses and injuries, during winter Joe had a little more spare time on his hands. Come spring, leading into the high season of summer, the influx of hikers and tourists would keep him and Maggie busy. But he enjoyed the slower pace; it gave him a chance to breathe and catch up with his friends and family on the mainland.

He’d made good time on the mostly two-lane highway, and he rolled down the window, breathing in a lungful of fresh air, his gaze skimming over green field after green field. He punched a button on the dashboard and the car’s stereo kicked on, blasting the local radio station into the car. Joe sang along as he drove through the tiny township of Kingston on the shores of Lake Wakatipu.

The narrow part of the deep-blue lake stretched out into the distance until it bumped against the towering, snow-covered peaks that surrounded the Z-shaped lake. Breathtaking was the only adjective to describe this part of the country. The lakes, the mountains, the sprawling magnificence…

Foreigner’s “I Want To Know What Love Is” came over the speakers.

His brain automatically zoomed back to when he’d stopped for coffee at The Great Flat White Cafe on Oban’s wharf yesterday morning. He’d spotted MacKenna’s flyaway blond hair whipping around her face as she boarded the ferry. His heart had thudded so loudly he’d given Erin, serving at the counter, a concerned glance in case she’d heard the thunder of it. But she’d continued to make polite small talk as she snapped the lid on his to-go espresso. Joe had mentally kicked his arse a half-dozen times for considering that the hollowness aching in his gut was due to something other than a need for one of Erin’s famous muffins. So he’d bought two, eating one defiantly on the way back to the medical center and his first patient of the day.

Joe gripped the steering wheel, goose bumps rising along his arms as Lou Gramm sang about having lived with heartache and pain and then finding the courage to change his lonely life. Lonely? He wasn’t lonely. He had his family, his work, and his mates, and he was part of a close-knit community that’d quickly accepted “that Irish fella” as one of its own. And he also had the occasional woman sharing his bed.

He scrubbed the heel of his palm down the length of his denim-covered thigh and grimaced. Yeah, and it’d been a while now since some fine thing had warmed his sheets for more than a weekend hookup.

He still wasn’t lonely.

Joe punched another button on the stereo and got another radio station. Heart’s, “Alone.” Shite. He hit it again. John Waite’s “Missing You.” Was the universe screwing with him? Eighties music from one feckin’ end of the dial to the other, as if all the DJs had conspired to make him think of MacKenna.

He twisted the off knob and listened instead to the rush of wind through the open windows as he guided the car around the sharp turns following Lake Wakatipu into Queenstown.

The Alpine-styled tourist town was packed with just that—tourists. People with cameras looped around their necks, trying to line up shots of the snow-capped Southern Alps in the background, people in ski jackets and pants, snowboards tucked under their arms or skis on their shoulders, people spilling out of the town’s cafes and pubs and into the many narrow streets in the town’s center. Parking, of course, was a nightmare—and forget about admiring Queenstown’s famous lakefront drive; he wasn’t barking mad.

Joe finally pushed open the tour company door, and Kerry, seated behind the reception desk, a headset hooked over her dark-brown hair, glanced up, her eyes flying open wide. Freckles danced across her cheekbones as she smiled at him, holding up an index finger to indicate she’d be just a moment.

Since Kerry was in the office alone, Joe wandered over to the desk and perched on the edge, studying his sister out of the corner of his eye. She didn’t look any different than she had the last time he’d seen her, six months ago at their mam’s birthday party in Nelson. Same long, dead-straight brown hair, same green-blue eyes and the same smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks—freckles she’d tried to remove by dabbing hydrogen peroxide on them morning and night when she was a teenager.

He grinned, his gaze skimming down to the massive handbag she lugged everywhere with her, dumped beside her chair. A hairbrush handle, two bottles of something, and a folded sheet of Happy Birthday wrapping paper spilled out from the bag’s bulging sides. And—Joe’s eyes narrowed—a glossy magazine with a cover showing a beaming young woman in a white gown surrounded by a plethora of flowers.

Huh. Well, now.

Kerry disconnected from the call and pulled off the headset, swiveling to face him in her office seat. “Come to take me to lunch, have you? Good, I’m starving.”

“So long as you behave, I’ll spend a few quid to see you’re fed and watered,” Joe said. “But no opting for salad then stealing my bloody chips.”

“Stolen chips always taste the best, you git.” Kerry snickered and bent to shove the contents of her bag back inside. “Fancy trying a new cafe that’s opened on the Mall? We can laugh at the tourists queuing up like lemmings ready to be hurled up and down the Kawarau River.”

“Don’t you take bookings for that jet boat company here?” he asked as she stood and pulled on her coat.

She slung the bag over her shoulder and ducked out the other side of the desk from where he was sitting to turn a ‘back in an hour’ sign over in the door. “Oh, for sure. But jet-boating? Please. It’s for baby thrill-seekers only. I’m quite certain I dozed off the first time I went for a whirl.”

Joe snorted and followed his sister outside. “How many bungee jumps are you up to now, then?”

Kerry checked the office door was locked behind them, and they set off on the short walk to Queenstown’s lakefront via the Mall, Kerry’s boots clicking loudly on the fake cobblestoned sidewalk. She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm.

“Seven,” she said. “Plus, I went parasailing last birthday; my girls paid. And they’re springing for my first tandem skydive before—” Her fingers tightened on his arm, and she ducked her head. “Before Aaron and I get married.”

“Might put a dampener on the wedding night if you’re in a full-body cast,” he said mildly.

Kerry didn’t break stride. “Mam and Da told you.”

“Did you truly expect they wouldn’t?” He was genuinely curious.

Not many secrets stayed secret in his family. Only one, in fact. And that was MacKenna’s part in the whole Sofia debacle. He’d never mentioned her name to either his parents or his siblings, and he couldn’t one hundred percent work out why he’d lied when his family had gently grilled him on how exactly he’d found out about Sofia’s…indiscretions. That’d been his ma’s word for it. Her indiscretions.

“No. I knew they wouldn’t be able to help themselves, and I figured it’d be best to give you some prewarning before you went all caveman like at the encouragement of Luke and Kyle.”

“You told them?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“In a roundabout way.”

Code for she’d left it up to Mam to contact Luke, who was working in Silicon Valley, and Kyle, who was currently in the US Midwest. Joe had resisted the temptation to contact his brothers, figuring they’d call if they needed him to draw up a full dossier on this Aaron character. Though perhaps his younger siblings didn’t think much of Joe’s investigative skills since the radio silence from the States hadn’t been broken.

He huffed out a sigh as Kerry pointed to a brick building overlooking Lake Wakatipu and the crowds of people strolling alongside the quaint stone wall that spanned the length of the main lakefront.

She aimed a worried glance up at him. “How pissed are you, on a scale of one to ten? Eleven-point-five?”

Joe looked down at his sister’s face, and his heart gave a little wobble. As a seven-year-old, he’d stood over his newborn baby brother. Another one, he’d thought with some disinterest and a little jealousy. But when his gaze landed on the tiny infant dressed head to toe in pink—a sister!—he’d felt a funny churning in his stomach. He was her big brother, and it’d be his job to protect her. He’d sworn then—by the Holy Mother, who was the most powerful lady he knew other than his mam—that he’d die a million times over to keep her safe.

“Would I be buying you lunch at this posh place if I were still fuming?”

Her blue eyes narrowed, and she let go of his arm. “You’re acting the maggot.”

Joe showed her his palms and forced his most honest-to-God smile. “I’m not. I wouldn’t dare, you fine, fierce thing.”

“Don’t you be buttering me up now.” She stood aside while Joe tugged the glass door open for her. “I’m twenty-seven and old enough to know my own mind. You won’t change it—and Aaron’s a good man.”

“You can tell me about him over a few scoops and a plate of steak and chips.”

“I’m having a salad.” Kerry tipped her freckled nose into the air and strolled inside—but she was smiling. “Order extra chips, though, all right?”

Twenty minutes later, the server delivered Joe’s steak and extra-extra chips and Kerry’s roast pumpkin and feta salad to their table. Kerry promptly stole a chip and nibbled on it, her eyes rolling in culinary bliss.

She then cast a lustful glance at his medium rare T-bone steak. “I don’t suppose you’d spare your baby sister a bite of that, would you? Aaron doesn’t eat animals, so I haven’t had meat in ages either.”

A bus-driving, tattooed vegetarian was planning to wed his sister? Like hell.

Joe sliced off a corner of his steak and dropped it onto Kerry’s plate. “Won’t eat anything that had a face, eh?”

Kerry pounced on the steak, sawed it in half, and popped a large chunk into her mouth. Again her eyes rolled blissfully. Joe’s gut gave a sharp little twinge. Was his sister’s new man already dictating what she could and couldn’t eat?

She chewed and swallowed. “God, that’s good.” Then she glanced guiltily at Joe. “Actually, Aaron won’t eat any animal or use any products containing dairy, and he wouldn’t like your jacket,” she added, nodding toward his leather jacket draped over the back of his chair.

“Jaysus, Kerry—you’re going to marry a feckin’ vegan?” Which kind of came out of his mouth in the same tone as he would’ve said satanist, but still…meat and three vegetables had been the staples of his family’s diet right up until he and his siblings left home.

Kerry threw back her head, laughter pouring out of her throat. She laughed until tears streamed down her cheeks, and she had to haul open her handbag to drag out a small packet of tissues. She blotted her cheeks and got control of herself.

“And here’s me, thinking you’d worry about his ink or him driving a bus for a living.” She gave another little chuckle and shook her head.

Oh—but he was worried. He was just wise enough to choose his battles. His gaze landed on her open purse and the glossy bridal magazine still tucked inside. The idea struck and warmed his gut like a swallow of good Irish whiskey. He knew exactly what tactic to take.

“Yeah, well.” He picked up a chip and gestured casually at his sister with it. “So I notice your magazine there; have you found yourself a dress yet?”

Kerry’s smile flipped into a frown. “I’d thought of hiring one from the place in town.” Her gaze shot down at her handbag. “Anything in there is way out of my price range.”

“I have a friend who owns a bridal shop in Invercargill.”

“Next Stop, Vegas?” Kerry’s eyes flew open, and she lunged for the magazine in her bag. “MacKenna Jones is a friend of yours? Bloody hell. Her designs are brilliant. Look.” She plopped the magazine open beside her plate and flipped through the glossy pages, stabbing a photo with one finger. “This is one of hers. It’s gorgeous.”

In Joe’s professional opinion it was a long white dress on a pouty brunette and it looked much the same as the long white dress on the pouty blonde on the page opposite. But what did he know about bridal gowns, other than how to return one after being dumped or how to pay for one? That much he knew how to do.

“How about I spring for a Next Stop, Vegas dress for you?”

Kerry’s jaw dropped, and her hand splayed limply over the photo of MacKenna’s gown. “Get. Out. You’re going to drop four thousand or thereabouts on a dress? She’s not cheap, you know.”

Oh. He knew. The first dress he’d bought had set him back a couple of grand; he expected after four and a half years her prices had risen. But MacKenna herself would be worth the cost of another wasted dress…once he’d convinced her to work her anti-magic and talk his little sister out of making a huge mistake.

“Wouldya prefer a toaster oven for a wedding gift?” he asked, pulling his plate toward him as Kerry reached for a chip.

She laughed and speared another slice of steak off his plate with her fork. “I think Ma’s already got one lined up for us.” She nibbled the stolen piece of steak and studied him over it. “You’re serious? About the dress?”

“I am. I want you to be happy.”

His stomach clenched around the meat he’d already swallowed. Kerry breaking off her engagement wouldn’t be easy on her. No one liked to find out they’d been played for a fool, but better early in the planning stages than days before the wedding. Joe had high hopes that after an initial meeting with MacKenna—or by the first fitting, at the latest—Kerry would have woken up and smelled the stench of future heartache. His way would be gentler on Kerry than Luke and Kyle’s way of scaring the shite out of her fiancé until he did a bunk. And that was still a back up plan if Joe’s idea didn’t work.

“I’ll check it out with MacKenna and get her to arrange a time when the three of us can meet,” he added.

The speared pumpkin on the end of her fork hovered halfway to her mouth. “You’re going to be there?”

“I’m paying, aren’t I? So, yeah, I’ll be there.”

To keep a close eye on MacKenna and make sure she followed up on his plan. Though his gut gave another twinge at the thought of asking her to help. And a twinge, somewhat lower than his stomach, reminded him of the sizzle of attraction he’d felt the last time he’d spoken to her. He shifted in his seat and tugged the collar of his sweater away from his neck.

Kerry gave him a once-over, her eyes narrowing in speculation. “So MacKenna is your friend?”

Friend might be pushing the definition a bit, considering what the less gentlemanly side of him would like to do to her, but he opted to ignore the hint-hint tone in his sister’s question.

“She’s Holly’s cousin.” Which didn’t answer the question, but if he was lucky, it’d distract Kerry since she’d met Holly once or twice while visiting him.

Kerry slipped the chunk of pumpkin in her mouth and chewed, her gaze uncomfortably locked on his face the whole time. “Holly’s cousin. Uh-huh. Funny how over the years I’ve heard all about your new mates and about the funnier antics of some of the locals, yet you’ve never once mentioned MacKenna’s name.”

Dammit, Kerry could sniff out a whiff of a secret from a mile off. The kid who found the Christmas present stash, the one who listened at keyholes. In fact, it’d been Kerry who’d eavesdropped on their parents when she was little and had overheard their whispered discussions of the upcoming move from Ireland.

“Because she’s not a local, and I’ve only met her a few times, eejit,” he said.

“You fancy her?” she asked in typical, straight for the jugular, little sister style.

“No, I don’t fancy her.”

Great feckin’ liar that he was. He sucked down a swallow of cold lager to try to ice the heat crawling up his throat. If he didn’t convince her that MacKenna was an impartial outsider, the moment any suggestion of “don’t marry this bloke” arose, Kerry would become suspicious.

“Calling her a friend was a slight exaggeration. We’re more like acquaintances, and we don’t really click,” he added. “She thinks I’m a bit of a wanker.”

“If your bedside charm doesn’t work on her, what makes you think she’ll be happy to have me as a client?”

“Oh, she’ll be happy to have you as a client—she’ll love you,” he said. “MacKenna’s a businesswoman, first and foremost. But needling her with my presence while you’re there will be a grand sport, I reckon.”

Kerry rolled her eyes with a grin and speared another piece of pumpkin. “She’s right. You really do have a bit of wanker in you.”

* * *

“This dress would get done a lot faster if you’d get off your bum and help,” Mac said to Reid, who hadn’t moved from his draped position on an armchair for nearly half an hour. He insolently watched her hand sew on yet another mother-of-pearl bead.

She was downstairs in the workshop area of her home, an old, industrial building converted into a workshop and a three-bedroom dwelling. The downstairs level consisted of a wide-open space with plenty of room for the dressmaker dummies wearing wedding gowns in various stages of completion. Plus, the massive pattern making and cutting table, which ran almost the entire length of the room. Two large, industrial sewing machines and an overlocker took up space along the wall, along with a clothing rack upon which hung a number of plastic-covered gowns and mock-ups waiting to be transported back to the boutique for client appointments.

“You don’t pay me enough to help after hours.” Reid yawned, showing every one of his perfectly straight white teeth. “And I hate that fiddly shit,” he added.

Reid had left his job in Queenstown to become her lead machinist three years ago. In design school he’d been top of their construction class for his meticulous eye for detail and skill with a sewing machine—and his speed and accuracy. While Mac adored the sewing, she’d often get caught up in the minutiae and spend too many hours redoing a garment until her perfectionism was satisfied. Reid got it done fast and efficiently, right the first time. Over the years they’d worked together, he took on more of the garment construction responsibility while Mac focused on the clientele and growing Next Stop, Vegas into a blossoming, sustainable business.

Reid took a long, exaggerated sip of his peppermint-chai-potpourri-whatever-it-was tea. The slurping sound set her teeth on edge. Normally her best friend and flatmate’s irritating little habits didn’t irritate her quite as much as they had since she’d arrived home from Oban. But this evening, his bugging her while she enjoyed a brief foray into her happy place of beading, and the stink of whatever horrible herbal tea he drank…

“You hate everything lately.” MacKenna scooped up another bead and threaded it through her needle. “Someone needs to get laid. Go swipe right on your phone, and get out from under my feet.”

Reid grunted and kicked up one bare foot and rested it on the opposite knee. “For all you and Laura know, I could have a parade of hot women or men going in and out of my room every night.”

Reid’s bedroom was behind the workspace with private access through a back courtyard, where he’d taken to growing potted herbs and a few spindly tomato plants in summer. All of which died horrendously because Reid had more of a black thumb than a green one. Since Mac and their friend Laura—who did most of the day-to-day running of the boutique—had a big bedroom each on the building’s third floor, he was right. The dense brick building was pretty soundproof, and he could’ve had any number of rendezvous taking place right under their noses. Problem was she knew he hadn’t brought a woman home in a long time.

And as for the dig about a male lover…

“Another one?” She gave him the courtesy of averting her gaze.

A couple beats of silence came from the armchair, before a sigh. “She beat the last one’s record of ten minutes, thirty-five seconds.”

The time it took for Reid’s blind date to ditch him once she found out he made wedding gowns for a living.

“You gave her a two-minute grace period?” she asked.

Two minutes for a woman to get over her initial surprise at Reid’s occupation and get past the least interesting thing about him. Personally, Mac didn’t think a woman deserved a two-minute break if they couldn’t tell within moments of meeting him that he was one of the good guys. No, not just good but great. Reid was a great guy, and any woman he fell in love with—if he ever fell in love again—would be the luckiest woman ever.

“Yep. I even forgave her for nearly choking on her chardonnay,” he said. “I pretty much knew she’d be a ladies’ room ditcher when I spotted her sneakily texting on her phone while telling me how open-minded she was about the gays.”

“The gays?” MacKenna rolled her eyes. “Let me guess; at that point you called the server over and asked him to bring you a banana daiquiri?”

She turned to face Reid, who wore a wicked grin across his handsome face.

“Hey, she was never going to believe I was straight, so why not give her a story to gossip about?”

“You’re incorrigible.”

Reid stood and set his mug on the pattern making table. “I’ll go make myself pretty and head off to the pub for a bit. Leave you in peace.”

“You’re not pretty, Bean, you’re the studliest stud,” she said, because Reid deserved to feel good about himself. “If you weren’t built like a giraffe, I’d bang you silly.”

“That ship sailed years ago, sister. Your loss.” He strolled off into his bedroom and flicked the door shut behind him.

Moments later came the faint sounds of running water.

Yeah, it was her loss. Things might’ve turned out completely different if she and Reid had been less like brother and sister and more like two singletons who were attracted to each other. But that wasn’t the case.

With a roll of her shoulders, she hit the remote to the sound system, so Tina Turner could console Mac with words of wisdom about love having nothing to do with it, and picked up another bead. The doorbell chimed as she slid the needle tip into the silk, and she sent a filthy look over her shoulder at the solid wooden door. She’d specifically texted her friends with a do not disturb me or else message earlier in the day because she had to finish up the last of the beading tonight.

The doorbell ding-donged again.

MacKenna stabbed the needle tip into the dummy’s stuffed boob and crossed the workshop to the building’s entrance. She pushed down the sleeves of her over sized merino sweater she’d scored from Reid’s castoffs, in preparation for the cold blast of night air that would sweep inside before she could get rid of this unexpected intrusion. Pity help them if they were selling a new Internet plan.

She whipped open the door, fully prepared to deliver a lecture for ignoring the “No Salespeople” sign salespeople often pretended not to see. Only it wasn’t a fake-smiling guy with a clipboard and a sales pitch that started before she could say, “Get the hell off my doorstep.”

It was Joe.

A non-smiling Joe. Oh—and sexy. He was all broody and smoldering, his broad shoulders hunched under his leather jacket because of the icy wind. But he still looked like a s’more—crunchy-tough on the outside, yummy and sweet on the inside.

“Got a minute?” he asked.

“How did you find out where I lived?” Not at all welcoming, but never mind.

“I followed the snarky vibes across town until I spotted the neon sign outside. Figured this was the I Hate Joe Whelan headquarters.”

She dished out her best don’t screw with me stare.

“All right, all right.” He showed her his palms. “I’m not a stalker. I found you the old-fashioned way with an online phone directory. Can I come in, MacKenna?”

The gruff tone of his voice when he said her name sent all sorts of delicious shivers scurrying through her.

Must be the cold.

She was tempted for a moment to let the heavy door swing shut in his face, but then she remembered their conversation two nights ago. Guess they were making an effort to be civil grown-ups now. And since her brain had gone on strike, refusing to invent a plausible excuse, she stepped aside to let him enter.

Which he did—striding in as if he owned the place. His gaze skimmed over the hardwood floor and the flight of stairs leading upward. It traversed the steel girder ceiling and the industrial-style lighting she and her dad had chosen to make a feature of, rather than try to hide. The building had been gutted when she and her dad first inspected it—structurally sound but stripped to the basics. Mac had fallen in love with the space immediately. Six months after she’d taken out a mortgage on the building and her dad and his small construction company had hammered in the last nail, Mac moved in. She’d made many of her own improvements in the past two years, working in whatever downtime she could find—painting, sanding, tiling—she’d become a regular at Invercargill’s hardware store.

Joe paused just inside the entranceway by a frame mounted on one of the whitewashed concrete walls. Behind the glass was a sheet of paper with a childish sketch of a bride. A typed note was included: MacKenna, age eight, first bridal design. Next to it was a pinned, Barbie-doll-sized dress that Mac’s mum had copied and made from the sketch.

He leaned in and touched the tip of his finger to eight-year-old MacKenna’s flourishing signature.

“Have you always been fascinated with weddings?” he asked.

“Pretty much.” She could hardly deny it when the evidence was right under his nose. “I married our boy cat, Pickles, to the neighbors’ Persian when I was six. The groom wore a black ribbon bow tie, and the bride—who was also male but I didn’t care—had a veil stolen from part of my white tutu Mum was sewing for my end-of-year ballet recital.”

“How did it go?”

“A bit of a train wreck,” she admitted with a grin. “The two cats were arch enemies and didn’t enjoy being locked together in my bedroom. They scratched the hell out of me until I conceded they weren’t ready to tie the knot after all.”

“A sensible decision. Marriage is forever.” He gave her a piercing glance. “Which is why I’m here.”

Warning bells tolled loudly in her head, and all manner of jumbled thoughts crowded in on each other. Had Joe changed his mind about her participation in the breakdown of his relationship, and was he about to verbally let rip? That wouldn’t be so bad. If she could deal with bridezillas, she could deal with a pissed-off Irishman.

Only he didn’t look angry, not even slightly annoyed. Just…intensely focused. Oh. God. Was Joe seeing someone nobody on the island knew about? Was he serious enough to need her help as a wedding planner?

Heat blossomed on her chest, radiating outward from her rapidly beating heart. “Are you getting married?”

He leaned against the wall, arms folded, head cocked to the side. “Do I look like the marryin’ type to you?”

Truthfully, standing there in blue jeans and a leather jacket layered over a casual button-down shirt snug enough to hint of his muscles beneath, he looked like the kind of guy she’d automatically avoid in social situations but would be unable to stop giving second, third, and fourth glances to. Men like Joe—with fascinating layers and the unnerving ability to catch her off guard—would normally cause her to head in the opposite direction, toward men who were more “what you see is what you get.”

“Sure you do,” she said. “Nice, respectable doctor, ready to settle down and start a family.”

“I’m not ready to settle.”

The way he said it didn’t make it sound as if he were referring to white picket fences, but rather about what sort of woman he was interested in. If in fact he wanted one. And why wouldn’t he? Unless he still wasn’t over Sofia.

Her stomach gave a painful little flip. Turning away, she stalked over to her dressmaker’s dummy and sat back down on the stool.

“Who’s getting married?” she asked, plucking out the needle. “I assume that’s why you’re here?”

Because to imagine another reason for him turning up at her home…

Joe moved in close behind her, apparently studying her sewing technique. The fine hairs on her nape—exposed because she’d twisted her long hair into a loose knot on her head—stood to attention.

“My sister is. Or so she claims,” he added after a beat.

“You don’t sound happy about it.”

Understatement of the year. She picked out a tiny bead from the tray sitting on another stool beside the dummy. Out of the corner of her eye, Mac followed Joe’s swagger to the patternmaking table opposite her.

He leaned his butt against it, bracing his spread palms on the smooth surface and crossing his ankles.

“I’m not,” he said. “That’s why I’m here.”

MacKenna aimed the needle tip at the tiny bead hole, but succeeded only in pricking her finger. “I would think I’d be the last shoulder you’d want to cry on.”

“I’m not looking for sympathy.”

No. Why would he look for anything from her? She concentrated her full attention on the bead that must have a smaller hole than all the others because she just couldn’t get the damn needle through. “What do you want, then?”

“For you to convince my sister not to make the biggest mistake of her life.”

That got her attention—that, and the needle slipping through the bead to stab into her fingertip. Mac dropped the needle, which swung on the thread like a pendulum of doom while the bead pinged onto the floor. A pearl of bright-red blood bubbled up from her finger and she shoved the stool away from the dummy before a drop could stain the pristine white silk. She popped her fingertip into her mouth and sucked hard to stem the flow.

“What da ’ell are oo ’alken ’bout?” she asked around her finger.

A coppery taste flooded over her tongue, and she grimaced, glancing up to see Joe’s gaze locked on her mouth.

A muscle bunched in his jaw, and the corner of his mouth ticked up. “I’m beginning to think I jinx you.”

Instead of answering verbally, Mac pointed the finger of her other hand at him and said “you do” with her eyes.

“That’s unhygienic, you know,” he added. “Your finger’s covered in germs.”

Mac chose a different finger to extend and swiveled her wrist. The crease in the corner of Joe’s mouth grew deeper, and his eyes danced blue fire as if he was about to laugh out loud.

The door to Reid’s room swung open and he leaned against the frame, bare-chested with a collared shirt in each hand.

Oh damn. Reid! She’d forgotten he was still there.

“Which one, black or tan?” Reid looked straight at Mac, the relaxed grin on his face disclosing he was unaware they had company.

A series of small sounds—a scuff of shoes, a hiss of indrawn breath easily identifiable, even above the opening riff intro from Survivor’s “Eye of the Tiger”—and Joe lurched away from the table. Mac’s eyes flew wide at the bristling animosity pouring off his squared shoulders and clenched fists.

“You,” he said. “You fuckin’ prick.”