“I can’t believe we’re really doing this,” Carolina Cantrell said to her fiancé, Seamus O’Grady, late on Saturday afternoon as they took a break in the preparations for the party they were hosting later in the day. They’d hired their pilot friend, Slim, to oversee the preparation of an authentic New England clambake, which was currently simmering in a seaweed-filled pit in the backyard.

“Still time to chicken out,” he said in the charming Irish accent that had worked its magic on her for close to a year now.

“I’m not going to chicken out, because that’s exactly what you expect me to do.”

“So that’s the only reason you’re going through with it? To save face with me?”

“Yep. That’s the only reason.”

His green eyes narrowed with displeasure that made her laugh.

“You’re so easy to rile.” Inciting him—in all ways possible to incite a man—had become her favorite pastime, especially since she’d stopped trying to fight the tsunami known as Seamus O’Grady. He’d pursued her with relentless determination and managed to wear her down until her concerns about their eighteen-year age difference seemed silly and insignificant when stacked against the overwhelming love she felt for him.

“I don’t find you funny today,” he said, sounding grumpy. “Not one bit funny.”

“Yes, you do. You always think I’m funny.”

“Normally, I do. Today—not so much.”

Carolina took an assessing look at her handsome fiancé and came to a startling conclusion. “Are you nervous?”

“What? No. Of course I’m not nervous. What in the world do I have to be nervous about?”

“Um, well, I could state the obvious…”

“I’m not nervous, Carolina, so get that right out of your pretty head and get back to work.”

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong. If you’re not nervous, then what is it?”

“Nothing is wrong except for you poking at me when we’ve got so much to do to get ready.”

The comment normally would’ve made her mad. Poking at him? She was not poking at him. Although… She crossed the kitchen to where he was sorting plastic utensils and wrapped her arms around him from behind. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I swear to you, love, nothing is wrong. Not one single thing.”

“Then why aren’t you yourself today?”

“How am I not myself?”

“You’re prickly, which is usually my thing.”

“Perhaps you’ve rubbed off on me in more ways than one.” The sexual innuendo was much more in keeping with what she expected from him.

“So you’re not going to tell me?” She encouraged him to turn and face her.