Only his sped . . . from his vantage point, in any event.

Hunter shoved one hand into the linen pocket of his pants and took a step toward her. He offered his arm.

Instead of taking it, she lifted her dark eyes to his. “We don’t have to pretend affection here,” she reminded him.

That burned.

“You can’t be stabbing me in the back when you’re at my side,” he told her. “And right now, you’re the only person on this island who tells me to my face to jump off a cliff.”

A soft grin started to lift her lips. “You need assurance no one will push you to a splattering death?”

He winced. “I’ll stay clear of sharp edges.”

He nudged his elbow her way a second time.

She took it.

“I like him.”

Meg stood beside her mother-in-law and observed the newlyweds as Gabi introduced Hunter to one of the chefs who cornered them as they walked into the dining room.

“How do you know if you like him? You just met him,” Meg said.

“First impressions are important. Gabriella walked off his plane with a smile on her face. One I haven’t seen in some time.”

“That could be all Gabi and not Hunter.” Meg and Simona stood in front of their table, neither taking their seats. “Val can’t stand the man.”

Simona offered a snort.

Neither of them voiced what they both knew. Val had liked Alonzo, a fact that still haunted him.

The couple broke away from the chef and headed toward them.

Meg glanced around, wondered what was keeping Val. He’d been on the way down to the dining room when she’d agreed to walk Simona over.

The resort’s main dining room was lush with tropical floral arrangements and white linen. Several guests were already well into their meals, and many others were coming in for a formal meal.

Meg and Val took a few meals a week in the main dining room. Simona insisted on torturing—or teaching, as the older woman put it—Meg to cook.

If there was one thing Meg wasn’t, it was a cook. She managed pasta for fear of an untimely death at the hands of her mother-in-law. The relentless woman never eased up on Meg’s ability to cook a proper Italian meal.

The only good news in the forced education narrowed down to the bottle of wine she polished off with every pasta-from-scratch lesson.

Gabi kissed her mother when they arrived at the table. “It’s like I never left.”

“Then come home,” Simona suggested.

Gabi glanced up at Hunter, then back to her mother. “Not yet, Mama.”

Simona grunted, the sound so familiar Meg found herself laughing. She patted the space beside her. “You’re sitting here, Mr. Blackwell. Gabi, on my other side.”

An amused grin fell over Hunter’s face as he pulled out chairs.

“I’m going to see what’s keeping Val,” Meg told them as she excused herself.

She found him lingering outside the doors of the dining room greeting some of the guests. The act wasn’t new, but his timing was off. Val was, above all things, prompt.

The same worry she’d seen etched between his eyes when he heard of his sister’s marriage was tattooed there again.

She slid her arm around his waist and wiggled into the brief conversation he was having.

Val kept his tone even and wrapped an arm over her shoulders. “I’m delighted you’ve enjoyed your stay.”

“We’re already planning our return trip, Mr. Masini.”

All pleasantries aside, the older couple moved inside.

“Everyone is seated,” Meg whispered.

He grumbled . . . not the grunt of his mother, but close.

“I don’t like him, cara. How am I going to manage to eat with him at my table?”

She squeezed the hand holding his waist. “One bite at a time. C’mon. Your mom already separated the two of them. And I’ll sit next to Hunter to help buffer.”

Val kissed the top of her head and took her hand as they walked toward their party.

Hunter stood briefly when Val pulled out Meg’s chair. The gesture was normally reserved for those over the age of fifty . . . or from lands well beyond the shores of the Florida Keys. Meg noticed an appreciative glance from Simona. Even Gabi glanced at her temporary husband and managed a glimpse of a smile.

“I haven’t had time to truly settle, Val, but from what I can see, you have a spectacular island here.”

The compliment, freely given by every guest, wasn’t accepted as easily from Hunter Blackwell.

“It serves its purpose.”

Meg placed a hand under the table to Val’s knee. The man was a ball of tension. His jaw twitched, his eyes kept in line with Hunter without so much as a single blink.

Meg diverted the conversation. “Tell me what’s going on back in California,” she said to Gabi.

“It’s quiet . . . well, except for Jordan’s condition.”

Meg knew Sam’s sister wasn’t healthy.

“How’s Sam doing?”

“I haven’t seen much of her,” Gabi told her. “We’ve spoken a few times. Eliza has been by her side more than not.”

They discussed Sam’s sister and broke the tension between the men, but didn’t manage to lighten the mood at the table.

The waiter arrived with two bottles of wine. Val proceeded to sample the wine and wave his hand in agreement. “I’ve heard you’re breaking into the oil business, Blackwell.”

Hunter lifted the glass recently poured. “I am. Pipelines, actually.”

“With the country investing so much in solar, isn’t oil a risk?” Meg asked.