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She was not to smile at Caleb Hawkins or any of his brothers. Anyone
but them. Our families had bruised each other for at least two generations.
So long, we rarely thought about the original dispute over a stretch of river
in the Yukon. But we never forgot, and neither did they.
In school, the Hawkins boys had played dirty, and as men, they cheated
in business, took shortcuts, and amassed wealth they hid like thieves.
Which was why they had been invited. Friends close. Enemies closer.
I couldn’t hear what Ella said back to him. Maybe it was the distance or
the music drowning them out. Maybe it was the rage of blood in my ears.
“Caleb,” I said. They stopped chatting and looked at me. “I see you’ve
met Ella.”
I almost said, “my wife,” but telling him before I told my family was no
less than a slap in the face.
“Ella.” He bowed slightly, holding her gaze. “Lovely. Is that short for
something?”
“Estella. I’m Estella Papillion.”
“Latin and French,” he replied, wresting control of the conversation
from me. “Estella’s Latin for star, and it suits you.”
“And Papillion,” she said, “is French for butterfly.”
“Of course.” He smirked with a seductiveness I didn’t like one bit.
“Ella,” I broke into their little flirtation before I broke his face, “this is
Caleb Hawkins.”
She tucked a dark curl behind her ear, exposing the lovely curve of her
throat.
“Pleasure,” Caleb said with a smarmy little twang that froze my
expression as I watched Ella with veneration and longing he must have
observed.
“So. Caleb,” I said, putting my arm over my wife’s shoulders. “Didn’t
get the memo about ties? I think the waitstaff has some extras.”
“I’m sure,” he said. “Well, great to meet you, Estella. Get this uptight
prick on the dance floor tonight before the stuffing rips his shirt.”
“I will,” she said with a wave as he walked away.
“Sorry about him. He’s a predator, so hide if you see him again.”
“Noted.”
“You look…” Gorgeous. Radiant. Stunning. “You look nice.”
“So do you.” She slid her hand under my jacket’s silk lapel for a
moment.