Fiona pulls back an inch and breaks our kiss with a wide smile. She takes a deep breath as she laughs and holds my cheeks to keep me at bay. “But…” she says, twisting my gut.

  “What?” I ask.

  Her eyes flash with worry and I brace for the worst. “I don’t have anything to wear,” she says.

  I laugh. “You’ll find something.” I kiss her again, long and deep. “Just meet me at the chapel across the street in an hour,” I say, holding her close. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

  Fiona nods, showing the faintest tremble. A little fear. A little excitement. But happy.

  So very happy.

  “Okay,” she says.

  17

  Fiona

  This was not how I pictured my wedding day.

  For starters, it was a day. Not near midnight. And it was mid-summer. June, perhaps. It definitely was not a few short sleeps away from Halloween night in the middle of Las Vegas.

  I was to be surrounded by family and friends. Relatives I rarely spoke to would travel miles just to see me in some expensive gown, most likely made exclusively for me by some famous designer.

  It wasn’t meant to be like this.

  For a moment, I mourn it. But it’s only a moment.

  Suddenly, all of that seems so trivial. It doesn’t matter what date it is or how few guests are here. Hell, even the dress seems so very stupid with every second that ticks by.

  All that matters is Kingston.

  And Mildred, of course. I couldn’t exactly do this without her.

  She’d murder me in my sleep if I even tried.

  I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror with my make-up brushes laid out on the counter in front of me. Putting on my face every day has always been such a simple thing. The key to wearing make-up is to make it look like you’re not wearing any at all, as they say. The phrase is especially true for a Garland girl. Anything too dark or too red was strictly forbidden, but tonight…

  I set my usual light pink lipstick aside and pull another tube out of my make-up bag. I pull the cap off and give it a twist, revealing a bright shade of crimson. Barely used, of course, but just rebellious enough for a night like this.

  I lean forward and press it to my lips as a knock strikes my hotel room door. My heart skips twice as I make my way into the suite to answer it, expecting Mildred. Only twenty minutes left before we have to meet Kingston at the chapel.

  I open the door and instantly regret not glancing through the peephole first.

  Roland stands in the hallway, still wearing his suit from dinner earlier. His tie is loose and dangling over either side of his neck. His jacket shows the wrinkles of a long day’s work. His grin is that of a victorious man.

  I don’t bother smiling back. “Roland,” I say. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see my future wife,” he says as if it were obvious.

  I recoil and move to close the door. He raises his hands, placing one of them on the frame to keep me from slamming it in his face.

  “Wait, Fiona. Please—”

  “Now isn’t a good time, Roland,” I say.

  “I know you’re upset but, please, let me explain.”

  “Explain quickly.”

  “It wasn’t fair,” he says. “We should have told you what was going on, but we had to do something fast to get ahead of those numbers and—”

  I exhale with impatience. He raises a begging hand.

  “But I wanted you to know that…” he pauses, swallowing hard, “that I meant everything I said at that table. You truly are remarkable. I can’t picture any other woman standing beside me for the rest of my life.”

  My gut churns at the thought, but I also sway with guilt. There’s no doubt in my mind that Roland really feels this way about me. Was I wrong before? Has my father been the one manipulating him this whole time? Is Roland just another pawn in the political machinations of a man hell-bent on taking the oval office to settle his own personal vendettas?

  Still, I can’t give him what he wants. Not without betraying everything I am.

  Roland pushes slightly on my door. “Can I come in?” he asks. “We can talk some more.”

  “No,” I answer. “Like I said, Roland, it’s not a good time.”

  His eyes narrow with suspicion. “Is someone in there with you?”

  I shake my head. “No, but—”

  Roland shoves at the door, taking me by surprise. I jump back before the door can collide with my face. He bolts around me into the suite.

  “Roland!”

  “Hello?”

  He stomps from the main room into the bathroom.

  “Roland, there’s no one here!”

  He ignores me. I hear nothing but the sounds of his shoes on the tile floor. After tossing the shower curtain about and even searching behind the door for this mystery visitor of mine, he returns to the suite and throws open the closet door to look in there, too.

  “Satisfied?” I ask, teeming with anger.

  “No, I’m not.” He spins in my direction and points a stiff finger at me. “In fact, I—”

  “Mr. Banks.”

  I flinch with relief at the voice behind me.

  Mildred stands in the hallway with a large garment bag draped over her arm. Her other hand rests hard on her hip, reflecting the annoyance emblazoned across her face.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” she asks, staring daggers at Roland.

  He drops his pointing hand and glares at her. “No, ma’am.”

  She takes several wide steps inside. “Then, you should probably say goodnight,” she says, her voice as calm as standing water. “Fiona has a long day tomorrow and it’s far too late for visitors.”

  Roland scoffs but he adjusts his stance, rolling his shoulders back and nodding as if he knows something we don’t. “All right, then,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’ll see my fiancée tomorrow.”

  I hold my breath, willing myself not to visibly cringe at his tone.

  Roland turns away from Mildred and looks at me. “Goodnight, Fiona,” he says.

  “Goodnight, Roland,” I say, my voice breaking.

  He takes his leave, his dark eyes quickly searching the corners of my suite again before I can close the door.

  As soon as it latches, I collapse into Mildred’s arms.

  “Thank god you came back when you did,” I say.

  “What’d he do?” she asks, rubbing my back. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No, he was just loud and…” I step back to look around, “he started searching the place as if I were hiding someone.”

  “Kingston?”

  I shudder. “Do you think he knows?”

  She shrugs. “I didn’t tell him.”

  I place a palm on my chest. My heart slams against it. If he had done this just one night before, he would have found Kingston for sure. I don’t even want to begin to picture what would have happened after that.

  “Mildred, what am I doing?” I ask, breathing hard.

  Somehow, she smiles and places her free hand on my cheek. “Oh, none of that,” she says. “You haven’t got time for cold feet now.”

  I laugh. “No?”

  “Absolutely not.” She pinches the zipper on the garment bag. “And I didn’t spend the last half-hour running around the Strip looking for this to not get to see you wear it.”

  She pulls the zipper down. I gasp at the white dress hidden inside.

  “Mildred, I…” I whisper.

  “You can thank me later,” she says, dropping the bag in my arms. “We’ve gotta get you to the chapel.”

  I stand still, running my hand along the shimmering satin inside the bag. The dress is elegantly simple with a halter top and a long skirt, but I honestly couldn’t picture a more perfect dress to be married in.

  What would I ever do without you, Mildred Swanson?

  I throw my arms around her again. “Thank you,” I say.

  Mildred gives me a little squeeze. “You’re welcome.”

  “No, I mean it.” I look at her. My oldest friend in the world. The closest thing to a sister I’ve ever had. “You’re risking so much helping me and Kingston.”

  She waves a hand. “Well, it’s either this or…” she gestures at the door, an obvious dig at Roland, “the alternative.”

  I chuckle. “Right.”

  Mildred points at my swollen eyes. “Don’t you dare start crying,” she says. “Because if you start, then I’ll start, and then I’ll have to explain to your husband why he’s to have and to holding a puddle.”

  I wipe my lashes. “No crying.”

  “No crying,” she repeats.

  “Okay.” I shake my head. “I don’t know why I’m taking this so seriously anyway…”

  Mildred tilts her head. “What do you mean?”

  I sniff away the last tear. “Kingston mentioned an annulment,” I say. “He said this was to buy me some time to get away from Roland. I don’t think he feels the same way about me as I do about him.”

  “Oh, honey…” Mildred blinks twice. “That boy loves you.”

  “You think so?”

  “Fiona, the way he looks at you…” She sighs. “Some people wait their entire lives for that.”

  I swallow hard around the lump in my throat. Part of me knows she’s right, but the other part can’t help but tremble with doubt. Our affair has been so brief. Explosively wonderful, yes. But brief.

  Am I foolish to believe that love can happen so quickly?

  Still, I smile. I take the garment bag and return to the bathroom to finish my make-up.

  Because it’s my wedding night.

  Because regardless of all the doubts and fears of what could happen… how sweet would it be to be a Botsford? To have power of my own and the agency to do with it as I please?

  To stand at Kingston’s side.

  To be the only woman in his bed.

  Even if just for a little while?

  18

  Kingston

  I stand in the chapel entryway and wait.

  It’s a place I’ve looked at a thousand times before tonight. This little chapel has stood across the street from my family’s hotel since before the hotel was even built. It’s not uncommon — in fact, it’s ridiculously common — for couples to book the Plaza for their weddings. We partner with this chapel to make those dreams come true, and we have ever since the day my father walked my mother down this very aisle nearly thirty years ago.

  I suppose I always assumed I’d do the same someday, but I never expected someday to ever be tonight.

  And yet, here we are.

  Finally, a red sports car pulls up to the chapel and stops in front of me. The engine purrs into silence as the driver’s side door opens on the annoyed face of one of my oldest friends.

  Stella Walsh. The Botsford family lawyer’s daughter.

  She steps out in a pair of tight jeans and a baggy sweater with her short blonde bob blowing in the desert breeze. Not her usual attire but it’s not a usual night either.

  “You know…” She tosses her handbag over her arm and closes the car door. “When a man calls me up at this hour and says Stella, I need you, I don’t usually have to put my pants on.”

  I laugh. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “The Botsford family slogan.” She smirks. “I know it well.”

  “Did you get what I asked for?”

  She reaches into her handbag and pulls out the small, velvet box. “I had to bribe the security guard to let me into the boxes at this hour.”

  I reach for it, but she pulls it back out of my reach. “How much?” I ask.

  “A lot,” she answers, annoyed.

  “Well, I’ll pay you back.” I present my palm. “Gimme.”

  She doesn’t. “What’s it for?”

  “It’s a ring. What do you think it’s for?”

  “No, it’s an engagement ring. And we’re at a church.”

  I squint. “Didn’t you go to Yale?”

  She frowns. “Kingston.”

  “Stella.”

  “Why did you call me at eleven at night and ask me to fetch an engagement ring out of your family’s safe deposit box then meet you at a church?”

  “Because I’m getting married, I wanted to use my grandmother’s ring, and you’re the only person I could trust to get it for me.”

  Her head tilts in surprise. “Seriously?”

  I snatch the box from her with nimble fingers and snap it open to inspect the ring. The gold band is still just as vibrant as the last time I saw it on my grandmother’s hand, but it doesn’t hold a candle to the diamond sticking up out of its center.

  I may not be a jewel guy, but I know an expensive rock when I see it.

  “Seriously,” I say.

  “Getting married to who?”

  I close the box and stick it in my jacket pocket. “Before I tell you, you have to promise not to tell your dad.”

  She narrows her stark eyes. “Why not?”

  “Because he’ll tell my dad. I need complete attorney-client privilege, but I can’t trust him not to go running to my dad. They can’t know about this.”

  “Okay, you know I’m not an actual lawyer yet, right?” She points between us with ruby red fingernails. “We don’t have attorney-client privilege.”

  “We will someday when you’re running your dad’s practice. Might as well start now. And besides,” I smirk, “you still owe me a favor.”

  “Um, excuse you?” She slouches with attitude. “What the hell would you call the last hour of my life if not the most inconvenient favor you could have asked me?”

  “You’re right,” I say with a nod. “You’ve done a lot already.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But now you’re gonna do just a little bit more.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  I flash a teasing smile. “Because I know you, Stella, and I know for a fact that you’ll be kicking yourself if you miss this.”

  Stella shifts with curiosity as her gaze drifts over my shoulder toward the closed doors behind me. I waggle my brows, hinting at a juicy secret, knowing full well how much Stella Walsh can’t stand not being in-the-know.

  “Ah, hell.” She sighs loudly. “Fine. Who’s the broad?”

  “Not one word to anyone,” I say, hitting every syllable. “All right?”

  She nods. “You’ve got complete paralegal-jackass privilege.”

  I hold the door open for her and give the street outside a final look-over before following her.

  We stride through the foyer together and stop beneath the open archway leading to the chapel itself. A man stands at the front dressed all in black, the only reverend I could track down at this hour willing to say he was never here if someone asked. Mildred lingers on his left, chatting away with him, though he honestly doesn’t seem to mind her rapid-fire tone. And to his right…

  My queen.

  She arrived before in pants and a t-shirt but insisted on taking a few minutes to “freshen up” first. I didn’t mind. The ring hadn’t arrived yet and I was happy for the chance to give Stella a bit more time. I suspected the heavy garment bag on her arm housed a cocktail dress, something she’d traveled with for whatever event her father would force her to attend this weekend.

  I guess, considering the circumstances, I somehow never expected for my bride to look like a bride.

  Fiona catches my eye across the room. She smiles as my gaze drifts downward, traveling along her porcelain arms and riding the skirt down to the floor. Pure and white, positively radiant in ways no man has ever seen her before.

  No matter what happens, I know I’ll cherish this moment for the rest of my life.

  Stella swings forward, breaking my eyeline with Fiona. She takes a quick breath, then another, as she considers what to say.

  “Is that who I think it is?” she asks, her voice low and discreet.

  “Probably,” I answer.

  “That’s Fiona Garland.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “You’re marrying Fiona Garland?”

  I nod. “Yes, I am.”

  “Does her father know?”

  “No.”

  “Does yours?”

  “No.”

  “Your brother?”

  “Hell no.”

  “A housekeeper, perhaps?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “So, no one’s had the chance to talk you out of this yet?”

  “No.” I point at her opening mouth, cutting her off before she can speak again. “And no one’s going to so don’t even start, Stella.”

  She chortles. “Kingston, what the hell are you doing?”

  “I’m getting married.”

  “This isn’t a marriage! It’s the opening act of a Greek tragedy. How do you even know her?”

  “We met last year at the autumn party,” I say. “Didn’t see each other at all again until this year’s when… well, you know how these things go. We’ve been keeping a tight lid on it until now.”

  “Wow,” she says. “So, what’s the rush?”

  I swallow the bitter anger on my tongue. “Richard’s numbers are down,” I say. “They’re desperate to give him one last push before the election, so he had his campaign manager propose to Fiona tonight. And very publicly. It’ll be on the front page tomorrow.”

  “So, she’s engaged right now?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  “To another man?”

  I bite down. “Yes.”

  “And you’re marrying her because…?”

  “Because she doesn’t want it,” I say. “Fiona doesn’t have the means to get herself out of it, but I do.”

  “Kingston.” She cants her head. “There has got to be a simpler solution than—”

  “I’m in love with her, Stella,” I say. “It’s doesn’t get much simpler than that.”

  Her sharp eyes soften. “Does she know that?”

  I look over her head at Fiona. Our eyes meet again as if some cosmic line tugged us both toward each other at the same time. She smiles and my heart pumps warmth through my veins. I smile back and her cheeks burn as red as her lips.

 

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