The Wedding Wrecker, page 4
"No, because you'll just come up with more excuses." Lily leaned forward. "Em, it's been three years. You can't let one bad experience—"
"Bad experience?" I laughed. "Lily, my career almost ended. Do you know how long it took to rebuild my reputation? How many tiny, perfect, absolutely-nothing-can-go-wrong weddings I had to do before people would trust me again?"
"And now they do trust you," she said softly. "Which means it's time to trust yourself."
Marcus cleared his throat. "If it helps, my family are all on board with you planning it for us."
I blinked. "You already talked to Marcus’ family about this?"
"The Wellingtons have certain... expectations," he said with a slightly apologetic smile. “Lily wanted to make sure they were okay with it before we asked you.”
Two years ago, Lily met Marcus and had no idea who he was related to for weeks. Eventually, she learned his family is old money. They had ties to the Rockafellers, apparently, and were heavily involved in the Standard Oil empire. According to my internet searches, they were multi-millionaires with gorgeous properties in their name across the country. Being hired by them to plan a wedding…
It made the Harrison-McNamara wedding look like a courthouse wedding by comparison.
"Did you know about this?" I asked Brad, who had been suspiciously quiet.
He held up his hands. "I just came for the steak. And you,” he added with an awkward smile.
Lily looked at me, eyes pleading. "No pressure. Just consider it."
Right. No pressure. Just my sister's wedding. At one of the most exclusive resorts in Colorado. For one of the wealthiest families in the country.
What could possibly go wrong?
"I'll think about it," I said, knowing I'd already lost this battle.
"Perfect!" Lily clapped her hands. "Oh, and one more tiny detail..."
"What?"
"The wedding's in six months."
I choked a little, coughing into my napkin. "Six months? For a winter destination wedding at the Timber Vale Lodge? That's impossible. I don’t even know if they’d still have an opening."
"Marcus’ dad called in a favor already. They’re holding our date until we can confirm. Besides, nothing's impossible for Emma Marshall," Lily said with complete confidence. "You're the one who taught me that."
Yeah, but that was the old Emma. The one who believed in fairy tales and happy endings. The one who hadn't watched a perfect wedding implode in spectacular fashion. The one who hadn't been stupid enough to fall for—
No. Not going there.
I looked at my sister's hopeful face, then at Marcus's encouraging smile. Even Brad looked invested now, though that might have just been indigestion. He was going pretty hard on the greasy appetizers and bread.
"Fine," I heard myself say. "I'll do it."
Lily squealed and launched herself around the table to hug me. "I knew you would! This is going to be amazing."
"But," I added, extracting myself from her grip, "we do it my way. No surprises. No last-minute changes. And absolutely no uninvited guests."
"Of course," Marcus agreed smoothly. "Whatever you need."
I took another long drink of wine, trying to quiet the voice in my head screaming that this was a terrible idea.
"To new beginnings," Lily proposed, raising her glass.
We all clinked glasses. As I sipped my wine, I found myself studying Marcus for signs of trouble. Ever since Ireland, I’d had the irrational fear that every single wedding was going to blow up in my face. Somehow, I hadn’t had a single disaster in three years, but it was as if the scar left behind wouldn’t heal.
I couldn’t look at the “perfect, happy couple” and not wonder how it would all come crashing down for them.
But that was silly. I was just being paranoid. Marcus came from so much money he could have any girl he wanted. He was handsome, rich, and charming. And my sister wasn’t the kind of girl you let go when you got a hold of her.
I found myself smiling as we drank to our toast.
Maybe Lily was right. Maybe planning this huge, high-stakes wedding could actually be a good thing.
The only downside was I’d finally have to meet these mega-rich Wellingtons in the flesh for the first time. And I assumed it would also mean Marcus’ mother getting heavily involved with the planning process.
A multi-millionaire old money mother dipping her hands in my business… Yay.
I forced a smile in Lily’s direction.
Potential disaster, ghosts of the wedding wrecker, and a head-on-collision with old money and all the pretentious looks that would come along with it.
Yay. This might just be horrible.
6
JAMES
"Your nine o'clock is here," Derek announced, leaning against my office doorframe. "Fair warning—she's already crying."
I looked up from the stack of surveillance photos on my desk. Even after all these years, it was hard not to notice how Derek commanded attention just by existing. He had that kind of presence—tall, dark-haired, with the kind of face that made the office assistants constantly find excuses to deliver files in person. But his easy grin and perpetual bedhead kept him from looking too polished, which probably explained why women found him so approachable.
"They're always crying," I said.
"Yeah, but this one brought her own fancy monogrammed handkerchief. If you’re going to noisily cry, why not do it in style?" He dropped into one of my client chairs, propping his feet on my desk. "Also, Carol in accounting wants to know if you're ever going to turn in your expense reports, or if she should just assume all those hotel bar receipts are for 'investigating.'"
I knocked his feet off my desk. "They are for investigating."
"Uh huh." Derek had been my best friend since college, and somehow I'd let him talk me into handling the business side of my... unique enterprise. "And that bottle of Macallan 18?"
"Research."
"Into what? Liver failure?"
I ignored him, straightening my tie as I stood. "How much time do I have?"
"Enough to tell me why you're still wearing that tie."
I glanced down at the dark blue silk. "What's wrong with my tie?"
"Nothing. Except it’s the same one you wore yesterday.”
I made an effort not to touch it self-consciously. Oops.
Derek leaned forward, eyes searching my face. “You know, you always blow me off when I bring it up. But I still think you haven’t gotten over that girl you told me about. Your Irish flower.”
“Stop calling her that. I was drunk, and I was in my feelings. She’s not even Irish, so it hardly makes sense.”
Derek smirked. “Anyway… this Irish flower of yours rocks your world. Suddenly, my friend who is usually going home with a different woman every night has lost interest in dating. He’s ‘taking a break’. Well, James, I’m calling bullshit.” He spread his palms with a shrug. “I think you still have feelings for your little flower, and you’re saving yourself for her. Frankly, it’s adorable.”
“This is why I keep you in the office and don’t let you investigate weddings. You’re assuming a hell of a lot. And you’re completely wrong.”
“Am I?” Derek asked. His smug smile said it all.
I leaned back in my chair, arms folded. “Was there something you actually needed, or were you just here to annoy me?”
“Your nine-o-clock. Or did you forget because I mentioned your Irish flower, and all your thoughts went to your long lost love?”
“You can go,” I said firmly, but not without the faintest hint of a smile. “Send her in.”
Derek stood with a sarcastic salute. “For the record,” he said, leaning across my desk and lowering his voice. “You may be fooling yourself. But nobody else is falling for it.”
With a knock of his knuckles on my desk, Derek was gone.
The woman who entered looked exactly how I’d expected, complete with designer clothes and a monogrammed handkerchief she was currently twisting between manicured fingers.
"Mrs. Holloway?" I gestured to the chair Derek had vacated. "Please, sit. Tell me why you're here."
She perched on the edge of the seat. "It's about my daughter. She's engaged to... I think he's going to hurt her."
I kept my face neutral as she explained her concerns. The fiancé was too smooth, too perfect. Money disappeared from joint accounts. There were late-night calls he wouldn't explain.
"Have you told your daughter your concerns?"
Mrs. Holloway dabbed at her eyes. "She says I'm being paranoid. That I need to trust her judgment."
"And you understand how this works, right? They gave you the paperwork?"
“Well, yes,” she said, twisting that handkerchief again. “But I was thinking maybe we could save her the drama. If you… find something, I mean. Couldn’t we just show her quietly? Let her make her own decision?”
“No,” I said firmly. “That’s not what we do here.” I found my thoughts picking at old wounds—thinking of all the people who knew the truth and the obvious signs I’d ignored.
“I don’t understand why you can’t just—”
“Let me help you understand, then,” I said, sounding more harsh than I intended. “Because I’ve tried it both ways. Let’s say we find out this guy is cheating or scamming her. We bring the evidence to your daughter. She’s going to do one of two things. One: she gives him another chance because he lathers on the perfect apology and promises to make it up to her. Meanwhile, he’ll go on lying and staying a snake. Two: she actually breaks it off, which almost nobody does.”
“Well,” she said, lips working quietly as she gathered her thoughts. “She wouldn’t stay with a cheater. And you said it yourself… she might break things off.”
“To put it frankly, I care deeply about preventing failed marriages, Mrs. Holloway. I don’t like investing my time to investigate couples if I don’t have assurances I can do things my way. I’m not interested in leaving it up to the bride or groom to do the right thing, because most of them don’t. So if you hire me, you’ll have to sign that you understand exactly how I operate. If there’s cause, I’ll wreck the wedding. It’s as simple as that. Of course, there’s a chance I’ll find nothing. In that case, you only have to pay to cover my investigation expenses, and no one ever has to know you hired me to look into their relationship.”
After Mrs. Holloway left, Derek reappeared with coffee. "So? Taking the case?"
"Yeah." I accepted the cup. "And the guy's definitely hiding something."
"You always say that."
"I'm usually right."
"Usually." He dropped a stack of papers on my desk. "But not always. Remember the Richardson wedding last month? Guy was clean as a whistle."
I scowled. That had been... disappointing.
"You almost looked sad about it," Derek continued. "Like maybe you wanted him to be guilty. Which is kind of fucked up, if you think about it."
"I'm helping people."
"Are you? Or are you just spreading your own trauma around like a party favor? Do you ever wonder if this business of yours is just keeping the wound open? I mean… Katie was years ago, man. And you still haven’t ever seemed the same since that day. One guy can only suffer so many wounds before he bleeds out, you know. You’ve either got to close them up or stop letting yourself get hurt."
I shot him a look. "Am I paying you to be my therapist, or handle the bullshit paperwork I don’t want to handle?"
"Fine, avoid the subject. But you know I'm right." He headed for the door, then paused. "Oh, almost forgot. This came for you."
He tossed an envelope onto my desk. Heavy cream paper, expensive. The return address was for a law firm I didn't recognize.
Inside was a single sheet of paper:
Dear Mr. Carter,
My daughter is engaged to marry a man I don’t trust. I heard about what you do from my older daughter, and I never thought I’d need your services, but here I am. Her fiancé is part of a very influential and powerful family, so I would need to know that every aspect of our arrangement could stay completely confidential.
Is that possible?
The man I want you to investigate is Marcus Wellington III, and my daughter is Lily Marshall. They’re planning to get married in five months at an exclusive resort in Breckrenridge, Colorado. I’m sure I could get you invited to the wedding by claiming you were an old friend, or something of the sort. Would that work?
Please get back to me as soon as you can.
Martha Marshall
I read it twice, something nagging at the back of my mind. I wasn’t sure I recognized the names, but something about the letter was setting off warning bells.
"Hey, Derek?"
"Yeah?"
"Run a search on Marcus Wellington III."
He pulled out his phone, fingers blurring across the screen. Then he whistled low. "Damn. Old money. Like, really old money. Getting married in December at some fancy resort in Colorado. Lucky bride. Hm.” More typing and a few clicks. “Actually, maybe he’s the lucky one. That bride looks like a supermodel, but more down to Earth. Like the girl next door on steroids. Sheesh. No wonder he wants to tie the knot."
My blood ran cold as I saw the photo on the page Derek had pulled up.
Marcus Wellington III and his fiancée, Lily Marshall, smiled up at me. But it was the second picture that caught my eye. Lower down on the page, there was a photo of a slightly younger version of Lily with her sister beaming at the camera. The caption below said Lily’s own sister was planning the wedding.
Of course she was.
And of course I recognized the face of her sister. Her sister was Emma Marshal. My Irish Flower, as Derek liked to tease.
Fuck.
7
EMMA
The Timber Vale Lodge looked like something out of a fairytale—if fairytales had valet parking and rooms starting at two thousand dollars a night, at least.
I stepped out of my rental car, immediately grateful for the heated driveway keeping the snow at bay. Between the puffy, snow-coated trees, the mountains blanketed in white, and the chill in the air, I knew I was definitely not in San Francisco anymore. Thankfully, the sun was bright and warm in a way that cut through the cold a little.
I’d been warned, but I was learning first hand about altitude adjustment as well. We were around nine thousand feet high, and even lifting my carry-on out of my Uber’s trunk had me winded. Supposedly, it could improve in as quick as a day, or it could take months.
Yay. As if I need any help feeling unathletic.
A group of guests glided past in designer ski wear, all smiles and happy faces. Meanwhile, I was pretty sure my nose had turned an attractive shade of red from the cold. My only “heavy” jacket was definitely not rated for this kind of cold, either. I had considered upgrading before the trip, but the good ones cost too much for my budget, which was currently fueled by very small wedding planning. I did occasionally pick up a few extra dollars doing freelance photography gigs, but those weren’t anything I could count on.
"Miss Marshall?" A uniformed attendant appeared at my elbow before I even approached the main steps leading up to the lobby. "Welcome to Timber Vale. May I take your bags?"
"Only if you promise to give them back!” I joked.
The attendant stared at me until I cleared my throat awkwardly.
“Sure,” I said quietly, handing over my carry-on and suitcase.
The man headed off with my bags, leaving me to lift my eyes to the resort itself. It was hard not to feel intimidated by the massive log and stone structure looming before me. It managed to look both rustic and obscenely expensive. Thick, natural wood beams and countless architectural details covered the outside of the lodge. Somewhere above, smoke curled from multiple chimneys into the crystal-clear mountain air.
An actual honest-to-god sleigh with horses stood near the entrance, apparently waiting to take guests on rides through the surrounding winter wonderland. Because of course it did.
Some deeply buried, definitely romantic and fantasy-land version of me squealed a little bit. I suppressed it as much as I could.
Fantasies set people up for disappointment, Emma. You know that.
Before “the wedding wrecker” and the subsequent Irish disaster, I probably would have already asked if I could sit in the sleigh or pet the horses. Instead, I let out a weary sigh and averted my eyes, heading for the main entrance.
My phone buzzed. Maggie.
"Are you an ice cube yet?" she asked when I answered. “Are you absolutely freaking out because your sister’s wedding is only like… two weeks away? Or is it one?”
"I'm here,” I said, laughing softly at her barrage of questions. I followed the attendant with my bags through carved wooden doors into a lobby that took my breath away. An ornate stone fireplace dominated one wall, while antler chandeliers cast warm light over leather chairs and plush sofas. A full wall of windows gave a sweeping view of the snow-capped peaks and one of the ski slopes outside. I was already daydreaming about curling up in one of the comfy chairs with a good book so I could drink in the ambiance—if planning the wedding of my life didn’t keep me too busy, at least. "It's..."
"Overwhelming?" Maggie asked.
"I was going to say perfect." I lowered my voice as I passed the group in the fancy ski wear, who were now complaining about the champagne selection at the slope-side bar. "But also that."
"How's the altitude treating you?"
"Like I aged fifty years overnight." I paused to catch my breath. "Walking up a couple stairs makes me feel like I just ran a marathon.”
"Just wait until you try skiing,” Maggie said.
"Bold of you to assume I'm going anywhere near those death slopes. I've seen way too many movies where the girl tries to ski to impress some guy and ends up taking out half the resort."
"Speaking of guys trying to impress you..."
"Please don't."
"Three texts this week! That's commitment."
