The Wedding Wrecker, page 5
“If I was responding? Maybe. But I’m not, so I’d call it harassment.”
“Come on. It’s kind of sweet.”
“I went on one date with him over a month ago now. And I told him in completely clear, unambiguous terms that I didn’t think it was going to work out.”
“Didn’t think,” Maggie chirped, as if she had discovered a vital clue.
“Oh, come on. I was just trying to put it nicer than saying ‘we have literally nothing in common and we have about as much chemistry as a lukewarm glass of water.”
“Hey, water has chemistry. Hydrogen bonding with oxygen. It’s basically the building block of all complex chemistry.”
“Bad example,” I sighed. “But I’m really not interested in Kyle. At all. Yesterday he sent me a photo of his lunch with the caption 'wish you were here.' It was a protein shake."
"Men are weird." Maggie paused. "Though you could do worse. He's stable, successful—"
"Not interested. Just like I told him," I finished. "Besides, I'm here to work. No distractions. I already had to block him on Instagram after he liked every single one of my posts from the last year."
"Right. But I feel like it’s my duty as your closest friend to point out the obvious.”
“Why do I feel like your point is neither going to be obvious or necessary?”
“Which is,” Maggie continued, unbothered by my question, “that you haven’t been the same since Ireland. Before that, you would’ve been daydreaming about these guys you’ve dated. You would’ve been adding to your little ‘secret’ wedding board. And now? You’re like a crotchety old woman who can’t be pleased by any guy, no matter how acceptable he might be.”
“Acceptable?” I laughed. “Is that the bar we’re aiming for here? Because what’s the point of hitching my wagon to a guy if it’s not right? So we can get to our wedding day and watch it all fall apart?”
There was a long pause. “You realize that’s not—”
“Hey, Maggie,” I said, cutting her off as it was my turn to step up to the counter and check in. “I gotta go. Bye.”
“This isn’t—”
I ended the call and gave the staff member my information and waited while she clacked away at her keyboard while wearing an odd smile.
Did rich people get offended if staff didn’t look like they were enjoying themselves while doing menial, tedious tasks? Or maybe this girl just… loved typing?
My thoughts drifted back to Maggie, and the point she was trying to make. It wasn’t the first time she’d tried to broach the subject of my… distance. But I knew there was no point in trying to explain it to her. She just didn’t understand.
I spent so much of my life romanticizing love and weddings. I let it get to the point where I was completely blind to reality—where I thought all I needed to do was reach the wedding, as if it was some kind of finish line. It was, of course, ridiculous.
The wedding was hardly even the beginning, and people who reached that point with the wrong person were only setting themselves up for failure and heartbreak.
So, sure, maybe guys like Kyle and Brad weren’t terrible, but they also weren’t good enough. They weren’t perfect, and I wasn’t going to waste my time or risk my heart on anybody short of perfect. I’d just keep focusing on my own career, my professional goals, and… well, if Mr. Perfect never came along? So what? At least I’d be spared the heartbreak of forcing it to work with the wrong guy.
“There,” the woman said, her artificial smile widening. "You're in the Mountain View Suite." She handed over a satisfyingly heavy black and gold keycard. "Mr. Wellington specifically requested it for you."
Of course he did. I'd only spoken to Martha Wellington over the phone so far, but her husband's reputation preceded him. Richard Wellington III didn't do anything halfway. According to my research (okay, late-night web searches), the family owned properties across five continents and had some connection to actual royalty that I couldn't quite figure out.
It was all oddly vague and hard to pin down, actually. When I had tried to look at exactly which properties they owned or who they were related to, I kept finding myself in circular loops that wouldn’t say where or what they were. But it wasn’t shocking. With money like that, it probably wasn’t hard to buy privacy, even on the internet.
But how dare they? Didn’t my idle curiosity and nosiness have rights, too? Damn them and their endless supplies of money.
I wove my way through hallways decorated with landscape paintings, over-the-top custom-made wood slab furniture and things like… ornamental root balls encased in epoxy, because of course that’s a thing.
When I reached my suite, I couldn’t help but squeal and do a little happy dance.
The huge window theme continued, giving me my own personal balcony view of the Rockies. A stone fireplace was already crackling and giving off delicious heat while an actual platter of sweet pastries, cheeses, an assortment of crackers, and all kinds of fancy sliced meats were set out on my bed.
And there was champagne.
“Don’t mind if I do,” I said to myself in a crappy British accent.
I stuffed some cheese in my mouth as I gently touched the petals on a bouquet of pure white roses in a crystal vase. I tipped back some of the champagne as I read the note on my pillow.
Welcome to Timber Vale, Emma. Dinner at seven - RW
I set the note down with a smile, and then my stomach dropped. Even though the major parts were already in motion for the wedding next week, I felt like I was in way over my head. This place… these people…
Panic started to knock at the door, asking nicely if I’d mind letting it in.
Nope. No. “You’re Emma Marshall. Cool as cucumbers. You got this, girl.” After some deep breaths, I indulged in a little bit of food therapy.
Okay, a lot a bit.
I ate almost half of the platter, which I was pretty sure might have been meant for a larger group. I also drank half the bottle of champagne and earned myself a pleasant little buzz.
With a glance at my phone, I realized it was already closer to seven than I thought. I brushed the crumbs from my dress and used my insanely fancy ass private bathroom to freshen up. There was a towel warmer, which I might have wasted some valuable time playing with. There was even a frothy thing that dispensed shaving cream, so I gave my armpits a little touch up, just because.
I tried on the comfiest robe I’d ever felt in my life, tested the acoustics in the shower, and liberally scuffed my feet around in the “Timber Vale” slippers they had waiting by my door.
Even the freaking floor was heated, which put me in a dilemma between my slippers and bare feet—both of which were highly enjoyable.
Leaving my perfect room and entering into the chaotic world of wedding planning was hard, but I eventually pulled myself out of the room and back to the hallway.
I headed to the resort restaurant where Mr. Wellington was waiting and only got lost a few times on the way. Once I arrived, the hostess led me to a private dining room where a distinguished-looking man in his sixties rose to greet me.
"Emma Marshall." Richard Wellington's handshake was firm, his smile genuine. He had salt-and-pepper hair that was slicked back from tanned and lightly lined features. His jaw was strong and his shoulders were broad, and he had the look of somebody who used to be in great shape but had finally relaxed on his strict diet and exercise routine.
His silver eyes sparkled, drawing me from my rambling thoughts as he let go of my hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Martha speaks very highly of your work."
She does? All my interactions with Martha Wellington left me feeling like I was a bit of old cheese she’d found underneath her fingernail. "Thank you for having me," I said, hoping I sounded more confident than I felt.
"Nonsense. You're family now." He gestured to the chair beside him. "Or you will be. Speaking of family..." He looked toward the door. "Ah, perfect timing. Emma, I'd like you to meet my younger son, Richard the Fourth. Though everyone calls him Dick."
A man around my age approached, wearing an expression that suggested he found everything beneath him. Including, apparently, buttons—his shirt was undone halfway down his chest despite the December chill. A gold chain nestled in his chest hair, catching the light as he moved.
Objectively speaking, he was attractive. He had blue eyes, sharp eyebrows, an aqualine nose, and a chin and jaw I found slightly too proud. Features aside, his body language was practically radiating “douche” energy at such high levels I thought I might choke on it if I breathed too deeply.
"Dick," his father continued, "this is Lily's sister. The wedding planner I was telling you about."
"Charmed to meet you." Dick's eyes roamed over me in a way that made me want to button up my own perfectly appropriate neckline. "You know, I always say wedding planners are the most... passionate women. A career dedicated to love has a way of… greasing the wheels, if you catch my implication."
Was he actually wiggling his eyebrows? And implications were hardly the first thing I was worried about catching from “Dick.” I’d probably start the list with gonorrhea, or maybe just everyday germs. He struck me as the kind of guy who didn’t wash his hands when he used the bathroom.
"Dick's between relationships right now," Richard said meaningfully.
"How... convenient," I managed, reaching for my water glass. Maybe if I drank enough water, I could drown myself before this got worse.
"Very convenient." Dick slid into the chair next to mine, way too close. His cologne was probably expensive and smelled like he'd bathed in it. "You know, I have a suite with an even better view than yours. I'd love to show it to you. The sunsets are... magnificent. Not that you’d be paying them any attention if I had you alone in there."
He actually licked his lips after saying "magnificent."
Disaster alarm bells began to ring. The situation here was painfully clear. Mr. Wellington’s prized son, Marcus, was marrying my sister. Whether it was some kind of rich person fetish, or just a wild idea that had popped into his head, he wanted to keep adding my family to his.
He was hoping to set me up with this walking ball of ick, and I couldn’t think of a single way to shut this down without making things very awkward.
My mind raced with half-baked ideas. I could lie? Lying wasn’t always bad, right? I could claim I lost my ovaries in a tragic car accident back in 1982. No. You weren’t even alive in 1982, Emma! That plan sucks!
Maybe I could say I was the one with gonorrhea? No. Dick probably already has that, and he’d just see it as an excuse to say we already had something in common.
Think, think, think…
Instead of speaking or coming up with any kind of coherent plan, I stared at Dick with my eyes wide and my mouth half-open. I felt the sinking certainty that in a few moments, I was going to get talked into some kind of date, and that I’d have to endure Dick’s advances for the remainder of my time here.
I was about to scream in panic when a familiar voice made my heart stop.
"Sorry I'm late, sweetheart."
Strong hands settled on my shoulders. A pair of lips brushed my temple.
I looked up into eyes I hadn't seen in three years.
James. The wedding wrecker in the flesh.
"Traffic was terrible," he continued smoothly, sliding into the chair on my other side. His arm settled around me possessively. "I hope you weren't waiting long."
I stared at him, my brain short-circuiting between what the actual fuck and holy shit he somehow looks even better than I remembered.
"I don’t believe we’ve met,” Richard said, cocking his head toward James.
“James Carter,” he said, reaching to shake Richard Wellington’s hand.
“Ah, I see. I believe I saw your name on the guest list.” He snapped his fingers, as if trying to remember an obscure detail. “Was it a family friend of Lily’s parents?”
“That’s right,” James said.
"I didn't realize you and Emma were..."
"Together?" James smiled, but there was steel behind it as he looked at Dick. "Very much so. We only started dating recently. Though you wouldn’t guess it with how crazy we are for for each other. Right, babe?”
He planted another kiss on my temple, then brought his lips to my ear. “Might want to release the bomb you look like you’re holding up your ass, or they’re going to see through the lie.”
I was going to kill him.
“Uh, huh,” I managed, smiling.
Yep. He was a dead man. And I was going to do it with my own hands.
Right after I figured out how he got here.
And maybe after I stopped noticing how good he smelled.
And definitely after I figured out why my heart was doing that stupid flutter thing again.
8
JAMES
OOPS…
The single word summed up the last half hour pretty well. From the way Richard Wellington had seemed downright pissed that Emma was supposedly in a relationship, to how he’d snapped his finger and suggested something I was sure Emma was going to hate me even more for.
“This presents the perfect opportunity,” he had said, eyes sparkling with… something. Had that been genuine excitement, or was it thinly veiled anger? I still wasn’t sure.
But he had smiled as he told us about his “opportunity”. “My Aunt Martha wasn’t happy with the views in her room,” Richard had said, “and Emma’s room has amazing views. I’m sure you two wouldn’t mind giving her Emma’s, since the views in hers are superior. That way, you both can cozy up together in James’ room like a proper couple.”
That was half an hour ago, and Emma hadn’t really spoken to me since then. Instead, she was busy storming. She’d walked calmly enough out of the restaurant while we were in view of the Wellingtons, and then she’d practically torn herself off my arm and began embodying the female equivalent of a hurricane, or maybe a tornado.
Her pissed off energy seemed to seep into the air around her.
Honestly, it was kind of adorable watching her. She was a small woman, and something about small things rampaging and raging admittedly tickled at my amusement.
Even with much longer strides, I had to pick up my pace to keep up with her as she stormed into the elevator, down the hallway, and even stormily used her keycard. To her frustration, it hadn’t worked until I helpfully showed her she was holding it backwards.
Now she was rage-packing her suitcase with her ass pointed right at me.
Accident? Maybe. But I had my hands stuffed in my pockets as I fought my natural impulse to stare at the absolutely mouth-watering view that put the Rockies to shame. Yeah. With a woman like Emma, you could save a few bucks booking hotel rooms. Why would you give a shit what was out your windows when you’d want nothing more than to stare at her?
“Are you going to offer to help?” she asked, voice muffled as her ass wiggled with the force of her packing. She was trying to gather all of her things from her room—which was definitely way nicer than mine. If she thought she was pissed now, I wondered how much worse it would be when she saw the comparatively shit room I’d been given.
“Did you want help devouring this welcome platter of food and champaign? Because it looks like you were doing pretty well on your own.” I grinned, picking up a piece of cheese with a small bite taken from it. I popped it into my mouth and chewed. Tasty. “This thing looks like a pack of wolves went at it.”
Emma whirled, still crouched as she glared with one hand in her suitcase. "This is your fault," she said, turning back to shove more clothes into her bag with impressive force. "All of it. If you hadn't shown up playing hero—"
"You'd be fending off Dick right about now.”
"I could have handled Dick just fine on my own."
The joke was right there. So easy. So perfect.
I bit my lip to stop from speaking, because I only needed one look at her face to tell me humor wasn’t going to soften her. No. There was real hurt beneath her anger, and it was very possibly a bridge between us I wouldn’t ever be able to mend.
"Since when are you a 'family friend' anyway?" she demanded, turning to face me. "Because I think I would have remembered someone like you hanging around family gatherings."
I kept my face carefully neutral. "Your mother—"
"My mother?" She dropped the shirt she was folding. "What about my mother?"
Shit. I probably should’ve been more vague. "I just meant—"
"Did she hire you?" The color drained from her face. "Is that why you're here? To wreck another wedding? To wreck my little sister’s wedding?"
I met her gaze, keeping my expression neutral. "Maybe I knew you’d be here. Maybe I wanted to see an old friend."
"We're not friends." The words had an edge sharp enough to draw blood. "Friends don't destroy each other's careers."
"I didn't try to destroy—"
"Save it." She yanked open another drawer and dumped the contents in her concerningly stuffed suitcase. “Tell me why I shouldn’t go to Mr. Wellington right now and tell him exactly who you are and what you do."
“Well…” I hesitated, wishing there was a way to word this that wouldn’t sound like a threat. “Because he’s probably going to want to know why the wedding planner didn’t notice someone like that on the guest list? And now he’ll also wonder why you’re dating me. At the very least, he’ll wonder why you didn’t tell him the moment I showed up back there.”
Emma’s face scrunched in an adorably terrifying mask of anger. “So you’ve entrapped me. Perfect. Was this all part of your plan?”
“No,” I said. “I happened to overhear some creep hitting on a girl. I stuck my head in and was coming over to help even before I knew it was you. But considering our… history, we should at least be pretty good at making it look like we’re attracted to each other. So I’d call it a happy accident.”
“Okay,” she said, voice slow and dangerously quiet. “Maybe I should just ask why I shouldn’t strangle you in your sleep tonight? Hm?”
