“I was drunk. It was dark. It wasn’t even that good. Certainly not worth all of this.”
In the distance, a bridezilla screamed.
“You should have insisted they pay before the wedding,” Elsie said angrily in my ear. “I thought that was Weddings in the City policy. You shouldn’t have given them a break.”
“You know the situation with the Sutherlands is complicated,” I hissed back to her as she swept up the food and directed the other employees to start passing out snacks.
I surveyed the chaos then picked up a craft cocktail and took a drink.
We didn’t even make it to the reception before the bridezilla stormed out.
“Go home! Stop making a mockery of this! You all conspired against me. This isn’t my fault!” Camilla screamed at me, “This is your fault. Make all these people leave! Make them leave right now.”
“Just have the food delivered to the house,” Camilla’s father told Elsie.
Fuck. That was my dinner. Elsie usually saved containers of leftovers for me. Now there would be no leftovers. To top it off, I smelled like fish and dill. The salmon marinated on me as I shoved gift bags into guests’ hands, gritting my teeth against the screams of the bridezilla as she destroyed the beautiful, expensive wedding cake with the handmade sugar flowers that Sophie had spent weeks creating.
The sun was just setting when we finally finished packing everything up.
“See you Monday, I guess,” Elsie said as we walked to the parking lot.
“Another day, another wedding.”
“It will be January soon, right?” she asked desperately.
“Girl, wedding season has just started.”
My ears were ringing as I opened the door of my crappy little Toyota. I sat in silence in the dark with my hands on the steering wheel.
Fuck. What was I going to do? If the Sutherlands don’t pay me, my business will be ruined.
I fretted as I drove out of the parking lot and down the winding country road from the exclusive country club. Normally, I loved the end of a wedding—I would listen to upbeat pop music, replay all the best moments in my head, and snack on leftovers—but now I felt sick.
“It’s fine,” I told myself, trying not to hyperventilate. “Everything’s fine, right?”
I looked into the rearview mirror to see a man glaring at me from the back seat.
2
Evan
Ivy screamed and jerked the steering wheel.
“Fuck, woman, you’re going to get us killed!” I roared.
She kept screaming and pulled the car over, jerking to a stop and fumbling in her purse.
“I’m calling the police! Murderer! Serial killer!”
I grabbed her wrist.
“I have pepper spray,” she warned.
“Please don’t pepper spray me,” I said, grabbing her other hand, which was holding something canister-shaped in her purse. “I’ve already been through enough today, don’t you agree?”
I hadn’t been able to think when the maid of honor had announced that Camilla had been cheating on me. To be fair, she had never been the greatest fiancée; Camilla had regularly berated me for any perceived transgression and constantly complained I wasn’t spending enough money on her. I had assumed that she was just stressed about the wedding and that after it was over, we would be… well, not necessarily in love, but we would have one of those marriages like my father had with his sequence of wives: professional and distant but both oriented to the same goals. Everyone said marriage was about love, but as a billionaire, I had no such illusions. I just needed someone from a similar background—a good corporate wife who I could take to events and who could host a dinner party.
But lately, Camilla hadn’t even done that. The last few months, I had attended business events alone. Camilla had always said she was too busy with the wedding.
She was too busy cheating on you.
It stung. Actually, no. It was devastating.
And with my own father no less.
The betrayal had been too much. I had just wanted to run away from it all. But I hadn’t had my keys. I had recognized Ivy’s car in the lot, though—it was the only one that wasn’t some high-end imported car. It had smelled like flowers and cake, and I had curled up in the back seat, just wanting to disappear.
Now here we were in the dark. I had her wrists in my grasp, and she was snarling at me.
“If I release you, do you promise not to punch me?” I asked.
Ivy blew out a breath.
“Get out of my car,” she said flatly.
“But,” I protested, “I’m the victim here.”
“I mean, it’s sort of your own fault,” she countered.
“My fault?” I growled.
“You dated someone named Camilla, and she treated you like shit. Quelle surprise. You’re kind of a sociopath, but you don’t deserve someone who cheats on you with your own father.”
“I didn’t see it coming,” I said, releasing her.
Ivy raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure the women in your life did.”
“No they didn’t, and you never said anything to me either,” I lied. My sister, Mika, had never liked Camilla, and she hadn’t been shy about telling me. I glared at Ivy. “What do you know anyway?”
“Oh, you know, I’ve only just organized hundreds of weddings,” she said. “Trust me, I know when two people are in love. Camilla didn’t love you.”
“I loved her,” I said softly.
Ivy looked at me in pity then scowled.
“God, stop making that face. You’re making me feel sorry for you.”
“Have a drink with me,” I cajoled.
“I don’t have drinks with clients,” she said, turning around in her seat.
I tilted my head down slightly and did my best rakishly handsome look with the bedroom eyes. I caught her glance in the rearview mirror.
“It’s futile to resist,” I told her. “Women swoon when I turn on the charm.”
“I have no issues resisting,” she said, crossing her arms and turning to glare back at me. “Stop trying to manipulate me.”
“I’m sad and heartbroken and just need someone to talk to,” I told her, parting my lips slightly in what I had been told was an irresistible gesture. Ivy was wavering.
Ivy huffed, “Fine. I will take you to grab a drink, then I’m calling your friends.”
There were no bars out in the country, so we stopped at a gas station, and Ivy picked out a bottle of wine.
“I want beer,” I said.
Ivy gestured grandly. “Then have a beer.”
I patted my pockets. Crap. My friend Sebastian had my wallet too.
“That’s what I thought,” Ivy said.
“I’ll let you touch my chest if you buy these for me,” I said, picking up a case of a local craft beer.
Ivy regarded me thoughtfully. “That depends. Are those man titties covered in cash?”
“They could be.” I waggled my eyebrows at her.
“You’re disgusting,” she retorted, going to the cashier at the front of the store and swiping her card.