If I was to be the representative of Longbourne, I was going to show up for it in full.
Lila blinked, a flash of dark lashes and cool eyes, ending her call before I reached her. She frowned.
“You’re early.”
I gave her a look. “Sorry to disappoint.”
A huff through her nose, the arch of one auburn brow. “Come on. This way.”
She clipped her way into the Skylight building, and I followed. A tendril of hair licked the back of her neck. The impulse to reach out and tuck it into place curled my fingers in anticipation.
I shoved my hand in my pocket to curb the thought.
Lila reached for the brass handle of the massive door, long fingers wrapping around it to pull. I extended a hand to help, but it opened with more ease than a door of that size should have, so instead, I grabbed the edge to hold it open.
“Thank you,” she said brusquely.
As we walked through the entry—a marble, mirrored French affair—I wondered over the suspicions of Lila Parker. What did she expect that left her so wary? She seemed to be waiting for something to go wrong, and I mused as to whether the cause was getting burned badly enough to scar or if she just harbored a compulsion to fix things. Lila was the type to thrive under pressure like a coal turned to diamond. That was where she shone—in bringing order to chaos. The act hardened her, sharpening her to a fine edge.
She’d expected me to be late. I’d wager she expected me to say the wrong thing in front of someone important, screw up my measurements, and-or disappoint her otherwise. I had the suspicion that if she could have done the job herself, she would have.
The thought made me want to do the job to the best of my ability, if for no other reason than to prove her wrong.
Into a gilded elevator we stepped, and the doors closed, sealing us in silence.
“Did you actually bring a pad and pen this time?” she asked, eyeing me.
“Nope.”
Her brows clicked together, her lips opening to speak, but I headed her off.
“Pencil.”
She gave me an unamused look, but the smallest curve at the corners of her lips belied the expression. “Clients are set to meet me here in a few minutes, so try to stay out of the way.”
“Whatever you say, boss.”
Her eyes narrowed. The elevator dinged.
I swept a hand toward the door. “After you.”
She strutted out, nose in the air. “Thank you for putting on an actual shirt,” she said over her shoulder and without an ounce of graciousness.
“I’m not an animal, Lila,” I said with a lazy smile on my face.
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” She cast a teasing smile over her shoulder and pushed open the grand golden doors, revealing rows of white chairs with a dais at the end of the aisle where countless couples had promised their lives to one another. I mourned the muffled sound of her heels on the carpeted row. “A dog maybe, digging for bones?”
“You must be a cat person,” I guessed.
“More of a Betta kind of gal.”
“Not a goldfish?”
“They crap too much.”
I chuckled at the thought of Lila Parker dealing with feces of any species. “And how about you? A poodle maybe. All that white, long legs, snobbish, with a pedigree, for sure.” I scanned her form clinically.
She came to a stop at the dais, turning to face me. “If I’m a poodle, you’re a lab—big, dumb, and with too much mouth for your own good.”
One of my brows rose in challenge, though my lips gave her a cavalier smile.
At the sight, the tension in her shoulders eased. “I’m sorry. You’ll have to forgive me. I didn’t sleep very well last night.”
“It’s all right. I’m a Bennet, remember? I can take it.”
When she rewarded me with a quiet laugh, I realized she didn’t look as together as usual. Something about her eyes, dulled and smudged with shadow. Her hair wasn’t as flawless as was her norm, evidenced by that stray lock of her bun I’d fantasized about and the copper glow of occasional flyaway hairs.
She hadn’t slept, and I wondered why. Wondered who.
Her boss maybe. The mass of high-profile weddings and the pressure that came along with them. Dealing with the Felix sisters alone was a full-time job, I imagined, and she had dozens of other clients to tend to on top of it. And with her boss breathing down her neck to boot? Anyone would crack under that kind of pressure, maybe even Lila Parker.
Or maybe something else had happened. Her boyfriend, perhaps. I’d heard enough from Ivy to know he was a hoity-toity douchebag with a fake smile and too many stories to tell. If he’d hurt her, my first thought was that I hoped she’d strutted out the door. My second thought was what it would feel like to punch him in the nose for being an idiot. My third was that I hoped she was okay.
Lila launched into what she needed me to measure, and I listened dutifully, taking in the space while she spoke. The ceiling soared thirty feet to the domed Victorian atrium that gave Skylight its name, the only solid thing the walls around us. Beyond the glass stretched Midtown, steel and glass cut against the crisp autumn sky. The room was golden and cream, soft and bright, a place that breathed hope and happy endings.
I pulled out my notepad and pencil, which seemed to both please and relax her. She sprang into details, opening up her imagination. The arbor shape, the color scheme, musings on flowers she might want, depending on the palette they chose. Giving me notes on the garland, asking what kind of greenery and berry would be available. The tunnel, which would be built in pieces and placed in the ballroom where the reception would be held.
She was mid twinkle-light monologue when the doors opened, and a couple walked through, tall and rich and smiling.
Lila glanced at me, lips parting to speak, but I said, “Don’t worry. I’ve got it.”
A smile I actually believed, higher on one side with snark. “Good.” Her attention clicked down the aisle. “Charles, Madison. I trust you found us without trouble.”
And then, she was off.
I listened silently, measuring the dais and sketching in my notebook as she recounted the details of the building, the venue, amenities, and photography options. She spoke with utter certainty, with absoluteness, her word law and fact, indisputable—even her opinions. She was impossible to deny, and it didn’t seem the couple wanted to.
I wondered what it’d be like to truly disagree with her. The sparring we played at was strictly for sport. But a true confrontation? I had a feeling she’d come to life with a defensive spark. I both shied from the thought and craved it, like the danger of setting off unmarked fireworks that might or might not be dynamite.
Measuring the aisle brought me closer to them as Madison interrupted Lila.
“I think this space would do nicely, don’t you, Charles?” He started to speak, but she kept talking, his answer immediately dismissed, “A fall wedding next year with the gold of this room would be beautiful with mauve and peach flowers, dark greenery.”
“We might have trouble finding flowers those colors in the fall,” Lila stated. She didn’t say or suggest—the words were a directive.
Madison frowned. “I’m sure we can find something. Greenhouses grow all year, don’t they?”
“They do, but—”