He merely rolls his eyes. “It’s not what you think.” Not what I think? What else is there to think? “My dad arranged this whole thing.”
It takes me a second to piece it together. “An arranged marriage?” No wonder I had to sign that non-disclosure agreement.
He nods. “I’m only a pawn in his scheming. And it was my time to be sacrificed.”
Pawn? Sacrifice? Well, if this is how the guy views marriage, we’re off to a bad start.
Still, I can’t believe he would attempt to cheat on his fiancee like that, even if it is arranged. “And what does the bride have to say about you going out to bars?” Damn it, why can’t I keep my mouth shut? It’s like I want to be fired, when this is my chance to actually make it big.
He gives me the phoniest smile I’ve ever seen, nearly making me laugh until I remember I’m disgusted with him. “I’ve never spoken to her. Haven’t even laid eyes on her in ten years. So you tell me how she feels about it. You probably know more than I do.”
Now I’m the one to rear back. He’s never spoken to his fiancee? “What?”
He runs a hand through hair so dark it’s nearly black, the tips curling at the nape of his neck. “It’s a business deal. The whole marriage is fake. Another way for my father to keep controlling me.”
“Then why are you doing it?”
“I like his money,” he grins cockily.
The door to the conference room bangs open and I whirl around, startling as if I was caught doing something wrong under an intense blue stare.
“Ms. Sweet, I presume,” a man in his mid-fifties greets me, all business as he extends his hand.
“Please call me Mackenzie.” I return his handshake, attempting to project the confidence I practiced earlier in the mirror.
“Denise highly recommends you.” He takes the seat at the head of the conference table, an aura of authority settling over him. “Don’t disappoint me.”
I gulp, plastering a smile on. “Of course not, sir.” I hand him a folder emblazoned with my company’s logo and filled with the brochure for Sweet Events and a list of the wedding planning packages I put together. “You’ll find everything I offer in there.”
He takes a cursory glance at it and sets it aside. Great.
I give another folder to the man from last night, whom I still haven’t caught the name of. He presumably has the last name Bishop, though. There’s no denying the resemblance between father and son. “I’m sorry, we haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Mackenzie Sweet.”
“Gabriel Bishop,” he says dryly, warm fingers brushing mine briefly as he takes the folder. I narrow my eyes, but he pretends not to notice, opening the file to peruse what’s inside.
“Are we waiting for the bride?” I ask when there’s no indication if I should start yet or not, only the soft rustle of papers as Gabriel actually reads my handouts.
Mr. Bishop frowns, glancing at an enormous watch on his wrist, a ludicrous display of wealth if I’ve ever seen one, but then the door opens again, a willowy blonde woman and an equally fair-haired older man entering behind her.
“Harry,” the man beams, striding over to shake Mr. Bishop’s hand, who seems less than thrilled at the man’s familiarity.
The woman glances around, her eyes sliding right over Gabriel, appearing to be confused. “Where’s Archer?”
The room goes silent until the older man chuckles nervously, walking back over to her by the doorway and guiding her to a seat. “Honey, this is Gabriel Bishop. He’s the one you’ll be marrying.”
She finally looks at Gabriel, her mouth tilting down at the corners. “Oh.” The amount of disappointment she’s able to convey with the single word is truly astounding.
To his credit, he doesn’t flinch, but there definitely is some teeth grinding action, even as he does his best to project disinterest. Seriously, though, how embarrassing for him.
I did a quick Google search on Harold Bishop, founder of Bishop Industries, yesterday after getting the call from his secretary about a wedding consultation for his son, discovering he actually has three sons. I just didn’t know which one the wedding would be for. If I had been more thorough and researched each of them, maybe I would have known who was hitting on me last night.
So this girl agreed to the marriage thinking she was marrying one of his brothers? Not a good sign.
The woman doesn’t sit in the chair offered to her, instead whispering, “Dad, can I talk to you over here for a moment?”
The two of them head to the corner of the room, voices low in some kind of heated discussion, and I smile awkwardly at Mr. Bishop, who’s glaring straight ahead.
“This is a lovely building,” I tell him, attempting small talk as a distraction to what’s going on just ten feet away. “I’ve always admired it but never had a reason to go inside.”
He glances once at me in acknowledgment but says nothing, and Gabriel unsuccessfully tries to hide a grin. The rat bastard.
Perspiration forms under my arms, and I valiantly resist the urge to fan my armpits. How can this whole consultation fall apart before it’s even started?
“We’re ready,” the older man announces, leading the blonde back to the conference table. “Greg Montague,” he introduces himself to first Gabriel, then me. “And my daughter, Serena.”
She gives me a half-hearted smile, her eyes red-rimmed, and brings her gaze down to a spot on the table in front of her where it remains for the rest of the appointment.
My heart goes out to her, and if I didn’t need the business so badly, I’d be tempted to walk out right now. With neither party truly invested in this marriage, what’s the point?
But with the way my finances are currently, I don’t have much of a choice.
“It’s so nice to meet you all,” I say as warmly as I can to the room as a whole. “Let’s go ahead and get started.”
I hand folders to Mr. Montague and Serena, explaining what’s inside. A bit about my company, my experience planning weddings, and a portfolio of some events I’ve worked on, along with examples of arrangements I could put together for them. I made sure to stuff it with as many high-end features as I could, knowing this client has the money to spare for it. I could kiss Denise, an event coordinator I previously worked with, for passing my name along to him. I had no idea she knew Harold Bishop so well.
The only one who seems even mildly impressed with my spiel is Mr. Montague, but I don’t let that deter me from giving it everything I have, knowing this is my chance to put Sweet Events on the map. I need this gig.
“The last thing I have here is a consultation list I go through with all my clients. This helps me to get to know you and get an idea of what kind of event design you’re looking for, budget, vendor preferences, things like that. Could we start on that now?”
Please say yes. I’ve found that the more time they commit to going through the list, the more likely they are to book me.
Mr. Bishop glances up from his phone and stands, my stomach bottoming out. He’s not interested.
“I have a meeting in ten. You’re hired,” he says succinctly, the butterflies in my belly rising again, buoying me up till I’m floating in delight. “Vivian will give you a contract and guest list. Make it classy and keep it under budget.” He gives me a number that has my brows raising, even as I do my best to maintain a neutral expression. The commission on this will be enough to get me back on track and then some.