It was true.
And the wedding of Eliza McShane of the Sag Harbor McShane’s, in case you didn’t know, was big money.
“Fine,” Chloe huffed then slugged her tepid Starbucks, needing the caffeine. “I’m not gonna feel bad if I make her cry again because of it. I’ve already told her, Ed Sheeran doesn’t give private concerts.”
The McShane’s had money, and far more than most. They did not have Ed Sheeran money. And Eliza had thrown one hell of a tantrum because of it.
“You know she doesn’t like to hear the word no,” Wendy said over the background sounds of jostling, Chloe picturing her exiting her car and walking toward the office door. “Oh, God, she has her Cavalier King Charles Spaniel with her. If Duchess pukes on the carpet again, I’m gonna fire her myself. Gotta go.”
The call disconnected, and Chloe pressed the accelerator, rushing to bail out her assistant.
Eleven minutes later, she pulled up in front of her office. On her way from the car to the door, she glanced across the street, noticing a shiny, gunmetal gray truck parallel parked on Main Street, polished chrome accents gleaming in the sun.
It stood out because of its blue-collar vibe in a decidedly white-collar town. It stood out because of its out-of-state license plates. It stood out because of its location in front of Doug’s law office.
It stood out because it was the same truck parked in front of the carriage house last night.
Jameson wasn’t in it. He was presumably inside with Doug, going through his father’s estate papers with a fine-tooth comb and F-bombs on repeat.
Sounded heavenly compared to what she was walking into.
“Fake titties, Chloe! Can you believe it? Double-goddamn-D’s, too!”
Chloe tried not to react to Eliza’s confusing outburst shouted before she fully entered the office, the door yet to close behind her. The patrons of the diner next door probably heard.
“I’m the bride! It should be my tits people are staring at!” Despite her shrieks, the dog snuggled against those silicone bags seemed unfazed. “I paid fifteen-thousand dollars for these boobies!”
Eliza stamped her foot for good measure, jostling the spaniel tucked inside her leather cross-shoulder Coach bag.
Bridezilla in rare form this morning.
“Well? What are you waiting for? Aren’t you going to call her? You need to tell that flat-chested whore she can’t have implants or she’s out of the wedding party!”
She impatiently watched Chloe take off her sunglasses, then set her purse and iPad case on her antique writing desk with the dog looking at her as well.
Both bitches demanded an answer.
“Otherwise, I’ll disinvite her altogether,” she added. “I’ve got guests on standby.”
“Okay, Eliza,” Chloe said, digging deep for patience. “Tell me what’s going on. I’ll help as best I can, but no promises.”
Her office one large, open space, she calmly sat down in her velvet desk chair while Wendy, who sat at her desk near the front door, gawked behind Eliza’s back.
“Fifteen thousand dollars!” Wendy mouthed, eyes wide.
Chloe ignored her and ignored the shiny truck parked on the street, visible through the front windows.
“It’s Karina! That cow just told me she scheduled breast implant surgery one month before the wedding!” Her face melted, signaling oncoming waterworks. “How could she do that to me? What did I ever do to her?”
“Um, you just called her a whore and a cow and disinvited her to your wedding, Eliza.” No telling what treatment poor Karina received on a regular basis, but Chloe kept that question to herself. “She’s the maid of honor. And your twin sister.”
Things Chloe should not have to point out.
“Fraternal,” Eliza snapped then pulled out a brush and combed Duchess’s ears, refastening the purple satin bows.
Tufts of dog hair floated in the air.
“The dresses are high-neck, not low cut. Nobody will notice her boobs.” Except most of the men in attendance, including the groom.
“So, you’re not gonna call her?” she whined, missing Chloe’s point entirely.
“No, Eliza. I’m sorry, but I’m not. That goes beyond the scope of my services.”
Chloe had been asked to do many things outside the scope, including holding up a bride’s bustle while she did some last-minute grooming. Including watching a bride snort cocaine off a bathroom vanity, then breaking up a make-out session when said coked-up bride propositioned her new brother-in-law minutes later. Including a runaway groom days before the wedding, begging Chloe to tell his fiancée he decided to catch a flight to Cabo with his Tinder date.
Bush trimming and drug-induced infidelities she could handle. That was why they paid her the medium bucks. She drew the line at calling off a wedding, leaving the schmuck to tell the bride himself. He did so via text message because he had no balls.
A cautionary tale that reinforced Chloe’s view on intimacy and relationships, despite her career choice. Everlasting love was a fallacy, only true in fairy tales and rom-coms.
But no matter. It was job security.
One hour, two phone calls, and three heated text threads later, she finally talked Eliza down and forged a compromise between the twin sisters.
The double D titties would happen, but the surgery would be rescheduled for the week after the wedding. A thickly padded push-up bra was selected and approved by all, including Chloe, but only after a lengthy review of the bridesmaid’s dresses.
Wendy escorted Eliza and Duchess—who’d not puked but left ample amounts of dog hair behind—out the door minutes before Chloe’s next appointment. The working lunch with Lucy was followed by a visit to the venue—a charming vineyard in Southampton—to determine the altar location and seating arrangement.
Thankfully, Lucy was of sound mind and, while her family could afford a lavish affair, wanted only an intimate gathering for one hundred. Her fiancé was a professional bull rider on the rodeo circuit, and while their ceremony would be stunning, they were more focused on the marriage than the wedding.
Chloe thought they had a real chance at everlasting love. Meaning, she gave them fifty-fifty odds, versus one in a million.
Tapping out a text to let Lucy know she was on her way, Chloe walked out of her office and headed down the sidewalk toward her car, her attention on her phone. And plowed straight into a big, hard, male chest.
“Whoa,” he said, his hands cupping her shoulders to steady her. “You okay?”
Oh, that honeyed voice.
Looking up, Chloe stared at his familiar face. “Wyatt. How are you?”
“Doing fine, Chloe. How about you?” His lips quirked. “Lost in an email?”
“Texting my next appointment. I’m running behind.” She smiled, popping her phone into her purse. “I’m sorry I ran into you. Not paying attention, I guess.”
“No problem.” He looked over her shoulder, his brow furrowing as he nodded toward her office. “I was just stopping by, hoping to catch you.”
Wyatt Forrester was handsome by any woman’s standards. Charming, too.
But . . . he was off-limits.
Off-limits, even though one night several months back, after a bottle of wine and an embarrassing crying binge, she was very hands-on with him.