The Wedding Song: 5-hour read. Billionaire romance, sweet clean romance. (Colorado Billionaires Book 10)

by Regina Duke

  Zinnia was practically floating through the living room. She wondered if they called it that. Or did they have some special word for it? It had a navy blue sofa and matching chair positioned in front of a huge-screen TV.

  She knew her father would be mad with jealousy. There was a small refrigerator in the cabinet below the TV and she peeked inside. “It’s empty.” The disappointment in her voice embarrassed her. “That’s probably for the best. After all, I’d just use everything in it.”

  Bart grinned briefly. “That stuff isn’t good for anyone. If you get hungry, call room service. Or go down to the café. If I’d known we were going to put you in the hotel, I wouldn’t have promised to spend the evening with my sister and her family.”

  “I’ll be fine,” said Zinnia. “A whole TV to myself? No one fighting over the remote? Is it all right if I take a walk later?”

  “Sure. Whatever you want. Just don’t break any fingers. I’m looking forward to seeing Ashley’s face in the morning when we show her your portfolio. And I’m very excited about the idea of you demonstrating your talent to her in person.”

  Zinnia swallowed hard and muttered, “No pressure, right?”

  Bart chuckled. “Don’t worry. I’m just…” He paused. “I’m so impressed by your raw talent.” His phone pinged. He glanced at it before announcing, “I’ve got to go. Oh. Just in case…” He pulled another hundred dollars out of his wallet. “You spent yours at the gallery, if I’m estimating correctly. Here’s some pocket change.”

  Zinnia was speechless. Before she could form any words, Bart waved goodbye and left the room.

  “A suite,” whispered Zinnia. “I must see the bathroom,” she squawked and went in search of it. The marble counters, gold plated faucets, and the huge step-in shower did not disappoint. She tested the mattress, then wondered what Timmy would think of such a springy surface. With a giggle, she took off her shoes and stepped up on the bed, moving to the middle for safety, then gave a tiny bounce. She laughed louder and bounced higher. Three bounces later, her enthusiasm faded. Bed-bouncing alone wasn’t nearly as much fun as bouncing with her baby brother. Or with her best friend.

  She sighed and sagged down on the edge of the bed. The whole room looked like a movie set. It was difficult to imagine actually sleeping there. Her hands began to tremble.

  Her nerves were shot. She returned to the fancy sitting room and emptied her backpack onto the table by the window. The sun had set, but there was enough twilight to draw her to the drapes. She pulled them back and stared out over the parking lot. She could see the Feed and Grain, and as she watched, the lights inside switched off. She could also see The Muffin Man, and her stomach growled. But it was closed at this hour. It was almost too late to take a walk. Maybe she should call home and see if Timmy needed help with his homework.

  She shook her head in disgust. “What a loser I am. For years, I’ve been day dreaming about having my own place where no one could bother me or nose around. But I’m alone here for half an hour and already tempted to call home to hear Timmy’s voice. Good grief woman, what is wrong with you?”

  She turned on the TV, but after clicking through the channels, she turned it off. What did Bernard find so captivating about TV? She didn’t get it.

  She fluffed the throw pillows on the sofa and repositioned all the little items on the TV stand, or should she call it a chest of drawers? Both?

  “Silly twit,” she muttered. “Let’s do something useful.” She settled at the table and opened one of the books from San Francisco. She liked to practice reproducing the characters on the businesses in Chinatown. After the first couple of years, she’d been delighted to notice that she could remember what the characters meant. That had become her passion for quite a while. She’d even borrowed some books from the library so she could learn more of them. She’d had less time to devote to her little hobby after getting a job at the Gallery, but it was still an enjoyable way to relax. So was the CD Rose had brought her. She put her earbuds in and found her favorite song on the ancient iPod—when Rose got her newest iPhone, she decided that Zinnia should learn to use her old iPod so she could wet her tootsies in the digital pool of life. They’d spent such a fun weekend at Rose’s house, copying her CDs to the iPod. She played flashcards with the characters on her sketch pad and sang along to the song on the iPod. She knew what the song was about because the CD cover had the English translation on the back. She wasn’t sure she was saying everything properly, but the tune was pleasant, and if she could learn the Latin version of “Oh Come All Ye Faithful” for the Christmas service at church, she could certainly mimic the music that meant so much to her. Sometimes when she was a little girl, she would do sleepovers at Rose’s house and fantasize about being Mrs. Stigliano’s secret daughter. She treasured every gift they ever gave her, and turned to those items again and again when things went wrong in her life.

  An hour later, she sighed heavily and leaned back in her chair. The music had stopped, and the silence filled up with worry again. Would Chester ever forgive her? Would she stay friends with Rose after their wedding?

  A sharp knock at the door startled her out of her chair. Her mind unspooled every cautionary tale she’d ever heard about strangers finagling their way into hotel rooms. Jittery beyond belief, she stood on tiptoes to look through the peephole. A moment later, she screamed, “No freaking way!”

  She fumbled with the locks, then opened the door wide. “Rose! What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

  Rose dragged herself into the room and wilted in the blue chair while Zinnia carefully locked the door. Rose’s eyes darted left and right and she almost kept her admiration from showing on her face. “You said Bart was staying here, so I took a chance. I had no idea the Cattleman’s was so high-class.” A moment later she seemed to recall that she was in the middle of a personal drama which required her to sag slightly off-center in the chair and press the back of one hand against her forehead.

  Zinnia approached, hands folded in front of her, half expecting Rose to launch a tirade against her for making Chester mad. Instead, she hissed, “Zin! I’m collapsing with grief. Play your part!”

  Zinnia bounced with relief. Rose wasn’t angry! She was playing their personal tragedy game. Zinnia brushed at her clothes as if to shed the real Zin and folded herself onto her knees in front of the chair. She assumed her personal tragedy voice and clasped her hands together over her heart. “Oh, dearest Rose,” she wailed in her Scarlett O’Hara voice, “what terrible tragedy has befallen you? Pray, tell me so that I might share your suffering.”

  Rose muttered, “Not bad.” Then she resumed her tilt of suffering and put her hand once more over her eyes. “My world is come to an unfortunate end,” she intoned, using her best Bette Davis impression. “I daresay at any moment I shall expire from the depth of my pain.”

  Zinnia stifled a giggle to keep from blowing her lines. “If y’all are planning to leave this war-ravaged Earth, never fear, for I shall go with you and our souls will fly forever through the stars!” She raised a hand skyward and stared longingly at the ceiling.

  Rose muttered, “You tacked a little Star Trek on the end there.”

  Zinnia held her pose and asked out of the side of her mouth, “Shall I recite ‘Oh Captain, My Captain’?”

  Rose burst out laughing, and Zinnia joined her, collapsing on the carpet in a fit of giggles. When Rose could breathe, she asked, “Have you had dinner?”

  “Not a bite,” said Zinnia.

  “I’m starving,” said Rose. “Let’s order room service.”

  “I’ve always wanted to do that,” squawked Zinnia. Then she paused. “How?’

  Rose got up and searched for a menu. She found what she was looking for in a shallow drawer in the table by the window and held it aloft in triumph. “What do you want?”

  They ordered lasagna and garlic bread, coffee and Perrier, and chocolate cheesecake for dessert. Once that was done, Rose slumped again in the blue chair.
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br />   Zinnia sat cross-legged in front of her, studying her face for a hint to her mood. All playfulness was gone. “So, what happened?” asked Zinnia.

  Rose traced the arm of the chair with her index finger. “Chester got mad.”

  Zinnia bowed her head. “Sorry about that,” she said softly. “I should never have—”

  Rose cut her off. “Should never have what? Given me good advice? Tried to talk some sense into me?” She chuckled. “Holy crap, Zin, you were just being a friend. And a darned good one, too. I should never have left that job at the bookstore. And I was thrilled when they hired me back. So you don’t have anything to feel sorry about.”

  Zinnia looked up at her. “Thanks for that.”

  Rose picked at a hangnail. “Chester blew up. I mean, whoosh! We’re talking nuclear bomb.”

  “Yikes.”

  Rose stood up and began to pace, hugging herself with crossed arms. “You think you know someone,” she said. “You think you have him all figured out. You think he loves you because you’re the first woman to ever see the shine on his armor.” She stopped at the window and stared out at the night. “Then boom, he turns into a whole different creature when you make a decision on your own and for your own good.” She turned to look at Zinnia, and her eyes were full of tears.

  Zinnia jumped to her feet and put an arm around Rose’s shoulders. “Let’s sit on the sofa, and you can tell me all about it.” She steered her friend to the plush sofa and sat with her. “I guess he didn’t want you to go back to work, huh?”

  Rose wiped angrily at her tears. “Don’t let me cry over him,” she growled. “You hear me, Zin?”

  “I hear you.”

  Rose wiped her hands on her jeans.

  “So, why are you crying?” Zin kept her voice down, not sure if Rose wanted her to clown around again.

  “Because...” Rose struggled to stem the flow. “Because...” Her voice grew stronger. “Because Beauty had a Beast who turned into a prince, and I had a prince who turned into a beast.” She wiped furiously at the tears again and stiffened her spine. “Because...because on the way over here, I saw a dog on the road, running with no collar, and I thought how sad it would be if he got hit by a car, and I started crying.”

  “Wow, that’s a good one,” said Zinnia, more relaxed now that Rose was fighting for control. She asked the question again. “Why are you crying, Rose?”

  “Because there are babies in Africa who are starving to death. Because global warming is going to ruin the Earth as we know it.” She took a deep breath and turned calmly to face Zinnia. “Those are things worth crying over.”

  “Yes, they are.” Zinnia nodded.

  “So I’m not wasting any more saline over him.” She spat the word out. “He never wanted a partner in life. He didn’t want kids. And he didn’t want me to have a life outside his trailer.”

  Zinnia waited several heartbeats. She knew there would be more.

  Right on cue, Rose blurted, “The wedding is off.”

  Zinnia gaped. “He called it off?”

  “No,” said Rose darkly. “I did.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Bart thought the evening would never end.

  The first hour had shown some promise. After all, his nephew was pretty darn cute, and he realized that his own son, should he ever have one, would probably look very similar.

  Taylor was delighted to see him and openly encouraged him to hold baby Jackson. Bart didn’t mind. The baby was dressed in pale-blue corduroy overalls and a Thomas the Tank Engine onesie. His tiny feet were stuffed into slick-bottomed white shoes, useless for walking, but then, Jackson wouldn’t be walking for a few months yet. He knew there must be diapers under those layers, but for the short while Taylor spent showing him off, there were no leaks or smells or messy bombs, so Bart wasn’t subjected to any of the ugly realities of parenthood. Once the kid was put to bed, conversation grew more stilted, and that was when he began wishing it were over.

  Axel handed him a cocktail and asked, “Did you really sell a painting for half a million?”

  Bart shrugged humbly. He wasn’t going to tell Axel that his highest-priced art was the product of a bout of heavy drinking caused by the realization that his critically acclaimed and practiced art wouldn’t earn him enough money to pay the rent on his attic.

  Axel clapped him on the shoulder. “Good idea. Never talk about money.” Evidently he had no back-up question ready. After a moment of awkward silence, the doorbell chimed, and he looked genuinely relieved to have a reason to leave Bart nursing his cocktail.

  Bart had been told that Don and his wife—what was her name again? Rayna, that was it—would be joining them this evening, but he was dismayed to hear other voices in the mix. It turned out to be Axel’s cousin Thor and—Oh, joy, he thought sarcastically—Thor’s wife Ashley. Her mistaken assumptions about his motives regarding Zinnia were wearing very thin.

  Luckily, the subject didn’t come up during cocktails. Maybe the constant babble of conversation about toddlers and nannies would carry him through the evening.

  No such luck. Dessert and coffee were being served when Thor cocked his head to one side and screwed his face into a question. “What’s this I hear about your sudden interest in Ashley’s sales clerk?”

  Before he could say what was on the tip of his tongue—guaranteed to end any friendship they might ever have—Don broke in with a question of his own.

  “Did you really spend two years with a full beard, selling paintings to tourists?”

  Bart assumed his fake French accent to respond, “But of course...les touristes, they yearn for a, how do you say? A living memory of their visit.” Zeir vee-zeet.

  After the laughter died down, Don teased, “You mean you actually remember something from French class? I thought you got an F in that class?”

  Bart smiled as some of the tension in the room disappeared. “I hated the teacher. I wasn’t about to let him think I actually learned anything.”

  “You rascal! I never knew anyone who actually orchestrated an F in anything.”

  Rayna—looking very much like a librarian in her round collar and pumpkin-colored sweater—asked sweetly, “Did your failure in French interfere with your graduation?”

  Bart shook his head. “Near the end of the year, I had a conversation with the headmaster, during which I explained the problem in fairly decent French. Based on that, he changed my grade to a B. Private school. They get away with that sort of thing.”

  Don chuckled. He covered Rayna’s hand with his and added, “The French teacher was so furious, he resigned his position.”

  Rayna nodded thoughtfully. “Clever. So you were prepared to go to France?”

  “Art major in college,” said Bart. “And a year abroad in Paris, where I did not flunk French. After graduation I went back for some post-grad work in art, and that’s when I decided to try out the painting-on-the-Left-Bank-as-a-bearded-eccentric thing.”

  Taylor’s pink cheeks looked a bit incongruous beneath her blue hair, which was a perfect match to her blue eyes. “I knew there was a businessman in there somewhere.” She winked at him. “But I was looking forward to seeing you in the flesh, all decked out like a hairy Muppet.”

  Bart said wryly, “The owner of the New York gallery was going to cancel my show if I didn’t clean up my act...so to speak. After earning some real money in Europe, I decided it might be worth it to hold onto that gig.”

  Axel finished off his third glass of wine and commented, “Now it all makes sense. No wonder you’re taking Zinnia under your wing.”

  Ashley frowned, first at Axel, then at Bart. “What do you mean? What makes sense?”

  A sudden silence put an end to the jovial atmosphere. Don put a hand over his mouth and looked very guilty.

  Axel apologized. “Sorry, Bart. I thought you’d shared that part of the story with everyone.” He glanced at Don, making it clear where he’d heard about it.

  Ashley’s eyes sparked with irritati
on. “What story? You promised you wouldn’t hurt Zinnia.”

  “And I won’t,” said Bart. “She’s truly gifted, and I want to help her with her art career.”

  Ashley fairly shrieked, “She’s a sales clerk!”

  Bart was taken aback. “You haven’t seen her work.”

  Thor laid a hand on Ashley’s arm. “Calm down, sweetheart. You seem a bit overwrought tonight.”

  Ashley fired back, “And why shouldn’t I be? Do you know how hard it is to find good help?”

  Someone muttered, “Oh dear.”

  Ashley froze, as if aware that she’d unmasked her true reason for caring about Bart’s motives. Her face burned with shame. “Thor, it’s time to go,” she said tightly. “If you’ll all excuse us? I promised the nanny this would be an early night.” She stood up, avoiding the eyes that followed her every move. Thor wasted no time in retrieving her coat. He tried to smooth things over as he helped Ashley find the arm holes.

  “Thank you, Axel. It was a lovely dinner. Our place next time?”

  Ashley shrugged into her coat and headed for the door. Thor spread his hands in a helpless shrug.

  Axel said, “Thanks for coming, cousin. I’ll call you tomorrow?”

  Thor blew out a lungful of air and moved to catch up to his wife.

  Once they were gone, a murmur moved around the table. “Is she all right? What’s wrong with Ashley tonight?”

  Taylor used her dessert spoon to ping her empty wine glass. When she had everyone’s attention, she said, “Let’s enjoy our dessert. I’m sure Ashley will explain when she’s able. After all, since little Jackson came along, I’ve had a few difficult moments myself.”

  Bart was now on edge, wondering when the next arrow of accusation would be flung his way. “Maybe I should go, too,” he said.

  But Taylor wasn’t having it. “I haven’t seen you in ages. You’re not leaving without dessert, so dig in and, between bites, tell me everything about your huge success.”