by Alina Jacobs
Wedding Bells and Wall Street Bros
A Hot Romantic Comedy
Alina Jacobs
Contents
Other books by Alina Jacobs
Synopsis
Mailing List
1. Brea
2. Mark
3. Brea
4. Mark
5. Brea
6. Mark
7. Brea
8. Mark
9. Brea
10. Mark
11. Brea
12. Mark
13. Brea
14. Mark
15. Brea
16. Mark
17. Brea
18. Mark
19. Brea
20. Mark
21. Brea
22. Mark
23. Brea
24. Brea
25. Mark
26. Brea
27. Mark
28. Brea
29. Mark
30. Brea
31. Mark
32. Brea
33. Brea
34. Mark
35. Brea
36. Brea
37. Mark
38. Brea
39. Mark
40. Brea
41. Mark
42. Brea
43. Mark
44. Brea
45. Mark
46. Brea
47. Mark
48. Brea
49. Mark
50. Brea
51. Mark
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53. Mark
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55. Mark
56. Brea
Sneak peek
READ WEDDING MAYHEM
1. Brea
2. Mark
Read WEDDING MAYHEM
Weddings in the City Girls
Acknowledgments
About the Author
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright ©2020 by Alina Jacobs
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Created with Vellum
Other books by Alina Jacobs
Check out other books about characters mentioned in this one on my website:
http://alinajacobs.com/books.html
Synopsis
Is the bridal lingerie embroidered with dildos too much? It might be too much…
Welcome to life as a wedding dress-maker for the rich and entitled of Manhattan. I’ve seen it all—from the most spoiled brides to the most egotistical Wall Street Bros.
The worst?
Mark Holbrook—Billionaire. Arrogant. Knockout sexy. Certifiable jerk.
He hates weddings and I hate him.
But now his cousin is marrying my best friend.
He’s the best man with a bad attitude and I am the maid of honor who still lives in her childhood bedroom packed floor to ceiling in sewing supplies—complete with two gay dads and a family of rescue Roombas—who has never had a serious relationship and who is living her dream wedding vicariously through her best friend.
Pathetic? Abso-freakin’-lutely.
But I’m not so downtrodden that I let Mark get away with talking smack about weddings.
Nope!
I flashed him. And dumped coffee all over him. That’ll learn him!
And hopefully send him running.
I don’t need Mark and his wedding negativity in my life.
I also don’t need to sleep with him after a stressful wedding planning session, nor do I need to sleep with him after the cake testing.
And I definitely don’t need to fall in love!
This standalone, full length romantic comedy has no cliffhangers but does have a swoon-worth HEA! This book is STEAMY! The highs are hilarious and the lows are as deep as the voice of the guy you want in your bed!
To my friend who got married a few months ago and did NOT scrimp on the catering…*chef’s kiss* best cake ever!
Mailing List
Read the short romantic comedy, WEDDING MAYHEM, along with other novellas and short stories for free when you join my mailing list!
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1
Brea
I am the kind of girl who would eat cheese puffs on my wedding day then accidentally wipe my hands on my dress. I am also the kind of girl who still lives at home with her parents, engages in elaborate and gratuitous daydreams about the boyfriend she will never have, and lives out her wedding fantasies vicariously through the brides for whom she sews wedding dresses.
Yes, friends, I’ve never been to a wedding I didn’t cry at, and I love helping brides celebrate their big day, even if they go a little kooky from prewedding dieting…or transform into full-blown bridezillas.
“Those were some of the most entitled brides I’ve ever seen,” Grace declared as we walked into the restaurant of the hotel that was hosting the Manhattan bridal convention we were attending.
“You mean you don’t want to give away a whole wedding-planning package for free?” Ivy asked her, rolling her eyes.
“If they let me design the dress I want, then I’d gladly do it, but I’m not going to hot glue flowers onto antique lace in the pattern of the groom’s face unless I am being paid very well,” I added, bouncing on my heels and slurping my fifth cup of coffee that morning. There was a Starbucks next to the restaurant, and I had stopped to buy a coffee before lunch with extra whipped cream and extra sprinkles.
Coffee and sugar were the best ways to start the day. I usually tried to be up by sunrise so I could take advantage of any natural daylight to sew. But today, I had woken up extra early, because the Weddings in the City collaborative had had to be at the bridal convention bright and early. Between the caffeine and all the syrup drizzles I had stashed in my purse to spike the cheap convention-center coffee, I was hyped.
As we waited for a hostess to come seat us for lunch, two Wall Street bros walked into the reception area behind us. Weddings in the City worked exclusively with the rich and powerful in Manhattan, so I’d been around my fair share of billionaires. Fancy suits, understated designer sunglasses, two-hundred-thousand-dollar watches, general aura of sociopath about them—these men clearly had billions, and they weren’t afraid to rub it in your face.
I might want to rub something else of theirs in my face, I thought then squashed it. I refused to acknowledge their hotness.
“One thing is for certain,” Sophie added. “If any of our brides ask me to glue pictures of their ex-boyfriends on their wedding cake, I am going to gently steer them to Costco. It’s criminal the way that booth had those cakes displayed and was telling brides that it was a popular style.”
“It wasn’t as bad as some of those dresses in the runway show,” Elsie said. “I’m surprised you didn’t burn the place down, Brea.”
“I feel like you can be sexy on your wedding day without having the barest triangle of rhinestone-studded satin covering your nipples.” I shuddered. “That dress is going to give me nightmares. Especially since it looked like it was Velcroed together. I don’t trust any of those seams to hold.”
One of the Wall Street bros behind us snorted derisively. I turned around to glare at him. With his black hair swept off his forehead by a neat part, the Wall Street bro was devilishly handsome and right out of the pages of one of the romance novels I devoured. Deep-blue eyes caught mine, and I whirled back around. I was sure a man like that had women falling all over him. I refused to give his ego any
fuel.
“Did you find some nice fabric?” Amy asked. “You were giving your credit card a workout!”
“When you see handmade Leavers lace at that price, you have to buy,” I said, opening my large bag. “Several of the more spiritual brides have been asking for this type of custom lace that complements their astrology sign.”
“Are you serious?” the Wall Street bro behind me muttered under his breath.
I clenched my coffee cup. Don’t say anything. You’re hyped on caffeine. You aren’t rational.
A gaggle of soon-to-be-brides crowded into the restaurant lobby. One of them hopped up to me.
“Hi, Brea! I saw your presentation on timeless wedding dresses,” she gushed, whipping out a stuffed bridal idea notebook. “Do you mind telling me what kind of dress you think I should buy?”
I regarded her thoughtfully, analyzing her features and comparing them to the catalogue of wedding dresses I had stored in my head.
“I think you could look good in a number of styles. They’re all completely different,” I said, launching into my lecture on wedding dresses. All the coffee and sugar were pounding in my head, and I was ready for weddings! “The mermaid flatters a curvy figure. Everyone looks good in a trumpet gown. The ball gown is a classic. Then there’s the sleek gown and the one that shows your midriff for those of us who are more adventurous…and toned!”
The Wall Street bro, who was scrunched to the wall, trying to get as far away as possible from the frantic women in varying shades of white dresses, looked at me as if I was insane. I took another sip of my coffee.
“But for you,” I told the young bride, “I would probably go with an off-the-shoulder gown, with a scoop neck. I can tell you’ve been taking your upcoming wedding seriously, and your collar bones look insane!”
“I just got engaged!” She giggled then screamed, making Wall Street Bro cringe, and stuck out her hand to show me the brilliant diamond on her finger. “I am so excited to find a wedding dress.”
“I would definitely do a trumpet with your figure,” I told her, pulling out several large pictures of various dresses I had designed.
“I wish you would design a consumer wedding dress line,” the bride-to-be said wistfully. “I don’t have fifteen thousand dollars for a dress.”
“You make these women pay fifteen thousand dollars for a fucking dress?” Wall Street Bro exploded, clearly having reached his wedding limit.
All the brides gaped at him.
“Yes,” I said, straightening up. “I hand sew couture dresses. You can, of course, buy similar dresses for a few thousand less, but they may be the same dress another bride has.”
“That’s crazy,” he insisted. “I just don’t see why any woman needs an expensive wedding dress.”
“Mark,” his friend hissed at him. “I brought you here to pick up women, not alienate them.”
“You came here to find a date?” I demanded.
Mark glared down his nose at me. “Yes. There are lots of women who are so hung up and stupid about becoming a bride that—statistically; I looked it up—at least twenty-five percent of attendees at these types of events aren’t even in a serious relationship, let alone engaged. You’re selling a fantasy and trying to scam these women.”
My eye twitched. “Or maybe I’m helping them find some joy in life. After all, who doesn’t like weddings?”
“I don’t care for them,” Mark said simply.
We all gasped. Several brides looked as if they were going to start throwing their conference totes.
“I’m sure your future wife is going to want one,” I chided.
“No,” Mark said in a clipped tone. “I’m too smart to waste my money on some price-inflated ego trophy for some woman who didn’t even pay for it. I mean, look at these women. They’re all preparing for when they can legally access the groom’s bank account.”
Mark’s friend pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head slowly. There were boos from the brides. Mark glowered but didn’t backtrack.
Don’t say anything mean, Brea. Don’t say anything mean. After all, wealthy people like him were the reason I was able to live out my childhood dream of sewing fairy-tale wedding dresses all day every day. I tried to smile at him, but it came out as more of a snarl.
“What’s wrong with spending money on a woman you love?” I said hotly, waving my hands, which still held the pictures of the dress and my coffee. “A wedding is an important occasion. You’re committing to the person you want to spend every day of the rest of your life with!”
“Yes, but none of your statements justifies a wedding dress that costs as much as a car,” Mark said, his deep voice dripping with derision. “You’re ripping people off.”
Now the whole left side of my face was twitching. Ivy clapped a hand over her mouth. Forget having decorum; if Mark wanted to insult weddings and especially wedding dresses, I was going to tie my hair up, then we were throwing down.
Mark looked critically at the pictures in my hand, then his gaze swung back to me.
“The dresses don’t look that special. I bet you could order the same thing from Asia. You know,” he said, his tone on taking that know-it-all drone that let me know a mansplain was incoming, “I bet I could help you get that price way down. You could outsource the decoration or whatever that is called.”
“Embroidery,” I spat.
He nodded. “Yeah, and you could find a factory in Bangladesh and make that dress for a tenth of the price. What you did was nothing special.”
“Nothing. Special?”
Mark nodded smugly.
I hefted my coffee cup and threw the contents on him. Mark cursed and jumped back, glaring at me furiously as the coffee soaked into his suit and the whipped cream dripped onto the floor.
I wagged my finger at him. “I hand sew everything, I use only the best materials, and my gowns are one of a kind. You can display one of my dresses as an art piece when you’re done with it. You cannot outsource what I do; my brides are looking for one-of-a-kind custom dresses. Any red-blooded male would want to see the woman of his dreams walk down the aisle in any of my gowns.”
Mark’s mouth was a thin line as he dabbed at the bespoke suit with a napkin. “Not me. And I’m sure there are other men who don’t want their fiancée wasting tens of thousands of dollars on a wedding outfit.”
“Well,” I declared—like I said, I’d had a lot of caffeine, “I have just the thing that is guaranteed to get any man excited about a wedding!” I winked to the brides then whipped off my shirt.
“Ta-da! Convince your man to give you the wedding of your dreams with these babies!”
Mark slapped a hand over his eyes as my friends shrieked in laughter.
“This is a public restaurant! People can see you!”
“Relax!” I told him. “It’s a corset. You can’t even see my belly button.”
Mark peeked through his hands then went red again.
“You’re—they’re showing…”
“Boobs,” I said helpfully.
Mark groaned.
“It’s just a bit of sexy shapewear to give you a little oompf,” I told the brides. “These are, of course, on sale from my Instagram and made in America! That’s how I like my men and my clothes!”
Mark was horrified. He twisted his body away from me and shook my shirt at me.
“Put it on.”
“Oh, please,” I told him, hands on my hips. “It isn’t anything you haven’t seen before.”
“I don’t even know you,” he shouted in disbelief. “And you just flashed me.”
“If I was going to flash you, I would have to take off all my clothes,” I reminded him.
“I need a drink,” he muttered.
“There’s cake in the lobby. Might go nicely with the coffee on your suit.”
2
Mark
“That is the last time I let you talk me into anything dating related,” I told my cofounder and friend, Finn Richmond, as we
fled the restaurant.
“You shouldn’t have been so mean to that girl,” he chided.
I used to not be so bitter and angry. I had never been what could be described as fun, but I never would have insulted some woman like that. Brea didn’t seem that put out. She did flash you.
Maybe a few years ago, I would even have acted on it. That was until my life had completely imploded.
I still had the engagement ring. I kept the box in my pocket, a reminder that I couldn’t trust myself when it came to women. I didn’t know why I still carried it. She had been perfect—smart, model pretty, a computer scientist like me—and had orchestrated an entire lie around pretending to be in love with me.
I killed the thoughts. I had successfully tried to not think of my last epic disaster of a relationship in—I mentally did the math—thirteen days and eleven hours. It was a new record for me. Then that curvy little wedding dress maker had thrown coffee all over me. Fortunately, I had a change of clothes in my office.
