Meant to be More (Meant to Be Series Book 4)

by Amelia Foster

  She turned slightly and buried her face in his shoulder, wrapping her arms around his waist and making his heart stop beating at the same time. “I’m so sorry, Dean. This is wholly unfair to you and I have zero right to bitch about something as stupid as a wedding dress for a fake wedding that—”

  Dean pushed her away slightly. “Hey, first of all, you never call me Dean and I’m not entirely certain I like it.” He ran a thumb beneath her left lower lid to catch the tear that spilled over the edge. “And second of all, regardless of what has led us to get married, you deserve to be happy and enjoy the day.”

  “So I should just pretend this is my actual wedding and not a day where I am manipulating my best friend into bailing my entire family out.” Her eyes widened until they were saucers and she clamped a hand over her mouth.

  Her entire family? Questions that he’d shoved to the back of his mind since she first made the insane proposition flooded forward again, but the look on her face made it pretty damn clear she wasn’t letting anything slip. “Not ready to let that horse out of the barn yet, are you?”

  “You’ve been working with Wyatt too long,” she murmured from behind the fingers still pressed to her lips.

  Dean rolled his eyes and released the hold he had on her bicep. “You know I won’t push. Hell, you know I am the least pushy of all the Carlisle boys. Probably why everyone loves me the best.” He threw her a wink that earned him a hefty sigh. “But it’d be nice if you could remember that I’m your best friend and would never spill any secrets. I never once breathed a word when you made out with—”

  She put both hands against his mouth with a force that sent him backwards until he was laying on the cushions and she was straddling his midsection. Not a bad position to be in from his perspective, but still surprising. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence, Dean Carlisle.”

  “I said I didn’t tell anyone about that.” His words came out jumbled even to his own ears as he spoke them against her palms.

  For just a little longer than three beats of his racing heart, she sat still and stared down at him. Her firm grip eased and his breath hitched in his chest.

  Now? Was this the moment? As soon as the question surfaced in his mind, she hopped off him, breaking the spell he hoped she felt as strongly as he did.

  “Fine, but if I am going to be the monster bride, you have to as well.” She propped her fists on her hips and straightened out to her full five foot one inch height. “That means you have to come to all the dinner samples and cake testing appointments that are lined up over the next few days.”

  Dean laced his fingers together behind his head and grinned at her. “Jillybean, you say that like it’s some sort of punishment. You’re telling me I get to have free food and cake? I hate to break it to ya, but that sounds like a great night out to me.”

  She lifted one brow and gave him a smile that managed to unsettle him and, oddly, excite him all at once. “But remember my mother will be there front and center because, trust me, Sparky, if we choose the chicken marsala, but she thinks the panko breaded chicken is a better option, you better believe that fight will be on.”

  He turned on the couch and rose to his feet. “The right kind of food can make me ignore everything. Even the Ice Queen’s death glare and annoying voice.”

  Jillian folded her arms across her chest. The corners of her lips twitched with the laughter he knew she was holding in. No matter her mood, he could almost always draw out at least a giggle from her. “But will your brother let you free for all the millions of decision planning moments you need to be present for?”

  Yeah, she would definitely think he needed to go to Wyatt for permission. He’d never actually told her… “Trust me, that’s not an issue.”

  She tilted her head to the side and narrowed her eyes. “What do you do there, anyway, Sparky? I can’t really picture you mucking out stalls all day.” She poked him in the ribcage. “But after your third major change, maybe you picked that instead.”

  “Don’t worry that pretty little head, Jillybean. I will be there with bells on for any and every decision I need to give my expert and desperately needed opinion on.” The mental list of the things he needed to tell her had another bullet point labeled “career” added to it. Right below the bright, glaring, blinking red “tell her you love her” that held the number one spot.

  ***

  Jillian

  Present Day

  The third lace gown her mother had picked for her itched more than the previous two. It was the very last thing she’d ever pick out for herself, but as she had with so many other details, she mostly let her mother have free rein, although listening to the complaints about buying off the rack because of the tight timeline nearly sent her over the edge. And definitely drove her to remind her mother, once again, the role she played in everything that led to making this necessary.

  Helena Monroe had actually managed to shut up for an entire five minutes. Damn near miraculous.

  Despite her silent assertions that she absolutely would not wear the latest dress her mother had chosen, she exited the changing room with the attendant in tow to fluff out the chapel length train. She stepped up on the platform surrounded by full-length mirrors on three sides to the ooh’s and ahh’s of her bridal party—the daughters of her mother’s friends, not anyone Jillian actually hung out with.

  What she wouldn’t give to have Angela sitting there instead of the three nearly identical, perfectly coifed heads. Not only because she adored her friend, but because Angela would undoubtedly be sporting khaki shorts and an olive tank top. Practical when they were working in the field, but a wardrobe staple for the other woman that would drive her mother into an apoplectic fit.

  Instead of someone she loved standing by her side, her attendants were hand chosen by Helena and fit the social ideal the mother required.

  Ainsley, Presley, and Bridget had been acquaintances in school and girls she’d given small, congenial smiles to at social functions they’d all been required to attend, but there was a glaring difference between them and Jillian. They all were cookie cutter copies of their own mothers, happy to gossip about who was seen with who at a garden party supposedly organized to raise money to build wells in Africa, but really were designed to rub elbows with all the right people.

  And talk about all the wrong ones.

  Jillian turned dutifully on the pedestal and frowned at her reflection. Nope. Not happening. “I hate it,” she declared as she hefted the skirt and stepped onto the carpeted floor. As she crossed to the dressing room to rid herself of the itchy material she was brought to a stop by one of the gowns hanging.

  Ivory colored satin immediately caught her eye and she asked the clerk if she could see the full gown, but when the assistant helping her in and out of the various fluffy confections pulled the dress free from between others, Jillian had the feeling of perfection she’d heard described on the trash reality shows she forced Dean to watch with her. Simple, elegant, and timeless. The exact dream gown she never actually knew she wanted until she saw it.

  She caught the arm of the girl who was probably the same age as her. “I want to try that on.”

  The bateau neckline led to fitted sleeves that ended just below the elbow. A thin line of identical satin ribbon cinched the waist and the material curved to hug her hips before flaring into a trumpet skirt with a train just slightly longer than the chapel length one she’d just worn.

  “This is it.”

  She breathed out the words so softly the worker leaned in closer and asked her to repeat herself. “This is the one.” This time her voice reflected the confidence she felt in making the proclamation.

  The decision was cemented by the silence as she stepped from the back room. Every member of her bridal party sat with mouths agape until they simultaneously erupted in squeals and giggles and nods of approval.

  All except Helena, who coldly glared at her from across the room as she stood on the elevated surface. Jillian lifted her
chin in spite of the clear disapproval that managed to make her feel five years old again. And like an impossible failure.

  Until the older clerk discreetly walked over to her mother and whispered something in her ear that made Helena visibly brighten and actually smile.

  “What did she say?” She couldn’t hold back the question as she sat beside her mother in the backseat of the town car as they rode back to her house.

  Helena jolted slightly as if Jillian’s words had pulled her from a trance. “Excuse me?”

  Jillian fiddled with the hem of her emerald tunic top. “At the bridal store you weren’t very happy with my gown until the owner said something to you. What did she say?”

  Her mother lifted a finely sculpted brow slightly. “You chose a wonderful designer, darling. The same one several celebrities have used. Very well done.” Helena turned down the corners of her mouth. “Although they certainly weren’t buying off the rack.”

  Jillian barely stifled the groan threatening to explode. Naturally, her mother wasn’t happy that she loved the dress. She didn’t smile because she thought her daughter looked beautiful. It was all smoke, mirrors, and appearance. She turned to face the window and stared out at the slowly setting sun.

  She tracked every mile they traveled that brought her closer to the townhouse she was sharing with Dean. A warm wave of comfort washed over her. It felt like home. So much more than the massive house she grew up in. Her fingers fell to the silver handle before the driver had even pulled to a complete stop. She was certain her mother would be disappointed that she hadn’t waited for the driver to open it for her.

  “Have a nice evening, Mother.” She climbed out of the car as soon as it was thrown into park and barely stopped herself from racing up the cement steps to the front door.

  The exhaustion of the day hit her hard as she turned the handle and crossed the threshold. All she could think about was finding the nearest horizontal surface and passing out for some yet-to-be-determined period of time.

  Until the decadent scent of basil, oregano, and tomatoes tickled her nose and drew her into the kitchen. The rich aromatic smells triggered her stomach to growl. Inquiries as to exactly what Dean was cooking and pleas to have even a small sample if it wasn’t yet ready all died on her tongue when he came into full view.

  “You have got to be kidding me.”

  Dean turned and offered a dazzling smile for a full second before it disappeared. “What? You don’t like stuffed shells now? It’s a meatless sauce.” He hefted a pot over to the counter and ladled out some of the self-proclaimed vegetarian tomato sauce onto the baking dish sitting beside it.

  She crossed the few feet separating them and stood next to him with a small, but wholly intentional, bump of her hip on his. “You know it’s one of my favorites and I’ll be damned if that doesn’t smell like Izzy’s sauce, but I’m talking about the outfit there, Sparky. ‘I cook as good as I look?’”

  After a quick glance down at the apron he was sporting, he gave her a completely unrepentant grin. “Hey, I don’t need any splatter getting on my clothes.” He shrugged and lined up the already filled pasta shells on the glass dish with intense precision. “Besides, don’t women love a man who brings home the bacon and cooks it? Well, fake bacon for you. Although we probably should discuss that topic soon because I’m not certain I’m willing to give up my bachelorhood and bacon at the same time.”

  Jillian shook her head, but couldn’t fight the smile that popped up. “How do you do that?”

  Dean drew his brows together as he spread more sauce over the top of the shells and sprinkled mozzarella cheese on top of that. “Do what? Make dinner?”

  She tilted her head and rested it against his bicep with a small sigh. “No, how do you manage to make me smile and forget the fact that I had a perfectly shitty day in less than five minutes?”

  He stiffened slightly beside her before putting one arm around her waist and squeezing slightly. “Isn’t that what a good husband would do?”

  His hand fell away and he moved to set the heaping dish in the oven already radiating warmth in the small space. Jillian turned and rested her hip against the counter, tracking Dean’s motions.

  Exactly when had her best friend stopped being immature and irresponsible and how had she never noticed? She could blame her infrequent visits home and sporadic Skype chats, but a good friend would still manage to see these things.

  And a good friend especially would know what he did at Wyatt’s ranch.

  While she’d been lost in her own head, Dean managed to pour her a large glass of chardonnay. “How about you tell me about your shitty day while this cooks?”

  She took the proffered, and much needed, adult beverage and took a long swing. “Only if you tell me how work was, Sparky.”

  He lifted his own glass and tapped it against hers with a grin. “Deal.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Dean

  Thirteen Years Ago

  “Did you run here in that?” Dean skidded his bike to a halt and dropped it to the ground beside the lake just as Jillian reached him, her chest heaving under the beaded emerald dress.

  She hefted the material and plopped onto the rock. “Shut up.” She folded her arms across her front and huffed. After a handful of moments she hopped off the stone and began pacing, not missing a step on the uneven surface despite her two inch heels. “I am so over it.”

  Dean lifted his brows, but he knew his best friend and kept his mouth shut. She’d talk when she was ready. His eyes tracked her as he moved to take the seat she’d just abandoned. He flattened his palms against the warm stone slightly behind him and waited while she fumed.

  Seconds became minutes as she huffed and snarled and started to speak before dissolving into a frustrated growl and resuming her cadence.

  Finally his impatience won out and he took off his baseball hat to wipe away the sweat beads that had formed as he pedaled to their meeting spot after her frantic and frustrated text that she wanted to see him. “Out with it.”

  His words had the miraculous effect to bring her steps to a halt. She stood as rigid as the trees surrounding them, her arms ramrod straight by her sides.

  Her jaw flexed a few times before she pointed a condemning finger toward the house in the distance. “Her.”

  He raised one of his legs up to an angle and rested his forearm on his knee. “Yeah, I figured that. Only the Ice Queen can manage to rile you up like this.” He tilted his head and watched as she started pacing again. “What did she do this time?”

  Jillian gripped each elbow with the opposite hand and continued walking in a large oval. “Nothing. Everything. Just the same exact things she always does.” She stopped and turned to him, the corners of her eyes filling with tears. “She uses posters of people starving and children begging for food as selling points to make the auction hit whatever number she has in her head as a win for the night.”

  She crossed the ground and sat down beside him, the frilly, fluffy skirt of the dress brushing against his leg, bare beneath his shorts.

  He wanted to say the right thing, but didn’t have the first clue what that was. Instead he pulled a long stalk of grass free from the small patch growing beside him and stuck it in his mouth.

  “She is exploiting the people she receives constant and excessive praise for helping…and it isn’t even actual help. She throws money at random organizations. She never checks them out to see if they are legitimate and actually send the money where it’s supposed to go.” Jillian pulled at pins and elastic bands until soft, ginger waves fell around her shoulders. “My mother is constantly presenting herself as an altruistic humanitarian, but only as much as it will look good, not do good.”

  Dean twisted his lips to the side. “I know it drives you crazy, but your mother has been a self-centered, social climbing witch since the dawn of time.” He held up a hand. “Uh, no offense.”

  Jillian stared out on the horizon for several moments in silence. “I can’t hav
e a life like hers, Dean.”

  When she used his real name instead of the nickname she’d given him, he knew to pay attention. “You’re nothing like her.”

  Her hand swept up and down to encompass the designer gown he couldn’t even begin to guess the cost of. “Aren’t I? I’m sitting here in a designer gown bitching”—her eyes darted around as soon as the curse slipped from her lips and it made Dean grin—“about her being privileged, but I am really any better?”

  “You see an issue with it. She doesn’t.” He lifted a shoulder and shifted uncomfortably on the rock. He was fourteen, what the hell did he know about poverty, wealth, need, or social status? “I think that makes you better.”

  His parents might be something more than comfortable now, but they didn’t let much time go between reminders to their boys that it hadn’t always been that way for them and they expected their sons to work hard for everything they got, not skate by because their family had built a successful company. That, however, was the extent of his fiscal knowledge.

  And although his parents had often preached kindness, empathy, and giving back, he knew jack shit about the kind of charities her mother worked with. All of those reasons equaled out to him keeping his mouth shut aside from agreeing with Jillian and letting her vent out all the emotions he knew she kept locked tightly away while she put on the performance of being the dutiful daughter.

  “I want my life to mean something.”

  Her simple statement cut through the confusing thoughts clouding his brain and brought his head up from where it had been bent, examining his sneakers.

  He pulled his brows together. “What the hell does that mean? Your life means a lot.”

  The gentle shake of her head sent a soft waterfall of red waves over her shoulder. When had her hair gotten so long? “No, I want it to mean something. I want to go to Ethiopia and Bolivia and Honduras and…everywhere there is a need.” She grabbed his hands and held them tightly in hers, her green eyes glowing with something he couldn’t recognize, but something that made his heart jump a few beats. “I want to physically help the people who need it the most, not just throw enough money at a cause to make myself sleep better at night and look like a hero to my friends.”