by Lauren Layne
“I bet it was really good.”
“Okay, it was really good. And then it happened again. And then again.”
“So now your marriage of convenience with your best friend to avoid the messy stuff involves sex. Isn’t that sort of…”
“Messy?” Audrey finished for Claire. “Yes. Do I have any idea what I’m doing? Not really. Do I want to stop the sex? No. Do I want to stop the wedding? No. What does that mean? No idea.”
“Oooh,” Naomi said. “This is a doozy. Okay, Claire, babe, let’s change out of these dresses. This conversation requires carbs. And possibly vodka.”
Audrey sank onto a chair as she waited for her friends to undress and hand the bridesmaid dresses over, taking them up to the front of the store so they could be pressed and picked up on the wedding day.
“Where’s Claire?” Audrey asked Naomi as her friend joined her.
“Bathroom,” Naomi said distractedly as she wandered over to a dress in the window and tilted her head to study it. A wedding dress, Audrey noted. She’d never known Naomi to show the least bit of interest in anything that had to do with weddings, except as it pertained to Audrey’s.
Interesting. And telling.
“It looks like you,” Audrey said casually, going to stand beside her friend, testing her theory. “I could never rock that white leather accent at the hem, but you absolutely could.”
“Do you think so?” Naomi murmured, shifting slightly to see it from another angle. “I’ve only been looking at ones with a narrow skirt, but I do love the way this one flairs without being goofy—”
Naomi broke off, catching herself but not fast enough. Eyes watering with happiness, Audrey pulled her friend around to face her. “You’ve been looking at. Naomi. Are you… are you and Oliver… are you engaged?!”
“Oh hell,” Naomi grumbled, rubbing her forehead.
“What’s wrong?” Claire asked, joining them.
Audrey looked at Naomi expectantly, since it wasn’t her news to share.
Naomi dropped her arm, then gave a small smile that spread into a wide, glowing grin almost immediately. “Oliver and I are getting married.”
Audrey made a squealing noise and pulled them both in for a hopping, awkward, three-way hug.
“How long? When did this happen? Why didn’t you say anything?” Audrey demanded when a laughing Naomi extracted herself from the mauling.
“He proposed a couple weeks ago.”
“Oh, Naomi. How’d he do it?” Claire asked, pressing her hands together and resting her fingers to her lips, eyes watering like Audrey’s were. “Sweet and romantic? Casual and cool? Huge spectacle?”
“The first one,” Naomi said with a smile that softened her features. “It was… perfect.”
“Details!” Claire pleaded as Audrey nodded in agreement.
“It was just a regular morning,” Naomi said. “I’d gotten ready for work and come into the kitchen. Oliver was already there, already dressed. He handed me a cup of coffee, with just the right amount of creamer—”
“I love when they get that right,” Claire said with an understanding smile. “It’s such a small thing, but so romantic.”
Audrey felt something tighten in her chest, realizing that she’d never had that kind of romance. Never had the chance to learn that sort of detail about someone. She and Brayden had rarely spent mornings together—he’d spent them with Claire, and she didn’t think he had ever bothered to learn her coffee preferences.
She’d spent the night at Clarke’s house twice now, making do with black coffee, no fancy chocolate syrup, and she was chagrined to realize that when Clarke had spent last night at her house, he’d had his coffee black that morning because it had never occurred to her to get milk for him. Because they didn’t have that kind of relationship, the kind where you took care to make sure the other person had coffee just the way they liked it.
Not that either had complained—they’d both made do with black coffee, no big deal. But was that the future of their marriage? Making do?
“Anyway,” Naomi was saying. “So Oliver hands me this cup of coffee, and out of nowhere he just says, ‘I want to give you sunbursts and marble halls.’ And I said yes.”
Claire’s arms dropped to her side in befuddlement. “Wait. What? What am I missing?”
“No, no, I know this,” Audrey said, snapping her fingers, something tickling at the back of her brain. “It’s familiar, it’s familiar… Nope. I’m blanking.”
Naomi merely smiled at their confusion. “It’s from a scene out of the Anne of Green Gables series when Gilbert proposes to Anne. Sort of an inside joke, and honestly, it could not have been more perfect. It was a very us moment.”
“Okay, well, I still don’t get it, but I don’t have to,” Claire said, hugging Naomi again. “I am so happy for you.”
“Me, too,” Audrey said. “Though maybe a little mad that you didn’t tell us!”
“I was going to tell you guys right away, I swear. But then you told me that you and Clarke were getting married for real, and Oliver and I agreed to wait until after to announce it. You two deserve to have your time in the spotlight.”
“Yes, but—” Audrey broke off, not sure what to say.
“Don’t be mad,” Naomi pleaded. “You know I’d never intentionally keep anything from you two, but I really didn’t want to steal your thunder. You’ve wanted to be a bride for so long. I wanted you to have your moment.”
“No, it’s not that,” Audrey said, “I appreciate the sentiment. I’d like to think I’d have done the same if the situations were reversed. It’s just…”
She felt her eyes welling and was embarrassed to realize that it was partially out of happiness for Naomi and Oliver, but also partially, shamefully, out of sadness for herself.
“Audrey,” Claire said softly, putting an arm around her. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Audrey said, wiping her nose. “I’m so happy for Naomi, but I’m just… she and Oliver! They’re getting married for real, the fairy-tale love, like you and Scott have, and I thought I didn’t want that. I thought I didn’t deserve it—”
“Of course you deserve it,” Claire said, sounding appalled. “You deserve it more than anyone I know!”
Naomi nodded in agreement, looking concerned.
“I don’t,” Audrey protested, looking at Claire. “I stole yours, Claire.”
Claire frowned. “You stole my what?”
“Your fairy tale. You found your Prince Charming, and I took him, but he was never mine. I was so busy looking for the fairy tale, so selfish—”
“No,” Claire said firmly. “I don’t know why you’ve gotten this into your head, or how long you’ve been carrying it around, but I want you to listen very carefully. Brayden Hayes was never my Prince Charming. He was never any of ours. He was the witch, or the troll, or the monster in disguise, but never the prince. Scott is my prince. Oliver is Naomi’s prince. And Clarke is yours,” Claire finished gently.
Audrey wiped her eyes and looked between the two of them, admitting the truth she’d been running from for God knows how long.
She took a deep breath. “I think I’m in love with Clarke.”
Naomi sighed and pulled her in for a hug, petting her head. “Oh, sweetheart. Of course you are.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 18
Good God, what is that?” Clarke asked, coming up to the kitchen table and looking over her shoulder.
She made a scoffing noise. “The seating arrangements. Obviously.”
“It looks like you’re planning a war,” he said dubiously. “And that yellow is definitely going to annihilate pink.”
“What?” she asked, writing a name onto a mini yellow Post-it note and tapping it against her lip, trying to figure out if she should place her cousin who couldn’t go five minutes without mentioning the Yankees with Clarke’s sports-loving colleagues, or with his own family who loved him but hated baseball.
“It just seems to me that the two lone pink guys don’t stand a chance,” Clarke said, pointing to the center of the poster board serving as her makeshift seating chart.
“That’s us,” she said. “See, we’re at the center table, and everyone else—in yellow, just one color since I’m not differentiating our two sides—is at bigger tables situated around us. Honestly, you’ve been to like nine hundred weddings, how do you not know about the concept of the head table?”
“Huh. I guess I never really noticed the bride and groom.”
“Wonderful,” Audrey said sarcastically. “Your bride is such a lucky girl.”
He planted an almost absent kiss on the top of her head. “As long as she knows it.”
She knows it.
It was enough, Audrey reminded herself, the same way she had been for the past week and a half, ever since her breakdown in the dress shop. It was enough. It would have to be.
After a three-hour-long conversation with Naomi and Claire, she’d come to the decision that when you loved someone, you took them how you could get them. You loved them the way they deserved to be loved, even if they couldn’t love you back in that same way.
Not yet, she reminded herself.
Guys can be dumb, Claire assured her. Even the good ones Give him time.
Girls can be dumb, too, Naomi had added. Oliver and I never would have gotten our fairy tale without a whole lot of patience on his part.
Patience. She could do patience
Clarke was worth it. They were worth it.
“Dare I hope that the fact that the seating chart is in my kitchen means you’re leaning toward living here after the big day?” he asked hopefully, wandering back into the kitchen for more coffee.
“Nope,” Audrey said, resuming her sticky note planning. “But I needed a big table, and mine’s currently covered in handwritten notes for the wedding favors.”
“Right. Do you need help with that?”
She smiled. “Brownie points for asking. But you’re off the hook, mainly because your handwriting is abysmal.”
“Can you please write Mrs. Kerry and tell her that? She was always giving me crap about my penmanship, but I would like her to know that that particular lack of skill has served me well by getting me out of wedding tasks. I’d do it, but she wouldn’t be able to read the note.”
“Absolutely,” Audrey agreed absently. “I’d love to! I don’t have much else going on in the next couple of weeks. Just three dress fittings, figuring out my wedding makeup, finding a last-minute harpist since ours double-booked, finalizing the wedding programs, getting facials to try to ward off this pimple, and trying to convince my mom to go with the dress option that’s not 100 percent glitter. I’m basically bored, so, yes, I’ll make time to write your third-grade teacher and update her on your chicken scrawl.”
“Yep. Sarcasm in the morning is definitely my future. More coffee?”
“Sure. Please,” she said, distracted by trying to remember whether Clarke’s friend Paul from college had neglected to call Jess Thomson after a one-night stand or Jen Thomson. Remembering incorrectly could lead to fireworks. She tapped her lip. She decided to put Paul between the two women and hope they’d all learned how to be grown-ups.
“All right,” Clarke said, returning to the table, setting the coffee carafe next to her Post-it notes, and wrestling the plastic wrap off something. “Train me.”
“Train you to do what?” she asked, not looking up. “I mean, I’ve got a list, starting with teaching you how to fold laundry in something other than a ball shape.”
He shoved a small bottle in front of her face. “How much of this goop do you put in?”
Audrey glanced at it, then sat up straighter. “Where’d you get that?”
“Online,” he said, lifting the bottle to his mouth and using his teeth to break the seal on the plastic wrap. The packaging was a bitch to open. Audrey knew from experience because she ordered it in bulk.
It was her favorite chocolate syrup. The kind she put in her coffee.
“Where online?” she demanded.
“From…” Clarke pulled the bottle away from his mouth and looked at the label. “However you pronounce this place. Their website.”
Audrey’s heart was pounding. “How’d you know the name?”
“Because I took a picture of the bottle last time I was at your house,” he said, giving her an exasperated, puzzled look. “What’s with the inquisition? Are you giving up chocolate or something?”
“No!” Audrey said, quickly swiping at her eyes. “No, it’s just… I didn’t realize you’d noticed how I drank my coffee.”
“Of course I noticed,” he said. “I mean, I don’t support it. This stuff is so thick it looks like—well I won’t mention what it looks like. But I figure since you’ve been at my place in the mornings a lot lately—Dree, why are you crying?”
“I’m not,” she said, wiping at her eyes. “Just stress.”
Stress Love Same thing.
He finally won his war against the plastic wrap. “Okay, you like a dollop, right? Like this?”
He dropped a small blob into her mug.
“More.”
He added another blob.
“More,” she said on a watery laugh.
“Seriously, Dree, this is disgusting. There, how’s that?”
“Perfect. Absolutely perfect,” she said. Then she leaned forward to kiss him. A distraction so that he didn’t realize when she said perfect, she wasn’t just talking about the coffee.
She was talking about the man.
Chapter Twenty-Four
TUESDAY, MARCH 24
So nice of you to be able to squeeze me into the most momentous week of your life.”
“Wow,” Clarke said as he pecked his mom’s cheek, then slid into the chair across from her at her favorite restaurant. “Passive-aggression before I’ve even put my napkin in my lap. A new record.”
“Maybe if you’d learned to put your napkin in your lap promptly, the way I told you to every single night for eighteen years, you’d have beaten me to it.”
“Eighteen years?” he mused. “Was that all? I seem to remember you nagging me about my table manners all throughout my twenties.”
“And it looks like those lessons have finally paid off,” she said with a serene smile. “After all, you’re about to marry a lovely girl, take over the reins of an enormous company— Oh wait. Those two go hand in hand, don’t they?”
“Huh?” Clarke asked, his attention on the menu, happy to see they hadn’t removed the cheeseburger. He set the menu aside and focused on his mother’s words, then laughed as it clicked. “Ah. Dad finally let you in on his role in the game, did he?”
She sniffed. “Please. I’ve known for weeks now that your father tried to outplay me. I confess I’m a little surprised that he won.”
Clarke took a breath out of habit to keep his temper under control. He started to go through the usual pep talk, reminding himself that it was rarely worth it to let his mom get under his skin, especially during his wedding week. But he was relieved to realize he wasn’t even close to losing his temper. His mother aggravated him, certainly, but he found himself decidedly more amused and indulgent today. For that matter, he’d been practically walking on air for weeks now.
He didn’t know if it was Audrey’s infectious enthusiasm for all things wedding or because he was genuinely looking forward to Saturday or because he was regularly getting the best sex he’d ever had, with the best woman he’d ever known. Clarke had the distinct feeling that nothing could bring him down. Least of all his meddling mother.
Clarke grinned and helped himself to a sip of her wine, deeming it too oaky for his taste and picking up the menu to select a glass of red instead. “Dad didn’t win shit,” Clarke said.
“Lovely language, son,” she said mildly. “And I’d say he most certainly did win. He got his way, didn’t he? I bet on Elizabeth. He bet on Audrey, probably to spite me. And I confess, I did
n’t think he had it in him, to put his precious York on the line just to beat me. Nor did I think you’d go for it.”
“Wait,” Clarke said, laughing, and tossed the menu aside. “You honestly think I’m getting married on Saturday because I want the company?”
“Don’t you?”
“Sure, of course, but not like that,” Clarke said, a little offended by the notion that he’d get married simply to get a company or that he’d get a company simply because he got married.
“Then how do you want it?”
“Handed over because I’ve earned it,” Clarke said. “I’ve worked my ass off for that company, Mom. I know you’re pissed that I didn’t become a lawyer, but surely even you can see that.”
“I’m not pissed that you didn’t become a lawyer,” she said after a sip of wine. “I’ve only ever wanted you to apply yourself, to reach your potential.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, as always,” he muttered, picking up the wine menu once more.
“You haven’t.”
His head snapped up. “I’m sorry. That sounded suspiciously like a compliment.”
Linda sighed. “You never make anything easy on me, do you?”
“Make what easy? You asked me to lunch. I said yes. So far I’ve gotten lectured about not putting my napkin in my lap fast enough and for marrying someone other than the woman you picked out for me, and I’m making things difficult for you?”
“I’m trying to apologize,” Linda said stiffly.
Clarke sat back in his chair. “Wow. That’s… new.”
“Well, I haven’t had much cause to in the past,” she said, smoothing out the white tablecloth with her fingers. “But I can admit when I’m wrong, and I was wrong about Elizabeth.”
“Wrong about her being the right woman for me or wrong about getting involved in my love life?”
“Both, I suppose.”
“Wow,” Clarke said again, genuinely at a loss for words. He racked his brain, trying to remember his mother ever apologizing. He came up blank.
“Though I would like to state—”
