At the Billionaire’s Wedding

by Maya Rodale, Caroline Linden, Miranda Neville, Katharine Ashe

  The group enjoyed High Tea in the Orangery.

  “I could get used to this,” Jane sighed.

  “Me too,” Roxanna replied. “I see the appeal of days of yore. We just don’t live like we used to.”

  It was back to the modern day after that. A fleet of cars with drivers was waiting to take the girls to their next destination.

  The Bull’s Head Pub

  By the time the girls arrived at the final stop of the hen party, they had been playing “never have I ever” all day. There was great confusion over when one was supposed to drink (or not) as part of the game, with the result that all the girls were in an advanced state of intoxication and it was no longer clear who had done what (or not) with whom (or not).

  It had to be noted that The Bull’s Head pub was the only pub near Brampton. The Pineapple of Perfection, a restaurant run by vegan lesbians, did not count, obviously. Here, the locals—old guys hunched over pints at the bar and families enjoying quiet dinners of fish and chips—were obviously wary when a bunch of drunk girls spilled into their dark, quiet pub.

  “It’s so quaint! And charming,” Cassidy exclaimed.

  “It’s very Ye Olde English Pub,” Jane remarked.

  “And it’s been here since 1782,” Cali pointed out, having read the plaque outside the door. “Perhaps you can set a scene from one of your novels here.”

  Jane looked around, taking it all in. “Maybe if one of my characters has fallen on hard times and found themselves stranded in the countryside, desperate for a place to stay.”

  “Drinks?” Roxanna asked the pack of inebriated girls who were about to become way drunker. She paused, imagining how Damien would roll his eyes and despair of her use of phrases like “way drunker.” But then he would kiss her and it would be “way hot” and there wouldn’t be much talking at all after that.

  She and Jane sidled up to the bar.

  “Oh! They have Prosecco on tap,” Jane exclaimed. “Is that even possible?”

  “It’s so real,” Roxanna said. She had requested it specially. She had also made a playlist and ordered cupcakes decorated with little marzipan versions of the male anatomy. Jane had been adamant about having a “classy” bachelorette event. But Roxanna thought a little trashy fun—and penis swag—was required at this point of the party.

  “Just look at that bartender…” Kimberly sighed, leaning against the bar, twisting a lock of her blond hair around her finger as she made eyes at the hunk who bore a striking resemblance to Colin Farrell.

  It had to be noted that his shirt had only two buttons fastened and one had to wonder why he even bothered.

  “Is he a stripper?” Jane asked, nervously, again. But this time, she’d already had some drinks and she wasn’t speaking as quietly as she thought. Colin-Farrell-The-Bartender overheard and flashed a sexy grin suggesting that 1) he was a stripper or 2) he could be one, for her.

  “Never have I ever hooked up with a bartender—” Cassidy started to say, but Roxanna cut her off: “—said no girl ever.”

  “I haven’t!” Jane exclaimed.

  “Drink!” all the girls shouted. All the girls drank.

  “Or make out with him,” Cali suggested with a sly grin.

  “No! I’m getting married!” Jane cried out happily. All the girls cheered, and the music started blaring. The playlist started with Beyoncé, then a little Lady Gaga and classic Madonna.

  “Hey! I love this song!” Jane shouted when “Drunk in Love” started playing.

  “I know!” Roxanna shouted back.

  Then there wasn’t much talking as all their favorite songs played, and all the girls danced, and drank Prosecco from the tap, and turned this Ye Olde English Pub into a wild ladies’ night dance party. The locals were not amused.

  And then the guys rolled in, still dressed in their hunting outfits, right down to the muddy boots.

  “Wait, we’re supposed to have separate parties,” Jane said loudly, her face flushed from all the dancing. And the drinking. She might have stumbled a little bit. Roxanna held her arm to steady her, but she was a bit wobbly on her heels too. It had been a long day.

  “Good to see you, too, future wife,” Duke said, pulling her close for a kiss.

  “Hey,” she sighed. “Hiiii.”

  “Break the rules, Jane,” Roxanna told her. These guys weren’t going anywhere and this party was only just beginning. She saw the drunk bachelors and bachelorettes start to pair off for some dirty dancing and making out in the dark corners of the pub.

  “You’re right. About something,” Jane said, draping herself across Duke, who held her close.

  “Also, drink some water,” Roxanna said, handing her a full pint glass.

  “I’m fine,” Jane said. “I feel fantastic.”

  “Remember how you don’t want pictures on the Internet of you vomiting?”

  “Nooo.” Jane shook her head slowly. And stopped, wincing. “Bad idea, the headshaking.”

  “Drink water,” Roxanna insisted. “Or go home.”

  Roxanna watched Jane glance around the pub and see that all their closest friends were dancing, drinking, making merry, and generally having a ball. Was that Cassidy with one of the developers? That was indeed Kimberly making out with the bartender. Jane wouldn’t want to miss any of it.

  “Pass the water,” Jane demanded before chugging the glass Roxanna gave her. Then off she went to dance with Duke.

  With the bride in good spirits and happily with her groom, Roxanna sought out her own guy. She’d been wanting to text him all day with little comments or inside jokes or just to see how he was getting along with a bunch of angry tech guys holding loaded shotguns. Jane used to be her person for stuff like that, but now… Now she just wanted him.

  She wandered through the crowd until she found him leaning against the bar. Wrapping her arms around him, Roxanna pressed herself against him, savoring the feeling of his body against hers. She breathed him in.

  Damien slipped his hands down to her waist and like that they started to dance. Slow. Oh so slow. Somehow they ended up in a darkened corner of Ye Olde Pub. Damien’s back was against the wall and he held her close.

  “How was your day, darling?” she purred, peering up at him. “Did you get shot?”

  “I did not, but there were many close calls,” he said, claiming her mouth for a quick kiss. “And how was your day?”

  “Girly,” she replied, laughing softly. “Want me to tell you all about it?”

  “Tell me anything. Even if it’s terrifying.”

  For a second Roxanna paused. He meant that girly things were terrifying and he wanted to hear about her day. But it occurred to her alcohol-addled brain that that was the perfect opportunity to say I love you.

  Where did that come from? All the Prosecco she had been drinking. Drunk logic suggested that she confess her love for him now, when she could easily laugh it off if he didn’t say it back. But that was idiotic and immature. She ought to take her own advice and drink some water.

  But really, this wasn’t the moment to say those three little words. If she said them—when she said them, it shouldn’t be while drunk in the pub.

  So instead, she said, “Jane didn’t want any strippers.”

  “Pity, that.”

  “So I hired a ton of male strippers to drive the carriages, give the tour at the Edgeworth Park, and to serve tea. You name it. Now she’s convinced every hot guy she sees is a stripper.”

  Damien grinned and said, “Well, that explains why she’s manhandling that police officer.”

  Roxanna whirled around.

  “OMG. Oh. My. God.”

  Jane was indeed manhandling the police officer. He was cute in the boyish, small town cop kind of way. He was not hot in the male-model-hired-for-the-day kind of way, like all the others. But Jane’s vision was probably seriously impaired by all the alcohol she’d been drinking since breakfast. Thus, she was obviously flirting with the cop, feeling his biceps, asking to touch his nightstick,
and giggling uncontrollably. Duke was unsuccessfully trying to stop her.

  “I have to go deal with this,” Roxanna said, pressing a kiss on Damien’s lips and heading toward her friend. “Jane! Wait!”

  “This one is the stripper, isn’t he?” Jane said loudly. Then, to the not-a-stripper police officer she cooed, “Hello, you. It’s my special night.”

  “Congratulations, ma’am. But I’m not a stripper. I’m an officer of the law.”

  “That’s what they all say,” Jane said, giggling. Roxanna was hard-pressed to restrain her own laughter.

  “I’m just going to take her to get some water,” Roxanna said, trying to pull her friend away from the cop.

  “An excellent idea,” he said.

  But Jane wouldn’t budge. No, she leaned heavily on Roxanna, and seriously considered the officer.

  “I bet your shirt just … rips right open,” Jane said thoughtfully. Then, in a serious voice, she added, “Because of the Velcro. Or maybe snaps.”

  “There’s no—” Roxanna started to say. But Jane, good God, just reached over for the officer’s shirt, fisted the fabric, and tried to yank it right open.

  The buttons did not oblige.

  Jane stood there awkwardly, gripping fistfuls of the officer’s shirt.

  “Babe…” Duke was there, by her side. “You’re confused. I’m your male stripper for the evening.”

  “Well, show me what you got,” she said matter-of-factly, hands on her hips.

  Duke bit back laughter and said something about a private performance back at the house. It took a moment, but the bride-to-be was persuaded to leave her bachelorette party.

  “Aaand this party has been a success,” Roxanna declared. “Aaand we’re done.”

  Damien watched the entire exchange from the corner of the pub. Jane and Roxanna loved each other, that was abundantly clear. And even Roxanna and Duke acted as if they had acknowledged that they were, for better or for worse, now life partners when it came to Jane. Together, they gathered her things, gave her water, and escorted her out to the car waiting to drive them back.

  Damien grabbed Roxanna’s things and pushed through the dance floor, intent on a ride back to the house with them. God forbid he be left at that pub with all the drunk girls. God forbid he miss out on Roxanna. They all squeezed into a black car.

  Jane nestled up against Duke, who wrapped his arms around her and held her close even though she muttered something about not feeling well. He made a crack about happily ever after including vomit.

  Roxanna offered a sheepish sorry-not-sorry kind of apology. Then she handed him “a hair thing” for when Jane was inevitably puking later. Duke seemed a bit perplexed, but accepting of this, and Damien did not envy what was in store for him later this evening.

  Or did he?

  There was love all around. It wasn’t complicated; it just was. Jane loved them both, and they loved her, so they had all bonded in the way that only a chosen family can. It didn’t have to be a big thing. It. Just. Was. Like air and water and Mondays and Saturdays.

  It made him rethink his rules about the L-word and avoiding dramatics, complications, and messy emotional entanglements. He wanted, fiercely, to be a part of that. Maybe even more than he wanted to hold on to a two-hundred-year-old newspaper.

  Chapter Eight

  That moment when you have to give a heartfelt speech and realize you actually mean it.

  The following day—the day before the wedding—was spent recovering from the night before. All of the women indulged in manicures, pedicures, facials, and massages. Most of the guests spent a significant portion of the day lounging around the pool, soaking up the sunshine, sipping cold beverages, and taking a dip in the cool water.

  Jane and Roxanna reclined on chaise lounges, sunglasses on and giant glasses of water in hand. Kimberly was nearby, making an effort to ensure that the maximum amount of skin was exposed so she’d have as few tan lines as possible. No one complained—especially the male guests. Cassidy was in the shade reading War and Peace.

  “Do you think he’s a stripper, Jane?” Roxanna asked. It was clear to whom she was referring: the hot hunk of man in very small, fitted shorts tending to the swimming pool.

  “Shut up,” Jane mumbled. “Just shut up.”

  All the girls lowered their sunglasses and gazed at the pool boy. Or, more to the point, at all the tan, exposed, muscles of the pool boy. Oh, and his gorgeous smile and that dimple on his left cheek. He was totally aware that all the girls in bikinis were ogling him and he was totally okay with it.

  “Is it his chiseled abs that make you think so?” Roxanna asked. “Or his amazing ass?”

  “Or that sexy, smoldering look he’s giving me?” Kimberly added.

  Jane reluctantly pulled down her sunglasses and gave the pool boy a glance. Then she pushed her glasses back up and said, “He doesn’t compare to Duke.”

  “Doesn’t compare to Damien,” Roxanna murmured to herself. “And speak of the devil.”

  Roxanna took a turn ogling him as he walked toward her. He was tall, dark, and fucking gorgeous. He could have been a model, but he was too smart for that, which only made him sexier.

  He stopped before her, blocking the sun. Then he grinned and said, “I know you were pining away for me and now here I am, making all your dreams come true.”

  “Your modesty is what I find sexiest about you,” she retorted.

  “That’s what all the girls say,” he said with a grin. He turned to address Jane. “Ms. Sparks, I’m wondering if you would spare your maid of honor for the day.”

  “What for?” they both asked at the same time.

  “It’s a surprise,” he said.

  “A romantic one?” Jane asked suspiciously.

  “I hate surprises,” Roxanna interjected.

  “Ignore her,” Jane said.

  “As if I could. Yes, it’s romantic. I think. Or a disaster that will be the end of our relationship.”

  “You may take her,” Jane said, waving her hand dismissively. “But I want to hear everything at the end of the day.”

  After Roxanna had showered and dressed, she followed Damien to his Aston Martin convertible parked in front of the house. Damien went ahead and opened the door for her as if chivalry wasn’t dead.

  “I can’t believe you just negotiated my release with the bride,” she said, sliding into the seat and buckling up. “I’m free!”

  “You make yourself sound like a convicted felon serving a life sentence,” he said, slipping on his sunglasses and starting the engine. The car roared to life, then started purring.

  “You’ve obviously never been in a bridal party,” Roxanna informed him.

  “I have not had the pleasure.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “Are you so desperate for Internet access that you’re driving us into London?”

  “No.” Was that the faintest of smiles on his lips? She thought yes. He was up to something and it would drive her crazy not knowing.

  “One thing you should know about me is that I hate surprises,” Roxanna said.

  “I know,” he replied.

  She glanced out the window at the lush countryside as they sped by. Were they a thing or were they not a thing? Why was she suddenly dying/terrified to know? Everything had been so chill and easy in NYC and now… It must be the wedding. She had wedding brain. Ugh.

  “We’re going to see a house,” he said, which shocked her into momentary speechlessness.

  “One with Internet, I presume?”

  “Of course,” he murmured. She got the sense that wasn’t it at all, but why else would they go see a house? He didn’t seem like the sort who enjoyed touring National Trust properties—or was he, and she was too sex-addled to discover other facets of his personality? Did she not know him at all? Funny, that, when she thought she was falling in lo—finding herself increasingly emotionally invested in him.

  He obviously wasn’
t going to show her a house for sale. But OMG what if he was? She sunk into her seat, overwhelmed by all the ridiculous thoughts in her brain, which had clearly been warped by the wedding.

  Damien drove his sporty little car along tiny, windy country roads. It was all beautiful. Eventually he pulled into one of those discreetly fabulous driveways. The entryway itself wasn’t very remarkable, but then there was a long gravel drive flanked by ancient, gnarled trees forming a canopy over the road. Up ahead loomed the very definition of a Stately Ancestral Home.

  He parked the car in front of the house. Which was massive.

  “This is my home,” Damien said, turning the car off. They both remained in their seats, staring at the ancient mansion.

  “Did you grow up at the National Trust?”

  “Unlike most ancestral homes owned by members of the peerage, we’ve never had to open the place up to the public,” Damien said. “Thanks to the profitability of our media holdings.”

  “Does anyone actually live here?” As far as Roxanna was concerned, people didn’t actually live in houses like this. They were places where history buffs toured with notebooks and cameras or that children were dragged to on school field trips. They were Days of Yore houses, not anyone’s actual home. She couldn’t imagine coming home to a place like this.

  “My mother lives here.”

  Roxanna made the sound of an explosion.

  “Am I about to meet your mother? Is that the romantic, possibly relationship-ending surprise?”

  “I’m afraid so,” he said softly. She glanced over and couldn’t read him.

  Roxanna leaned back against the seat and exhaled.

  “This just got real. Really real.”

  “You say that as if it’s a bad thing,” Damien said. Because she heard the faintest bit of nervousness in his usually very posh and self-assured voice, she was totally, utterly, plainly honest.