Shouldn’t Want You
A Brother’s Best Friend Romance
Lilian Monroe
Contents
1. Willow
2. Sacha
3. Willow
4. Willow
5. Sacha
6. Sacha
7. Willow
8. Sacha
9. Willow
10. Sacha
11. Willow
12. Willow
13. Sacha
14. Sacha
15. Willow
16. Sacha
17. Willow
18. Sacha
19. Sacha
20. Willow
21. Sacha
22. Willow
23. Sacha
24. Willow
25. Sacha
26. Sacha
27. Willow
28. Sacha
29. Sacha
30. Willow
31. Sacha
32. Willow
Epilogue
Lilian Monroe
Hate at First Sight
1. Nicole
2. Martin
Also by Lilian Monroe
Copyright © 2020 Lilian Monroe All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the author except for short quotations used for the purpose of reviews.
Resemblance to action persons, things living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
Editing provided Emily Lawrence of Lawrence Editing
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1
Willow
The bride’s shrill, ear-splitting shriek pulls me from my conversation with the caterer. My head whips toward the noise as my heartbeat takes off at a gallop.
I’ve heard that noise before.
Not often, thankfully. I’m not that bad at my job—but I have heard it.
A funny thing happens when a woman gets married: her brain seems to fall right out of her head. It usually happens right about the time the dress shop nestles a veil in her hair. That thin, gauzy material has the power to transform the most reasonable woman into a monster.
Okay, okay. I know. I’m being unkind.
Not all women turn into bridezillas. Some of them are gorgeous and gracious and have perfect, fairytale weddings. More than one wedding has brought a tear to my eye and squeezed blood from the black rock in my chest.
Those aren’t the women who turn my hair gray at the ripe old age of twenty-seven.
That high-pitched screech that just made all the glassware shudder?
That’s not the sound of a fairytale wedding. That’s the sound of something going very, very wrong.
“I have to go,” I shout at the caterer, already taking off at full speed across the lawn. He says something I don’t catch, because I’m already halfway back to the main hotel doors. I leave him to figure out how to stretch the two hundred meals into two hundred and fifty, because we learned this morning that the groom invited more guests at the last minute without telling us.
You know, standard stuff. Typical wedding planner problems.
My steps are silent on the grass as I run toward the back of the hotel. Employees are putting the finishing touches on the garlands of flowers and gauze that cover every available surface, and my vision zeroes in on the doorway.
Another scream reaches my ears, and I know I only have a few precious minutes to avert whatever disaster is happening upstairs.
I need to get to the bride.
When I first started as a wedding planner, I’d dress up for the events. I’d wear dresses and heels, thinking I needed to look fancy. My clothes were black, as always—I could blend in with the staff that way—but I chose formal, dressy outfits.
The problem with dressing up? You can’t sprint in heels.
Now, I wear sensible clothing. Sleek black trousers with a lot of stretch in them paired with a smart top. Hair in a low bun. No jewelry.
Nothing too flashy. Nothing too remarkable.
Oh—and comfortable shoes.
Bursting through the hotel’s doors, I take the stairs two at a time toward the floor reserved for the wedding party. A loud crash followed by more shouting lets me know things haven’t calmed down.
I might be too late.
When I stop outside the bride’s door, my chest is heaving. I can make out a few words amidst the shouting on the other side of the door, but I still can’t figure out what’s going on.
I don’t know why I knock, but I do.
“Bethany?” I call out through the closed door.
Another crash rattles the door. I inhale, squeezing my eyes shut to steel myself against what’s about to happen. I know what I’m in for.
More screaming. Probably tears. Some finger pointing and runny mascara.
My grip on the doorknob tightens as I suck a breath in through my teeth. My heart is still racing, and I pat my hair down to give myself some semblance of professionalism.
They’ll probably blame me. They always do.
It’s fine, I tell myself. That’s what I’m here for. I do all the hard work for no recognition, and I take all the blame when things go wrong.
That’s why they pay me exorbitant amounts of money to plan their weddings. That’s why I was able to purchase my own house when I was twenty-two, and why I left college with no student debt. I’ve been able to build my own business from the ground up, without anyone else’s help.
Not even the Black family, who owns half this town and used to own my family, too.
Still, getting screamed at can be tough.
With one last inhale, I push the door open, and all the breath is sucked out of my lungs.
Every time I think I’ve seen it all, something new happens. I’ve seen five-tiered cakes smashed to the ground. I’ve seen grooms walk out before the ‘I dos’ and brides throwing plates against walls. I’ve seen tears, breakups, fires, and car crashes.
Yes, literally.
I’ve never seen a woman staring in the mirror, holding frayed ends of bright, green, ear-length hair. I could have sworn that an hour ago, her hair was nearly down to her waist and blond.
“Beth—”
The bride’s haunted eyes meet mine as her fingers comb through the damaged ends. A woman sits huddled in the corner, rocking back and forth in a bridesmaid’s dressing gown. Her back is to me, and I read the words ‘Bride Tribe’ embroidered in gold thread across her shoulder blades.
The bridesmaid in the corner turns her head and I see her tear-streaked face. Her lower lip trembles. “I’m sorry, Bethany, I—”
“Don’t.” The bride’s lips pinch, and the skin around her eyes tightens. She doesn’t look at the woman in the corner. No one else moves.
The tension in the room tastes acrid on my tongue. Bethany drags her eyes back to the mirror as a shudder of revulsion courses through her body.
“Leave,” she says in a flat, emotionless voice.
No one has to ask who she’s talking to. The woman in the corner picks herself up off the floor, wringing her hands in front of her stomach. There’s a splotch of white on her dressing gown—from bleach, maybe?
She takes a step toward the bride, opening her mouth to say something. She pauses, reconsiders, and then shuffles out of the room without uttering another word.
Bethany slumps down further into her cha
ir, dropping her head in her hands. Her silky robe is pulled tight around her body and I can see tension and heartbreak rippling through her.
Guilt worms its way into my heart. I ran over here, thinking I’d have to appease a bride who had drunk too much champagne on an empty stomach and decided she wanted to replace all the white flowers with pink ones. I didn’t think she would have burned all her hair off the morning of her wedding.
“I just wanted fresh toner put through my hair,” Bethany says to no one in particular. “Christina just finished beauty school and she said she could brighten it for me. I didn’t think she meant lightening it with bleach.”
Tears cling to Bethany’s eyelashes until she blinks them down her face.
She’s not wearing mascara yet, thankfully. That’s one less mess I have to deal with.
Producing tissues from my cross-body bag, I hand them over to her and put my hands on her forearms.
“We’ll figure this out.” My voice sounds more certain than I feel. I squeeze her wrists. “Okay?”
“I can’t walk down the aisle looking like this,” she whispers, tears now coursing down her face and dripping off her chin. “We have to cancel the wedding.”
“If you cancel your wedding, you lose all your deposits, Beth,” her mother chimes from the corner. “It’s not that bad.” She visibly winces as the lie slips through her lips. “You’ll look back at this and laugh.”
“Mom, I am not getting married with green hair. I can’t even get extensions put in this mess.”
Her fingers comb through the neon hair as her eyes move back to the mirror. Bethany’s breath shakes as she stares at her reflection, and my cold, dead heart stirs.
I need to fix this. Not just because it’s my job, but because this bride doesn’t deserve to have her wedding ruined. She’s one of the good ones. I thought today was going to be a fairy tale.
“What about a wig?” I ask, tilting my head.
The bride frowns. “A wig?”
“Let me make a phone call.” I push myself up to my feet, plastering a smile on my face. Bethany stares at me, hope flaming to life in her eyes.
Another thing I’ve learned? If I exude confidence and calm, the bride can feel it, too.
“I don’t want to look like I got my hair at Party City,” Bethany whispers. “I’ll be looking at these pictures for the rest of my life.”
“You won’t even be able to tell it’s not your hair.”
Smile. Confidence. Calm.
Bethany’s lip trembles as she inhales, and she finally nods.
I glance around the room. There must have been some throwing of glassware and cushions, because it looks like a tornado hit the hotel.
I smile wider. “I’ll get someone in here to clean this up. You need more champagne? I’ll call the makeup artist to get started early.”
Everyone in the room straightens up a bit, and the maid of honor puts her hand on Bethany’s shoulder. The bride pats her friend's hand, and I back out of the room with measured steps.
Smiling. Confident. Calm.
As soon as the door closes, I’m scrambling for my phone.
“Jackson, I need you,” I breathe as soon as my friend answers the phone.
“Girl, it’s the asscrack of dawn and you’re calling me on a Saturday morning. You know I work Friday nights.”
“It’s nine o’clock. Hardly the asscrack of dawn,” I quip. “Please, Jackson. It’s an emergency. A bride just bleached her hair off and she needs a wig. You’re the only person I know who can install a lace-front with your eyes closed.”
“Get a hairdresser! I’m off-duty. Miss Jackie needs her beauty sleep.”
Jackson is not a morning person, especially not the morning after his weekly drag show.
But he has encyclopedic knowledge of wigs, and I don’t know anyone else who can make this bride look like herself again.
I know I’m asking a lot, but I need him. Desperately. This is my livelihood. My business. Everything I’ve worked toward. It’s the reason I can make my mortgage payments every month. It’s the reason I don’t need to ask the Black family for any handouts like my parents did.
I need this.
I let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I need Miss Jackie, Jackson. I need your magic.”
A groan sounds over the phone, but I hear movement. A bed creaking. Rustling. My friend is getting out of bed and coming to my rescue.
“There better be an open bar at this thing,” he groans. “You owe me one.”
I grin, hopping from one foot to the other. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you! I’ll send you the address.”
Not only does Jackson fit a gorgeous wig to Bethany’s head, he makes her laugh and blush and feel beautiful again. Once he’s done, you can’t even tell that the hair isn’t hers.
Bethany throws her arms around Jackson, who gives her two air kisses. The bride insists that Jackson stays for the reception, and I squeeze my eyes shut at the thought of telling the caterer that we need another meal. Jackson smiles and sways his hips out of the room. I follow after him, letting out a sigh of relief.
My friend glances over his shoulder. “You owe me one, Willow.”
“I know.”
“If I wasn’t in dire need of some water and an Advil, I’d be telling you off for dragging me here to save your ass.”
I fight a grin. “I think you like being the hero.”
“There’s nothing heroic about me,” he replies, waving a hand. I see a hint of a smile on his lips, though, and the two of us walk side by side toward the area of the hotel set up for the wedding.
Jackson turns to look at me, tilting his head. “For someone who hates commitment and makes fun of weddings every chance you get, you sure did choose a funny kind of career.”
“There’s money in weddings.” I shrug. “And I don’t hate commitment.”
A fine, groomed eyebrow arches as Jackson’s dark brown eyes sparkle. His full lips purse and he shakes his head. “You know you’re afraid of feeling anything. Ever since that boy left you high and dry, you haven’t been the same.”
Jackson turns around again, walking down the hall.
I scamper after him, protesting. “What boy? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” He shoots me a withering glance. “Or who I’m talking about, rather.”
A lump lodges itself in my throat. He’s right. Of course he’s right.
I know exactly who Jackson is referring to, and it’s a boy I’ve buried deep in my cold, dead heart. A boy I grew up with. A boy I thought I loved.
A boy who left without a word the day after he became my first kiss.
My brother’s best friend meant the world to me and taught me exactly what I can expect from men: absolutely nothing.
No matter how gorgeous these weddings are, how much men will sweet-talk you, what they say means nothing.
Especially Sacha Black’s sweet, honeyed words. They’re the emptiest of the empty. The most meaningless, beautiful lies I’ll never hear again. Hopefully.
“He’s gone now, anyway,” I say, speeding up to catch up with Jackson. “It doesn’t matter.”
I reach into my bag and pull out a sour lollipop, ripping the wrapper off almost savagely. I keep every bag, glove compartment, nook, and cranny stocked with these things. They help with the stress. As soon as the sweet, sour candy hits my tongue, I start to relax.
Jackson clicks his tongue. “You’ll wreck your teeth with those things.”
“Didn’t know you moonlit as a dentist.”
“I don’t need to go to medical school to know that sucking on sugar eight hours a day is bad for your teeth. And stop avoiding the topic at hand.”
“I thought the topic at hand was my oral health.”
Jackson chuckles. “Oral fixation, maybe. Not enough of another type of lollipop in your life.”
“Shut up,” I say, a flush rising up my neck.
“If Young Mr. Black doesn’t matter, why haven’t you had a boyfriend in the past ten years, huh? Why are you pining after a boy who never thought about you twice?”
I wince at his words. A part of me still wishes Sacha cared about me. “I’m not pining after anyone.”
“All you ever do is talk about how weddings are destined to fail, how you don’t believe in true love, and how you don’t think soul mates exist. Meanwhile, you have men throwing themselves at you every minute of the day and you pretend not to notice.”
“No one is throwing themselves at me.”
Jackson scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah, right, girl. What about Benji?”
“The mechanic?”
“The hot mechanic who’s been giving you puppy-dog eyes for the past six months. You know how I feel about a man bun. He’s got that dirty, rough, working-man kind of sex appeal.”
I shake my head. “He just fixed my car.”
“He wants to do a lot more than fix your car, believe me.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Uh-huh.” Jackson flattens his lips. “You need to get over him. Sacha Black is gone. He’s been gone for damn near a decade.”
Even the sound of his name sends shivers tumbling through my veins. My breath catches, and Jackson doesn’t miss a moment of it. The arch in his eyebrows tells me exactly what he thinks of my protests.
“Do you tell your clients you don’t believe in love? You two-faced, lying little hussy?”
Shouldn’t Want You: A Brother’s Best Friend Romance Page 1
