by Alina Jacobs
Bridezillas And Billionaires
A Hot Romantic Comedy
Alina Jacobs
Contents
Other books by Alina Jacobs
Synopsis
Mailing List
1. Ivy
2. Evan
3. Ivy
4. Evan
5. Ivy
6. Evan
7. Ivy
8. Evan
9. Ivy
10. Evan
11. Ivy
12. Evan
13. Ivy
14. Evan
15. Ivy
16. Evan
17. Ivy
18. Evan
19. Ivy
20. Evan
21. Ivy
22. Evan
23. Ivy
24. Evan
25. Ivy
26. Evan
27. Ivy
28. Evan
29. Ivy
30. Ivy
31. Evan
32. Ivy
33. Ivy
34. Ivy
35. Evan
36. Ivy
37. Evan
38. Ivy
39. Evan
40. Ivy
41. Evan
42. Ivy
43. Evan
44. Ivy
45. Evan
46. Ivy
47. Evan
48. Ivy
49. Evan
50. Ivy
51. Evan
52. Ivy
53. Evan
54. Ivy
55. Ivy
Sneak peek
READ A SHORT ENGAGEMENT
1. Ivy
2. Evan
Read A SHORT ENGAGEMENT
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
Have you ever had one of those really bad days at work?
You know one where the maid of honor accuses the bride of cheating on the groom with the best man AND the groom’s father?
No? Just me?
Welcome to life as a wedding planner for the rich and entitled of Manhattan. I’ve seen it all—from the nastiest bridezilla to the most overindulged billionaire.
And Evan is the worst.
Tall, dark, and handsome, he has a ridiculously ripped body under his formal suit and runs a massive hedgefund that’s actively making the world a worse place.
I don’t even feel sorry for him when he walks away from the alter in a daze.
Well, maybe a little bit.
Enough that I now have a billionaire holed up in my teeny tiny apartment.
I regret it immediately.
My violently antisocial cat has welcomed him like a long lost brother, Evan’s half-naked six-foot-five frame is sprawled across my bed, and he’s eaten all of my lasagna.
A day and an epic screaming match later, he’s out on the street, and I have my high-stress, lonely life back.
But I can’t worry about a billionaire’s hurt feelings.
After all I have a business to run and bridezillas to corral.
But when I go to meet with my latest bride, guess-who is there smirking at me.
Evan’s decided he’s ready to move on from the cheating witch.
Who does he want as he rebound?
Me.
But I am immune to Evan’s obnoxious displays of wealth and his piercing blue eyes.
These panties are staying firmly on.
Mostly.
Except for that one time.
But it’s not like anyone’s falling in love right? Right?!
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 fantasize about!
To my cousin who had the yummiest chocolate truffles at her wedding!
Mailing List
Read the short romantic comedy, A SHORT ENGAGEMENT, along with other novellas and short stories for free when you join my mailing list!
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1
Ivy
Ah, wedding season.
I’ve never been to a wedding I didn’t love. Even after a stressful twenty months of planning, during which I had been berated and yelled at by entitled bridezillas, somehow it was all worth it to see two people in love pledge their hearts to one another.
I looked on wistfully as the officiant continued the ceremony. The ruddy-faced man launched into a lovely message about being one another’s best friends and biggest advocates.
I wish it could be me one day. I sighed longingly.
“If anyone can show just cause why this couple cannot lawfully be joined together in matrimony, let them speak now or forever hold their peace, the officiant announced, turning the page in the custom-bound book that held the wedding script.”
All that was left was for Evan and Camilla to exchange rings and say “I do.” Then we would have the tasteful cocktail hour and reception.
“I do!”
There it was. I raised my hands to applaud then realized wait…they hadn’t said their vows yet.
There were titters in the audience. My heart hammered, and I began to panic. This was literally a wedding planner’s worst nightmare! I looked around wildly for the culprit. The maid of honor stood in front of the altar defiantly.
“I object to this union!” she said loudly.
Where was security? I was at the back of the venue; the camera guys were blocking the side aisles, and I wasn’t the bride, so I didn’t dare walk down the center to drag the girl away.
“I object, because Camilla is a lying, cheating skank!” The maid of honor reached into the bodice of her blush-pink, sleeveless bridesmaid dress and pulled out a glossy poster.
“This bitch,” she said loudly as she unfolded it and waved the poster around, “was sleeping with my boyfriend. Don’t think I wasn’t going to find out, Arnold.” She wagged her finger at the best man.
Arnold tried to act innocent, but it was clear that his face and the one in the photo, though twisted into the grimace of an orgasm, were the same.
“Oh lord,” I groaned. There were shocked cries from the audience.
Camilla turned to Evan, reaching for him. “I’m so sorry, baby! It was an accident! I swear! I had too much to drink. I love you.”
The billionaire was wavering. Evan, like all rich men, was obnoxious and self-centered. But he was also image conscious. Would he play nice with the bridezilla for the ceremony then get a quiet annulment later? Was a public forgiveness forthcoming? Would love, or at least reputation, win the day?
The maid of honor hitched up her dress and screeched, “Don’t believe that cheating ho!” She fumbled under her dress then pulled another rolled-up poster out of her prison pocket.
Evan’s great aunt fainted. Another older woman screamed as the maid of honor unrolled the poster to reveal the bride and the father of the groom in a very compromising and frankly downright pornographic position.
“See?” she yelled, displaying the poster
to the crowd. “Camilla. Is. A. Skank!”
“You ruined my wedding!” Camilla screamed and hurled her bouquet at the maid of honor.
At that point I decided to hell with it, I was walking down the aisle. The bride and the maid of honor were going at it. The maid of honor had the clear advantage, as her dress was shorter, though Camilla was really giving her a run for her money. As I waded into the fray, I barely registered Evan brush past me, dazed, blue eyes in pain. I couldn’t worry about him. I had a wedding to salvage.
I am a stress eater, and I come from hardy stock. Camilla had been dieting and hadn’t had anything except three leaves of kale and an almond in the past two days. I easily hefted her off of the maid of honor.
“You ruined my life!” Camilla sobbed, her perfect up-do snarled.
“If you could all please,” I announced over the screaming women, “head out to the terrace, we have drinks and light refreshments for everyone to enjoy!”
The crowd gaped, and nobody moved.
“Please,” I said firmly, “we have craft cocktails that were specially developed for the happy—er, well, craft cocktails.”
The promise of alcohol roused Evan’s great aunt, and people helped her up as Camilla collapsed on the floor. The maid of honor chased after the audience, posters in hand. Camilla’s mother and cousin ran up to the altar, and I left them with her.
“I’ve never seen anything like it!” the red-faced officiant said, fanning himself as he followed me after the maid of honor.
Please don’t have a stroke, please don’t have a stroke.
“Uh, Ivy?” Elsie’s voice crackled in my Bluetooth headset. “I thought we had another twenty minutes until the wedding let out?”
“Change of plans,” I said to my best friend and wedding caterer as I desperately tried to chase down the maid of honor. “Have you seen… Oh wait, never mind.”
Elsie was on the terrace in her crisp black pants and white shirt when I pushed through the crowd. She looked as dumbfounded as I felt as the maid of honor clambered up onto a chair, tottering in her platform heels, to tell everyone in the audience exactly how she felt about the bride and Arnold, her soon-to-be ex-boyfriend.
“That lying, cheating bastard!” She waved the posters around. “You can’t trust a bitch!”
“Get those pictures from her,” I hissed into the headset as I rushed to corral the maid of honor. “Or actually don’t.” I skidded to a stop as I remembered where those posters had been.
The best man begged, “Please just come down off of there!”
“Dick! Lying piece of garbage!” The maid of honor threw the posters at him then snatched a platter of salmon crudité from a passing server and hurled it at Arnold. It missed—and landed all over me. Bits of fish dripped down my face and plopped onto the terrace.
I bit back a curse.
These people are future clients. Keep your composure.
“Where is Evan?” his stepmother demanded. I noticed she’d had time to grab a drink, so she clearly couldn’t be all that worried about him. “Where is my son?”
“I don’t know,” I told her, trying to look professional as I shook capers off of my shirt.
“You have to find him,” she berated. “You’re the wedding planner. What are we paying you for anyway if you can’t even hold onto the groom?”
You’re not paying me at all.
I grimaced a smile.
“We will all look for him,” I said as Elsie helpfully picked dill out of my hair.
“He can’t have gone far,” his friend Sebastian said. “I have his phone, wallet, and keys.”
I need a drink.
“Honestly, Ivy,” Camilla’s father, Orson Sutherland, said reproachfully. “How could you let this happen? What kind of wedding planner are you? Don’t think we’re paying you for this wedding,” he said with a frown.
Evan’s father, who had no shame, was pouring himself a drink.
“Honestly,” Evan’s stepmother and the father of the groom’s ex-wife said. “How could you?”
He took a swig of the drink. He had Evan’s same blue eyes, height, square jaw, and general aura of psychopath around him. He shrugged.
“I was drunk. It was dark. It wasn’t even that good. Certainly not worth all of this.”
In the distance, a bridezilla screamed.
“You should have insisted they pay before the wedding,” Elsie said angrily in my ear. “I thought that was Weddings in the City policy. You shouldn’t have given them a break.”
“You know the situation with the Sutherlands is complicated,” I hissed back to her as she swept up the food and directed the other employees to start passing out snacks.
I surveyed the chaos then picked up a craft cocktail and took a drink.
We didn’t even make it to the reception before the bridezilla stormed out.
“Go home! Stop making a mockery of this! You all conspired against me. This isn’t my fault!” Camilla screamed at me, “This is your fault. Make all these people leave! Make them leave right now.”
“Just have the food delivered to the house,” Camilla’s father told Elsie.
Fuck. That was my dinner. Elsie usually saved containers of leftovers for me. Now there would be no leftovers. To top it off, I smelled like fish and dill. The salmon marinated on me as I shoved gift bags into guests’ hands, gritting my teeth against the screams of the bridezilla as she destroyed the beautiful, expensive wedding cake with the handmade sugar flowers that Sophie had spent weeks creating.
The sun was just setting when we finally finished packing everything up.
“See you Monday, I guess,” Elsie said as we walked to the parking lot.
“Another day, another wedding.”
“It will be January soon, right?” she asked desperately.
“Girl, wedding season has just started.”
My ears were ringing as I opened the door of my crappy little Toyota. I sat in silence in the dark with my hands on the steering wheel.
Fuck. What was I going to do? If the Sutherlands don’t pay me, my business will be ruined.
I fretted as I drove out of the parking lot and down the winding country road from the exclusive country club. Normally, I loved the end of a wedding—I would listen to upbeat pop music, replay all the best moments in my head, and snack on leftovers—but now I felt sick.
“It’s fine,” I told myself, trying not to hyperventilate. “Everything’s fine, right?”
I looked into the rearview mirror to see a man glaring at me from the back seat.
2
Evan
Ivy screamed and jerked the steering wheel.
“Fuck, woman, you’re going to get us killed!” I roared.
She kept screaming and pulled the car over, jerking to a stop and fumbling in her purse.
“I’m calling the police! Murderer! Serial killer!”
I grabbed her wrist.
“I have pepper spray,” she warned.
“Please don’t pepper spray me,” I said, grabbing her other hand, which was holding something canister-shaped in her purse. “I’ve already been through enough today, don’t you agree?”
I hadn’t been able to think when the maid of honor had announced that Camilla had been cheating on me. To be fair, she had never been the greatest fiancée; Camilla had regularly berated me for any perceived transgression and constantly complained I wasn’t spending enough money on her. I had assumed that she was just stressed about the wedding and that after it was over, we would be… well, not necessarily in love, but we would have one of those marriages like my father had with his sequence of wives: professional and distant but both oriented to the same goals. Everyone said marriage was about love, but as a billionaire, I had no such illusions. I just needed someone from a similar background—a good corporate wife who I could take to events and who could host a dinner party.
But lately, Camilla hadn’t even done that. The last few months, I had attended business events alone. Camil
la had always said she was too busy with the wedding.
She was too busy cheating on you.
It stung. Actually, no. It was devastating.
And with my own father no less.
The betrayal had been too much. I had just wanted to run away from it all. But I hadn’t had my keys. I had recognized Ivy’s car in the lot, though—it was the only one that wasn’t some high-end imported car. It had smelled like flowers and cake, and I had curled up in the back seat, just wanting to disappear.
Now here we were in the dark. I had her wrists in my grasp, and she was snarling at me.
“If I release you, do you promise not to punch me?” I asked.
Ivy blew out a breath.
“Get out of my car,” she said flatly.
“But,” I protested, “I’m the victim here.”
“I mean, it’s sort of your own fault,” she countered.
“My fault?” I growled.
