The Winter Wedding Plan--An unforgettable story of love, betrayal, and sisterhood

by Olivia Miles

  Idly, he wondered if she would be okay with the fake engagement, the pretense of something real for show. So long as it met the end goal, he couldn’t see her having an issue…He stopped himself. This was not a time to be taking risks. His mother was fired up, frazzled over her impending retirement and likely to do something rash on her way out the door. On the off chance they didn’t land the Burke’s account, his last hope of taking over as CEO was having Charlotte at his side until it was safe to let her go.

  Let her go. He didn’t like the sound of that.

  Greg continued to watch his mother until she slipped into the car and turned on the headlights. He turned to Charlotte. “Where’s your car?”

  They hurried over the pavement, still slick despite the dusting of salt, in silence. Only the tapping of Charlotte’s heels against the concrete could be heard echoing through the darkening evening, or the occasional beep of a car lock in the distance. Finally they slowed, and Charlotte stopped in front of her car.

  Her car. Greg closed his eyes and counted to five. He had completely forgotten in the chaos of everything that Charlotte drove a beat-up navy sedan that was at least twenty years old and looked it.

  He dragged his hands over his face and held them there. This couldn’t be happening. A fiancée was one thing. A fiancée his mother didn’t approve of was another. Charlotte was a middle-class Misty Point local. He could just imagine how his mother would respond to that.

  Luckily for him, she wouldn’t have a chance. This was a fake engagement, he reminded himself. And his mother didn’t have to know anything about the real Charlotte.

  Not that she would have any interest, anyway.

  “What’s wrong?” Charlotte asked, unlocking the driver’s side with a turn of her key.

  “Nothing. Let’s just get in.”

  Charlotte frowned but didn’t argue as she slid into the driver’s seat and reached over to pop the lock on his side. Greg rolled back on his heels and began wandering around the back of the car to the passenger door when he spotted it. Amongst the overflowing loot from the Frost warehouse was the car seat, sitting proud and confident, as brazen as a throne.

  His breath caught. The baby!

  Greg quickly swept his eyes over the parking lot, past the people straggling from the office, shoulders slumped, wearily walking to their cars. There was no sign of his car or his mother. She’d probably already pulled out and was on her way. Hopefully.

  But just in case…

  Greg opened the back door and reached over the wrapping paper rolls to the car seat, clutching it in two hands. He tugged hard, but it didn’t budge. He gave it a little shake. Still nothing.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Charlotte cried from the front seat.

  “We can’t let my mother see this,” he said firmly. He jostled the giant plastic thing a little more. Still nothing.

  He had started to sweat. Little beads of perspiration dotted his forehead, and the air in the car suddenly felt stale and thick, despite the cold temperature. He pulled back, straightening his back. He had to get a grip. This was his mother, after all. His mother. He should be able to have an honest relationship with her. He should be able to appeal to the side of her that loved him and cared for him and had raised him.

  But then, she had barely raised him. The nanny had.

  He slammed the back door shut and opened the front, sliding into the passenger seat. “Sorry,” he said.

  After a pause, Charlotte said, “Here. We’ll cover it with this blanket.” She leaned over the armrest and, from the floor on the backseat, retrieved a purple baby blanket that she draped over the car seat like a tarp. Greg watched all of this with an increasing level of doubt, but there was nothing more he could say. His mother had seen her. The Burke’s team had seen her. She was it. His future wife.

  He grinned. He could have done a hell of a lot worse.

  Charlotte turned to him, her green eyes sharp as she reached for her seat belt. “Better?”

  Greg glanced in the direction of his reserved parking spot. It was empty. “We need to beat my mother to the house,” he said. “Take the back roads instead of the highway.”

  “Yes, boss,” she replied, but she was grinning.

  Greg settled back against the headrest as Charlotte pulled out of the parking lot, both hands gripping the steering wheel as she peered straight ahead. It had started to snow, and she flicked on the windshield wipers. Christmas music bleated through the speakers.

  “So, that was a surprise,” Charlotte finally spoke. She chuckled softly, but there was an undercurrent of tension in her voice. “I assumed I was just going to the warehouse, picking out decorations. I had no idea Stacy would bring me into the office to show me photos from last year’s party.”

  He would have to talk to Stacy immediately. She was discreet—everyone at the company was—but there was no doubt that gossip this juicy would fly through the office like a swarm of bees in a hive. He didn’t think she’d overheard the conversation between Charlotte, his mother, and the Burke’s team, but one could never be too careful, and the last thing he needed was his mother discovering through casual conversation that Charlotte had been introduced to Stacy as the event planner. One misstep and the entire plan would be a bust.

  “Fair enough. I had no idea my mother would invite herself over to the house. She doesn’t like to come there.”

  “Bad memories?”

  Greg had never thought of it that way. “Perhaps,” he mused.

  “I take it you two don’t get along?”

  Greg considered this statement carefully. “It isn’t that we don’t get along. More that we aren’t very close.”

  Silence fell over the car as they joined the traffic nearing the next set of lights. Greg shifted in his seat, agitated. At this rate, they would never get back to the house first. And it would be just his luck if Rita was standing at the garage, shivering in the cold, greeting them when they pulled up the driveway. Hopefully she brought her keys or Marlene was there to let her in.

  “We need to talk about tonight. Where’s Audrey right now?”

  “With the sitter,” Charlotte explained.

  “Good. Hopefully she can stay a few extra hours, through dinner. Let’s call ahead and make sure there isn’t any evidence when we walk in.”

  There was a long pause. “She stayed at the sitter’s apartment today, so she didn’t make a mess in your home. I’m sorry that my daughter is such a problem for you.”

  Aw, damn. He hadn’t meant it like that. “I’m sorry,” he said firmly, hoping she believed the truth in his words. “Right now all I can think about is pulling this charade off. I’d rather not complicate things or bring your daughter into it. That’s all.”

  Charlotte nodded. “I understand. Frankly, I’d rather my daughter not be used as a pawn in this scheme.”

  “Then we’re in agreement.”

  “So what do you need me to say?” Charlotte asked. She took a right turn at the light. They’d be in Misty Point in twenty-five minutes if they didn’t hit more traffic.

  “As little as possible,” Greg said. His mother would have just as little personal interest in his fiancée as a person as she did her own son; chances were high that conversation could be controlled. “Just stick to the story we agreed on.”

  “Did your mother ever meet your last fiancée?” Charlotte asked. “The real one?”

  Greg felt his jaw tighten. “Maybe once. When we were dating. I doubt she gave it much thought, though.”

  “But you told her when you proposed?”

  Greg didn’t like talking about Rebecca. “In passing. I don’t think she connected the details.”

  “I’m sorry,” Charlotte said softly.

  “Don’t be. It’s just the way my mother is.” In a way, he was fortunate she hadn’t cared to get to know Rebecca. If she had, he’d be in more trouble now than he already was.

  Charlotte turned up the music and tapped her thumb against the steering wheel as
a Christmas carol blared over the speaker, and with a flicker of panic, Greg glanced at her nails, relieved to see that she had finally scraped off the remnants of that purple polish. One less thing to worry about, at least.

  His mother had to like Charlotte. Or, better put, she had to not dislike her.

  Rebecca, he knew, would have immediately impressed his mother. She was cool as a cat, tall and blond with ice-blue eyes and professionally maintained hair. She dressed and spoke impeccably, and more than that, she knew how to hold her own with the likes of Rita Frost.

  Maybe it was because she was so much like her, he realized, chagrined.

  But Charlotte was different. Charlotte was beautiful in a more wholesome, natural way. Her appearance wasn’t store-bought or artificial, and when she talked, she said what she meant.

  Charlotte was almost exactly the kind of woman he would have proposed to, if a few circumstances, like the fact that she had a baby, were different.

  Strange then, how the person who until recently had truly been his fiancée wasn’t anything like Charlotte. At least, not in any way that mattered.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Rita Frost arrived at the house ten minutes after Charlotte and Greg had hurried from the garage. Charlotte had barely enough time to remove what little trace of a baby there was from the house, but she did notice that Marlene had washed Audrey’s breakfast bottle and oatmeal bowl and left them to air-dry on a towel in the kitchen.

  She looked around, wondering if Marlene was around now, but there seemed to be no trace of her. Too bad. She was warm and friendly, which was much more than she could say for Greg’s mother.

  The doorbell rang as she reached the top landing of the staircase. Charlotte had to smile to herself. The chime was loud, a sound one might expect to hear in an old monastery, not a home. To think she had been concerned no one would be aware of her presence on the front steps that first day. Now she walked over to her guest bedroom and closed the door, looking forward to returning to it later tonight, with Audrey sleeping quietly in the nearby crib…for at least a few hours.

  Gliding her hand on the rail as she skipped down the sweeping, curved staircase, she froze at the sight of Greg standing in the large foyer, staring up at her. His smile was pleasant, but his expression was tense. She paused, and then resumed her step at a more dignified speed.

  “I was just telling my mother how much you love to cook,” Greg said carefully, his gaze locked on hers. “Marlene is a part of the Misty Point Christmas decorating committee and apparently won’t be back until after nine.”

  “As if this town isn’t already decorated enough,” Rita commented.

  Charlotte refrained from mentioning that this weekend was the annual tree-lighting ceremony and festival of lights. She looked forward to it every year, especially the party in the town square, and she was especially looking forward to bringing Audrey this year.

  Instead, she focused on the unspoken question being asked of her. She tried not to panic when she thought of the Thanksgiving cheesecake that had set off the smoke alarm and braced herself for where this conversation was headed.

  “Cooking is one of my favorite pastimes,” she said with a sweet smile.

  Rita pinched her lips. “How odd. Now, let me see what’s been going on here. Charlotte, have you met this event planner? Gregory’s insisted on hiring someone local.” She pulled a face. “Why, I’ll never know…There is so much more talent in the city.”

  Charlotte’s mouth fell open, but Greg quickly stepped forward. He motioned in the direction of the living room. “Why don’t you go relax, Mother? I’ll get you a glass of wine while Charlotte gets dinner started.”

  Well, crap.

  She glanced nervously at Greg, who looked pasty in complexion.

  “Charlotte is a real gourmet,” Greg said eagerly, and Charlotte nodded her enthusiasm, even as her head began to spin. “It’s one of the things I love most about her.”

  Love. When was the last time anyone had told her they loved her, or referenced that emotion toward her? Her body tingled at the thought of it, but she shook her head clear when she remembered that it was just all part of the act, that he didn’t really love her.

  That she couldn’t even cook.

  Rita Frost was a woman of high standards. She walked around with an air of disappointment, her mouth a thin line, her eyes narrowed and darting. If the party wasn’t a success, there was no telling what it would do to Kate’s company’s reputation. How could her sister forgive her then? And what would it mean for the deal she had cut with Greg?

  Rita patted her flat stomach. “Nothing too heavy, please. I don’t want to look bloated for the party next week. It’s too important.”

  “Of course!” As if she needed another reminder.

  Charlotte headed quickly to the back of the house and stood in the spotless kitchen. The rack hanging above the large center island boasted at least a dozen shining pots that looked fresh out of the box, and the granite counters appeared untouched. Charlotte started opening various cabinets, looking for the pantry, which she finally found and noted with relief was as well stocked as the fridge.

  If only she knew what to do next.

  She thought of the meals she had prepared for herself lately. Boxes of crackers or pretzels or toast with peanut butter usually made up her dinner. Back in Boston she could make a box of dried pasta and a stick of butter stretch for three days. Audrey wasn’t even eating much solid food yet, so there seemed to be little point in wasting her precious free time cooking…and cleaning. She closed her eyes. Unless Greg knew what he was doing, they were in trouble.

  “Please tell me you know your way around a kitchen,” a deep voice behind her whispered.

  Charlotte turned to face Greg, standing sheepishly in the doorway. Still in his work clothes, he managed to look completely rumpled. His crisp shirt seemed to have wrinkled since they left the office, and his dark brown hair was haphazardly slicked from his forehead.

  “Well, not this kitchen. I can cook, of course. I mean, obviously. Who can’t?”

  He slid his gaze to hers as he flung open the pantry door. “I can’t. Unless you count using the microwave or the coffee maker.” He grinned.

  Charlotte eyed the gleaming contraption that was no doubt imported from Europe. “Then you have one over me. I don’t plan to touch that thing. So don’t even think about asking for coffee for dessert.” She closed her eyes. Sweet Mother. Did she have to make dessert, too? Her recent track record was far from successful.

  As if reading her mind, Greg volunteered, “My mother doesn’t eat dessert.”

  She smiled with relief. “Good.”

  “I know this wasn’t part of the plan, Charlotte, but do you mind? Just for tonight?” His eyes were so hopefully, his smile so boyish.

  Well, now she’d done it.

  Wound up playing house with a handsome and increasingly likeable man. And it was getting far too cozy for comfort.

  “Sure.” She turned to the sink and began washing her hands with a pounding heart. What was that dish her mother always used to make when they had a neighbor or friend over for dinner? Her mother always claimed it was so easy…She supposed she could call and ask, but it would be rude to not chat for a bit about the new condo in Florida, and Granny’s health. She hardly had time for that at the moment.

  Kate. Kate would know what to do, of course. But then, Kate always knew what to do.

  What was she thinking? She couldn’t call Kate. She’d just have to go off memory.

  “I’ll need potatoes, chicken, balsamic vinegar, and rosemary,” she said, recalling as many of the ingredients as she could. She was missing a few, she was sure, but it would have to do. “And cream and butter if you have any.” Charlotte tied on an apron, pulled two pans from the rack, and after blowing out a long breath, got to work.

  “Thanks for doing this, Charlotte,” Greg said as he poured a glass of wine to bring back to his mother. “I have to admit I wasn’t sure th
is arrangement would work at first.”

  Charlotte stopped peeling the potatoes and looked at him, trying to ignore the tightening in her chest when her eyes locked with his. “Well, I didn’t come this far just to let it fall apart now. You’re not the only one who needs to pull this off, you know.”

  His brow creased for the briefest of moments. “Well. I’d better get out there. Good luck.”

  Good luck with the meal or good luck with his mother? Or good luck pulling this whole thing off and not losing the business and her sister’s respect? She busied herself with preparing the food. She couldn’t think about that right now.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, Charlotte swept into the dining room, carrying a platter of rosemary chicken and mashed potatoes that seemed only the slightest bit lumpy. The kitchen was a disaster, but she doubted Rita would even go in there, and really, she’d done the darn best she could if she did say so herself. She set the plates on the center of the table, atop iron trivets, and gave Greg a wink.

  “Well, dig in,” Charlotte said when Rita and Greg sat staring at their plates. She couldn’t help but notice the pointed glance Rita gave her son. Oops. She probably could have said something a little more fitting. Like bon appétit.

  The chicken was slightly overcooked but no one seemed to care. Rita pecked at her food like a small bird with those pinched lips; she didn’t strike Charlotte as a woman who enjoyed a big meal. Greg ate as if he hadn’t been fed in months, visibly enjoying every last bite and helping himself to seconds.

  Conversation revolved around the company and, of course, the holiday party. “They only have a week to decorate this entire house! I want that exterior sparkling! And the drive should be lit up, welcoming everyone. Oh. Have they thought about parking?”

  Charlotte made as many mental notes as her spinning mind would allow, wishing she could subtly keep a notepad under the table. Parking. Of course. And lights for the trim of the house. She’d call a company first thing in the morning. Time was running out, and things were booking quickly.