As I spoke, Imogen’s face transformed from concerned to downright horrified. “But…but…you’re marrying Thomas Harper!”
I raised my eyebrows. “So?”
“So? So?! Lizzie, he’s a major movie star! A celebrity! You cannot have a run-of-the-mill wedding! It’s…it’s scandalous!”
Her outrage was enough to make me laugh. “I’d hardly call it scandalous,” I started, but she held up a hand, clearly not in the mood to listen to me downplay the situation.
“Lizzie, you need something special. Because you’re marrying someone special.”
I somehow managed not to roll my eyes. “Thomas is special, Im. But not because he’s famous.”
“Oh, I know,” she said quickly, waving her hands dismissively. “I just mean…you have the opportunity to have the wedding of your dreams! Anywhere you want, any detail you want! I know Thomas would be happy to give you anything you even hinted at wanting.”
“I don’t want to spend a ton of money,” I told her, starting to feel slightly annoyed by the turn of the conversation. Celebrity worship was one thing—encouraging shallowness was another.
“I don’t mean a ton of money,” she said, sounding almost offended. “I mean having the things you want—the wedding you want. Whatever special little things would make the day perfect for you.” She looked at me closely. “That’s what I meant by Thomas giving you what you wanted. Not like, diamond-encrusted flowers or anything silly like that. I just mean the special details that matter to you.”
Suddenly I felt like crying. She absolutely had a point. My sisters had texted me a dozen times since we arrived, all of their messages relating to wedding planning in one way or another. They’d met with the florists and texted me pictures of several samples—not one of which I would have chosen if I had my way. They’d also advised me on the menu—what tasted good and what fit Dad’s budget. I signed off on their choices without so much as tasting a bite—it just seemed easier that way.
So far, that had been my general modus operandi when it came to this wedding. Whatever was easiest. Whatever didn’t hurt anyone’s feelings. Whatever got me closer to the day when I would become Mrs. Harper, with the least amount of resistance.
But was that what I really wanted? Was anything we picked so far what I really wanted?
“You know what I think?” Imogen asked, her voice softer. I got the feeling she could tell I was upset—she was good at that kind of thing, at knowing how to make me feel better. “I think you and I should take the afternoon off and go look at wedding stuff.”
“What kind of wedding stuff?”
“Whatever you want. Cake. Shoes. Flowers. Maybe if you had a better idea of what you wanted, it’d be easier to tell your family.”
I considered that. It was hard enough to stand up to them even when I knew exactly what I wanted. It was much more difficult when I was unsure, when my desires were even slightly nebulous.
“At the very least,” she said, very serious now. “I think window shopping will be fun—and you need to have a little bit of fun where this wedding is concerned. Because you don’t even sound the slightest bit excited about any of it.”
“I don’t, do I?”
She shook her head. “I know it’s hard to stand up to family. But just because it’s hard doesn’t mean you should go along with things that make you unhappy.” I realized that, more than just about anyone—with the exception of Sofie—Imogen really did understand. Her staunchly upper-class parents had been horrified when she decided to waste her perfectly respectable Cambridge degree on being an assistant for a talent agent. But she’d stood up to them and followed her own heart.
“You’re right, Im,” I told her. “I think window shopping would be tons of fun.”
“Oh, good! I so did not want to go back to work today!”
We were interrupted by the arrival of our food. As we ate lunch, Imogen chatted happily about all the celebrity gossip I had missed since going home. Apparently merging with the bigger office had been quite the boon for her. There was a host of new clients for her to moon over, and she’d been given several opportunities to work with them directly, even if it was only to accompany them to photo shoots or fetch their lunch during meetings. From the way she described these new responsibilities, one might think she’d been promoted to Queen of the Universe.
After lunch, we hailed a taxi to take us over to Bloomsbury. According to Imogen, the neighborhood contained the very best bakeries in London. When I argued that we would never be able to get an appointment on such short notice, she scoffed. “You really have no concept of your fiancé’s name recognition, do you?”
Sure enough, at the first bakery, all Imogen needed to do was to slip her H and J Agency business card across the counter and introduce me as Thomas Harper’s fiancée. The owner’s eyes went slightly wide as she took in my face, probably thinking of all the potential publicity she could garner from a celebrity wedding. I felt a little guilty for not giving her the whole story—until she brought out the cake samples. There were five of assorted flavors, each with a different kind of ganache or mousse filling. I knew it would be immature of me to whimper with delight, but it was a struggle. They were some of the best desserts I’d ever eaten.
“Let’s talk about design,” Imogen said in her most take-charge voice. “The bride has only just started looking and really isn’t sure how she’d like her cake to look.”
“Let me show you some examples,” the baker said, pulling several leather-bound portfolios from a side table. She opened one to the first page before sliding it across the table toward me. “This is the cake that we did for the Harrison wedding last fall.”
“Ooh,” Imogen said, sounding excited. “You did the cake for Rebecca Harrison?”
I had no idea who Rebecca Harrison was, but from the tone of Imogen’s voice I could only imagine she was a celebrity. The baker gave Imogen a slightly suspicious look, and I kicked her under the table. If she was supposed to be acting like Thomas’s representative, it probably wasn’t the best idea to be acting so star struck.
“I mean,” she said, coughing a little, “I know several people who attended that wedding. People who work in the industry.”
It took everything I had not to laugh at her attempt to sound like an insider. The baker was definitely giving us both skeptical looks. I crossed my fingers, hoping that she followed celebrity news enough to have seen my picture at some point.
“I think this is a little fancy for Thomas,” I said, feeling silly for my blatant name dropping—even if he was my fiancé. I flipped the page to see a very sleek-looking, ivory cake decorated only with a smattering of crystal baubles at the top. It was elegant and modern-looking. “Wow, that’s really pretty.”
“The entire thing is edible,” she said, pride seeming to replace her skepticism. “The crystals are sugar art.”
“You can do that with sugar?” I asked. “That’s amazing.”
I flipped again, this time exclaiming over a huge blue and green confection covered in delicate sugar birds. Then a boxy, modern cake decorated in brightly colored fondant polka dots. Then a stack of purple cakes decorated with frosting and gum paste to look like a stack of presents. Cake after cake, each more extravagant and beautiful than the last.
“You do amazing work,” I gushed, feeling very disappointed that I wouldn’t be able to use her. I half-wondered if she could be persuaded to come to Detroit to make the cake for us, before realizing that flying in a foreign baker would pretty much be the definition of overdoing it.
“Do you have any favorites?” Imogen asked as I continued to flip through the portfolio.
“This one,” I breathed, stopping on a pale yellow cake covered in an array of orange, purple, and red sugar flowers, each a perfect, delicate representation of their real-life counterpart. I couldn’t believe that they were edible and not the real thing. The color palate was perfect for our fall wedding. My heart actually seemed to constrict a little as I realize
d I wouldn’t be able to buy this cake.
“That’s gorgeous,” Imogen said decidedly. “You should definitely show it to Thomas.”
“Do you think your fiancé might come in to help you decide?” the baker asked hopefully.
“He will,” Imogen said, not giving me a chance to respond. “And I think he’ll love that cake as much as you do.”
“I’m sure he will,” I said, pushing the book away. I was about two seconds away from throwing my credit card at the woman and begging her to come to Detroit in October.
As if reading my mind, Imogen plucked the woman’s business card from a stand in the center of the table. “We’ll be in touch,” she said. “By the way—are you available to do destination weddings?”
“Of course,” the baker said. “We’ve done several.”
Imogen smiled broadly before taking my elbow and pulling me to a standing position. I felt sad just to be leaving the picture of the cake. “Then I’m sure we’ll speak soon. Thank you so much for your time.”
It wasn’t until we were outside that I spoke. “Damn it. I don’t know if this was a good idea. No cake will ever be able to compete with that one.”
“Then order it,” she said, holding out her hand to hail a cab.
“I can’t imagine what she would charge to come all the way to Detroit just to—”
“Then don’t imagine it,” Imogen said firmly. “Just close your eyes and pretend it’s free.”
I laughed as a cab pulled up to the curb in front of us. “I’ll be sure to do that.”
There was a calculating look in her eyes, almost as if she was planning something, but it was gone by the time I climbed into the cab behind her, and I wondered if maybe I had imagined it.
“So,” I said. “What’s next?”
“Flowers,” she said determinedly. “Definitely flowers.”
I couldn’t help but feel a flash of excitement. It had been hard to walk away from that cake, but it had been incredibly fun discovering it. I had to admit that Imogen had a point when she said I hadn’t been excited about my wedding. It was hard to be excited when everything was being chosen for me. But this, this shopping for exactly what I wanted, even if it was imaginary, was way more fun than I would have thought.
“Flowers it is,” I said, turning to look out the window at London buzzing past. My reflection in the glass was all smiles.
Chapter Nine
I told Thomas all about our shopping trip over breakfast the next day. Imogen and I had ended up meeting up with Meghan for dinner, which turned into drinks and dancing. I had finally climbed into bed after midnight, next to a soundly snoring Thomas.
“It sounds like you had a great time,” he said, smiling at me over his coffee mug. “I’m glad to hear it. I think this is the first time I’ve seen you excited about wedding planning.”
“That’s what Imogen said, too.” I took a sip of my orange juice, trying not to feel a slight sense of let down. For all the fun I’d had window shopping, it had been just that—window shopping. By definition, it was not the real thing. But then I thought of my conversation with Imogen at lunch the previous day, and my musings that maybe it would be easier to stick up for my opinions once I’d actually formed strong ones.
“I think I have a good idea of some of what I want now,” I told Thomas.
“So you’re going to tell your mom and sisters that, right?” He gave me an encouraging smile.
I grinned back. “I’m going to try.”
Thomas leaned back in his chair, rubbing his stomach. “God, I’m full. That’s the best breakfast I’ve had in ages.”
“We should totally hire Maggie to come back and cook for us,” I suggested. We were eating breakfast in the diner he had taken me to on our very first date. Thomas had worked here when he first came to London and maintained a close relationship with the staff. We had run into some paparazzi outside on our way in, and Thomas had the familiar, uptight posture of someone who was seriously annoyed. Walking into the diner, it had faded immediately—everyone there treated him exactly the same way they always had. Maggie, the owner, had even given him a smack for not stopping in for such a long time.
“You better not get too big for your britches, young man,” she said firmly before scurrying off to pour coffee for another table.
“Soon we’ll be living in London, and we can eat here whenever we want,” he reminded me.
“Good point.”
Thomas looked at his watch. “When’s your meeting?”
I felt a little flurry of nerves and struggled to push them down. “Eleven thirty.”
“We should probably head out soon. I have to be at the producer’s office by eleven.”
Thomas paid our bill, and we said goodbye to Maggie before heading out. The sun from yesterday had managed to hold on, though there were some suspicious-looking clouds off on the horizon. Of course, the clouds weren’t foremost on my mind—it was hard to concentrate on much of anything with so many cameras in our faces.
“Come on,” a burly bodyguard commanded, blocking out a path for us. Thomas held my hand firmly in his, pulling me toward the waiting car. All around us, the paparazzi shouted, their questions jumbling together in my mind. “Are the wedding rumors true?” a particularly loud man shouted in my ear. The bodyguard pushed him back, and I flinched as a camera went off right in my face. Then we were in the car, the door shutting behind us, and I could take a deep breath.
“Wow,” I muttered, closing my eyes. “That’s the worst it’s been.”
“London is absolutely terrible for paparazzi,” he mumbled. “Maybe we should rethink the whole moving back idea.”
“Don’t be silly,” I told him, rubbing his arm. “The paparazzi could be bad in L.A. sometimes, and we managed to get through that.”
He laughed, the sound more grim than I was used to from him. “Yeah, because we never went out in L.A. We holed up in the beach house most of the time.”
“It will be fine,” I assured him.
“I hate them screaming at you,” he said, staring straight ahead. “I’m so afraid one of them will—”
“What?” I asked, sliding closer in the seat. “What’s the worst that could happen? They shout at me?”
“What if someone pushes you?” he asked, his voice ragged. “What if you get knocked down? Do you know how easy it would be to be kicked if you ended up on the ground in a crowd like that? Or trampled—” he broke off, breathing heavily.
“Hey.” I rubbed his arm harder. “You can’t worry about things like that.”
“It’s all I worry about.” He finally turned to me. “Do you have any idea how I would feel if you were hurt because of me? Because of my stupid career?”
“It’s not going to happen.” I gestured to the two burly bodyguards in the front seat. “This is why Heidi arranged security for while we’re in London.”
He shook his head. “I just wish they’d leave us alone.”
“I do, too. But, hey, look on the bright side—at least this gives us an excuse to have someone else drive us around town.”
He didn’t respond, just continued to stare out the window at the passing cars.
“Thomas—”
“I keep thinking that one day you’ll have had enough,” he said, his voice almost too quiet for me to hear.
“Enough of what?”
“Of all of this. Of everything that goes along with being with me.”
I stared at him, shocked. “Are you kidding me?”
“Come on, Lizzie. I know you hate the whole fame thing. You always have. It almost broke us up before, remember?”
“Of course I remember. But that was ages ago—do you really think I’d let that come between us now?”
“And then there’s that stupid editor, making you feel like you didn’t deserve to sell your book because of our relationship.”
“Thomas, that’s—”
“I’d give it all up, you know,” he said, still not looking at me. “If
you couldn’t deal with it. I would quit before I lost you.”
“Stop it,” I demanded, my voice very loud in the closed in space. “I’m not leaving over this. Don’t be ridiculous. I love you. We’re getting married.” When he still didn’t turn toward me, I grabbed his chin and pulled his face around so we were face to face. “Where’s all this coming from?”
He looked into my eyes, his expression weary. “Heidi got a call yesterday. Apparently a few reporters have heard some rumors about the wedding.”
Ah. So that’s what had him so upset. When we first got engaged, Heidi had urged us to make an announcement, even trying to convince Thomas that we could sell the story to a magazine and give an interview. He had adamantly refused, insisting the wedding was for us and us alone, and he’d be damned if he got publicity out of it.
“Well, we knew it’d get out eventually, Thomas.”
He nodded. “I know. I just…they’re going to be following you around now, Lizzie. Trying to get info on the wedding. You had such a good time yesterday—”
“That’s probably how they found out,” I said, the realization hitting me. “Because Imogen and I were walking around dropping your name in order to get last-minute appointments. Sorry, Thomas.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m not angry about yesterday, I’m worried you won’t get to do that again. Next time you try to plan a fun shopping trip, you’ll have that lot breathing down your neck.”
“Did Heidi confirm the engagement?”
He shook his head. “I told her to refuse to comment.”
“Then I don’t see what the big deal is. I’ll go home next week, as planned, and everyone will forget about it.” When he didn’t look appeased, I nudged his stomach. “Come on, Thomas. I hardly think London paparazzi are going to follow me home to Detroit.”
Finally, he smiled a little. “You’re right. I know I’m worrying more than I should. It’s just…” He sighed loudly. “These last few months have been so nice, you know? Living like a normal couple. Coming home to you every night. Not dealing with any of that garbage.”
Lovestruck Forever Page 10
