I'm sure, in time, I will forgive Bre. Aiden is right—I probably should be thanking her because it turned out to be a blessing in disguise that I didn't go to Paris.
As soon as Aiden arrives, he wraps his arms around me and kisses me for what seems like several minutes.
"What was that for?" I whisper. "Not that I'm complaining."
"Because I love you," he replies.
While we're having dinner, Aiden asks about the return of my "friends." I tell him about the awkwardness with Aly and about Bre coming to my office.
"Truthfully, I'm glad today's over." I lean back on the couch. "The craziest part is as awkward and weird as today was, for some reason I feel rejuvenated tonight. It's almost like their return has given me closure. I guess that sounds weird, right?"
He shakes his head quickly. "No. After everything that's happened, it doesn't sound weird at all." He pushes my hair behind my ear.
"By the way, your mom called me today."
I groan loudly. I hope she didn't say anything to embarrass me, but I know better than that.
"Great," I say as I grit my teeth.
He laughs. "Don't worry. She was fine. Just more wedding details. We only talked for about an hour or so."
I put my face in my hands. "I'm sorry, Aiden." He reaches over and puts his finger to my lips.
"You need to stop apologizing. Believe it or not, I love talking to your mom. I love your family, and I love you. I can't remember ever being this happy in my entire life."
A tear falls down my cheek, and he wipes it away. I'm curled up in his lap on my couch, and I realize how far I've come.
"So, do you want to watch some TV?" he asks.
I look up at him and shake my head. "No, tonight is perfect just the way it is."
EPILOGUE
I shouldn't be this stressed out—after all, it certainly isn't my wedding, and my parents have been married before, but you would think this was their first marriage. We leave in three days, and my mom has us all running around frantically in preparation for this wedding cruise. She has truly morphed into a complete bridezilla.
I'm still trying to recover from my mother's bachelorette party, which was last weekend. I knew I would regret going, and I do. It was like going clubbing with the Golden Girls. Sharon went out of her way to research bachelorette parties, and I was right—I have no doubt that l will be scarred for life.
Even with all the craziness, the most awkward part of the night was when Sharon went off on me about what a great catch Will is and how I should only be so lucky to have a man like him. I kept my mouth shut, but she was pretty relentless for a while. It wasn't until she did a body shot off the bouncer that she stopped lecturing me. Yeah, that's an image I can't seem to get out of my mind. Liza also got pretty drunk and started telling me about her and Eric's private life. I don't understand why everyone feels the need to unload all his or her personal crap on me.
Aiden was lucky enough to enjoy a peaceful fishing trip down the coast with Eric and my dad. Of course, he now thinks Eric is the greatest guy ever, but I keep telling him that he will change his mind once he gets to know him better. I'm probably the worst sister in the world.
Mya called me again a few days ago at five thirty a.m. to invite Aiden and me to Florida to see her. Now that we are serious enough to take trips together, I asked Aiden and he was all for it. We leave in a month, and I can't wait to see my best friend and meet Jack. I mean, who doesn't want to meet a Hemsworth brother look-alike? Except for Aiden—he's definitely not excited to meet a Hemsworth brother. He wasn't too thrilled when I told him that Jack looked like one of them, and all of a sudden, he's going to the gym every day.
Chelsie has been very supportive of my upcoming trips considering I've never taken a vacation in all my years at the magazine. Looking back, I have no idea why I didn't take any vacations. I never realized how lonely my life was before. Granted, it doesn't hurt that my "Friends ForNever" articles are really picking up momentum. Chelsie says that I've single-handedly brought new life into the magazine.
As I expected, Bre was not happy when she found out about the articles and the fact that I included some personal experience. Oh well. She really had no choice but to get over it, especially after what she did. In her defense, I have to admit I've seen a lot of change in her since she's been back. She's still the same old Bre most of the time, but there are fleeting moments of a new and improved person who cares about people other than herself.
Aly and I completely ignore each other, and I'm perfectly content with that. She knows she's basically alone on the island, and the only people who talk to her are Chelsie and Sean. This is mostly because she now thinks that she's superior to everyone here after being in Paris. There's a rumor that Aly and Sean had a thing going on in Paris, but she blew him off as soon as they came back to California. It appears that she's looking for an executive level man, and I hope she gets what she wants, or rather what she deserves.
Harry and Bre are getting more serious by the day, and Aiden thinks that he's going to propose to her. Last week, we had our first family dinner all together since Bre got back. I would give anything to have a picture of Bre's face when Mrs. Thomas greeted me with a huge hug.
As usual, Bre went overboard trying to impress everyone. She monopolized most of the conversation talking about Paris. I admit I wanted to smack her when she said, "Erin, you absolutely need to go Paris one day."
Just when I started to enjoy myself, Mrs. Thomas apologized for missing my mother's bachelorette party. I had no idea that she had been invited. Also, much to my dismay, apparently there are pictures floating around social media of the party. Bre found it hysterical that my mom had a bachelorette party, and she actually found some of the pictures and was passing her phone around the table. Thankfully, Aiden made her put them away and came to my rescue once again. I also found out that Mom invited Aiden's parents to come on the wedding cruise.
Things with Aiden are better than ever. Of course, as I expected, my mother didn't keep her promise to me and cornered him about an engagement announcement. I was surprised that he told me about their conversation and even more surprised that he told her that everything would happen in time. My mom took that as a definite yes, and that stressed me out even more.
Of course, she's in a mad rush for me to be engaged before Will. Sharon and she have this never-ending competition thing going on. While I was talking to my mom, it occurred to me that friendships are hard work no matter what age you are. There will be fights and competition and jealousy between even the closest of friends.
I've learned that there will be times when friends will hurt and disappoint you. But there will be more times that friends will also uplift and support you. Everything that I've been through, good and bad, has brought me to this point in my life. And although friends have come and gone, I know now that they were the friends for never. I've accepted that I'm ready to move forward and to focus on how lucky I am to have people in my life that will be my friends forever.
* * * * *
FREE BOOK OFFER
Want to get an email alert when the next Melissa Baldwin romantic comedy is available?
Sign up for our newsletter today
and as a bonus receive a FREE ebook!
* * * * *
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Melissa graduated from the University of Central Florida with a Bachelor's Degree in Communications. She has always had a love for writing. An avid journal keeper, she took her creativity to the next level by fulfilling her dream with her debut novel, An Event to Remember…Or Forget. Since then, she has written and published three more novels, Wedding Haters, See You Soon Broadway, and Friends ForNever. Melissa resides in Orlando, Florida, with her husband and young daughter. When she isn't writing, this multi-tasking master organizer is busy being a mother, wife, chauffeur, PTA president, and fitness trainer. When she has free time, she enjoys traveling, running, fitness, fashion, and taking a Disney Cruise every now and then.
/>
To learn more about Melissa Baldwin, visit her online at: http://www.authormelissabaldwin.com/
* * * * *
BOOKS BY MELISSA BALDWIN
Friends ForNever
Other Works:
An Event to Remember…or Forget
Wedding Haters
See You Soon Broadway
* * * * *
SNEAK PEEK
If you enjoyed this story, check out this sneak peek of another exciting novel from Gemma Halliday Publishing:
COCKTAILS IN CAMELOT
by
MARIANNE MANCUSI
CHAPTER ONE
If Mr. Blahnik could see me now, he'd be royally ticked off.
Not that I'd blame the guy. After all, dragging his kitten heels through upstate New York mud is not exactly the reverential treatment six-hundred-dollar shoes deserve.
To be fair, it really isn't my fault. It's not like I volunteered for the assignment. If anyone deserves Manolo's full wrath, it's my editor. She's the one who decided that me spending my Saturday with a bunch of no-life weirdos would be a positive career move.
I originally planned a full day of shopping in the Village, lunch with Lucy, more shopping, then a relaxing train ride back home to my Connecticut condo, where I would lounge by the pool for the remainder of the afternoon.
Instead I am on assignment at King Arthur's Faire. My mission? To write five hundred words on the emerging trend of medieval flair in today's fashions.
I'm Katherine Jones, by the way. But pretty much everyone calls me Kat. Why, I don't know—maybe it's my eyes. I've got big, green, catlike eyes that turn up at the corners. When I was a kid growing up in Brooklyn, they were my ticket to fame. The guys couldn't stay away—even the ones I wished would.
I've moved up in the world since then. Now, as the twenty-two-year-old associate fashion editor at La Style, my job is to claw through the hype and sniff out the trends. I'm good at it, too. Remember that ridiculous puppy-purse craze? I broke that story before Vogue laid their Chanel-shaded eyes on it.
But does my editor recognize my talent? Uh, that would be a no. In fact, half the time I don't think she even recognizes me, even though I donated four years of my college life to slavery—er, interning for her.
And so instead of jetting off to Paris or Milan to write cover stories about the beautiful people, I usually get stuck doing back-end blurbs that lie lost between tampon ads.
This time it's medieval gear, which—I'm sorry—I think is ridiculous. I can hardly see Giselle sporting a pointy, veiled headdress and am quite positive Bradley Cooper would not be caught dead in tunic and tights.
My photographer, Chrissie Haywood, seems to have none of these reservations, however, seeing as she's currently traipsing through the mud in a Chrissie Haywood original—a royal-blue velour gown with lace-up corset and cap sleeves. She told me earlier that she made it from a pattern she'd bought off Etsy, confirming my suspicions that the internet really is an evil empire where freaks come together to rejoice in their freakiness. In my mom's day, if you had an odd quirk, you kept it to yourself. Now you make a Tumblr.
When I was growing up, my family couldn't afford a computer. But I didn't care. All I needed were magazines: glossy, glamorous, advice-filled pages just waiting to transport me to a world of beauty, majesty, and anorexia—for less than the price of a cup of coffee. Why waste a grand or more on a plastic box that's only good for checking up on what your ex-boyfriend's current girlfriend posted on his wall? (Okay, that's admittedly a pretty good feature.)
"Hear ye, hear ye," a barker announces as we walk by his stand. "Whoso shall lift this sword from the stone, the same is rightly born king of England." Or, in this case, will rightly win a plastic Excalibur of his very own. The toy sword emits a piercing scream when slammed against trees, rocks, people—whatever the little brats decide to use as their unwitting target. I know this not because I'd tried my luck at the sword-in-stone thing (I have no burning desire to become British royalty—as far as I'm concerned, Kate can have it!) but because every kid here seems to have already won one and has made it his or her mission to see that I achieve the headache of a lifetime.
I know the story of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table as well as anyone, I suppose. Dude pulls sword from stone, becomes king. Marries a total slut named Guenevere who goes off and hooks up with his best friend, Lancelot. What I don't get is why people think it's so darned romantic. Having been a victim of a cheating man-whore, I can tell you for a fact there's nothing glamorous about having your heart trampled over.
We walk past Ye Local Eatery, where for $5.95 you can get a cup of mead (aka Bud Light) with your King's Royale Chicken Bites (courtesy of King Ronald McDonald, if I'm not mistaken). They also feature what I'm sure was a medieval delicacy—pepperoni pizza of the round table. Yeah.
"Here, wear this." Before I can stop her, Chrissie plops a tall dunce-cap thing—complete with lavender polyester veil— over my head. She must have bought it while I wasn't looking. "Now you fit in," she proclaims, as if that had been my goal—rather than my nightmare—all along.
"Gee, thanks," I reply, pulling the hat from my head and examining it with a critical eye. Could Gucci really be planning this kind of kitsch for the fall runway? Chrissie looks hurt as I pick at the hat's seams, investigating the quality or, in this case, lack of it. I could have sewn better during first-year home ec at the Brooklyn community college I went to—and that was the year I accidentally blew up the kitchen! Okay, so I'm a better seamstress than cook.
"You know," Chrissie whines, "You could at least try to have a good time." She twirls around, velour gown flapping in the breeze, as she takes it all in. "It's not exactly torture, you know, hanging out in a medieval village. Could be much worse."
It could and suddenly is, as the skies open up, and rain starts gushing down. Awesome. We duck under the nearest tent for cover.
"May I read thy palm, milady?"
Oh, great. The tent we pick just happens to be inhabited by King Arthur's very own Miss Cleo. A tiny, wrinkled gypsy type addresses us from behind her crystal bowling ball. She wears a bright, mauve-colored robe bordered with intricate gold embroidery. Gotta give her some props—her costume, at least, looks authentic enough, even though I'm pretty sure I've seen that same crystal ball at Spencer Gifts for $19.99.
I motion for Chrissie to take a photo. "Ooh, yes. Kat, get your fortune read," she replies, misunderstanding my gesture.
"No, thanks. I don't believe any of that psychic mumbo jumbo." Sure, I check my horoscope once in a while—what magazine diva doesn't? But anything that forces me to fork over good money for worthless prophecies that could apply to anyone, I steer clear of.
The old crone glares at me with beady eyes, possibly not appreciating the fact that I used the words mumbo jumbo and psychic in the same sentence. But come on! She must be used to nonbelievers at this point in her career—she looks about eighty. Still, her pointed stare gives me the creeps, and I contemplate leaving the tent, rain be damned. After a second analysis, I decide the cost of dry cleaning six-hundred-dollar Armani trousers that I borrowed from the props closet at work outweighs being stuck with an annoying old woman who thinks she knows my future.
"Come on, Kat. I'll pay for it and everything." Did I mention Chrissie is persistent as well as enthusiastic? I give in. What else are we going to do while waiting for the rain to end?
Plopping down on the chair, I stick out my arm. A strange chill trips down my spine as the ancient crone takes my hand with her gnarled fingers. As she traces my lifeline, I wonder if I should ask her if she's ever heard of hand lotion. I mean, her hands are pretty far gone, but it's never too late for moisturizing.
"Let me guess," I say with a sigh. "Long life. Success in love. Great career." These fortune-tellers always tell you what you want to hear. After all, spreading doom and gloom isn't going to get them many customers.
"Thou dost not believe." The woman scowls, dropping my hand i
mmediately. "Why would I bother?"
"Uh, because my friend's paying you five bucks to do it?"
The woman sighs—she's really one for drama, let me tell you—and takes my hand again. A sudden fear washes over her crinkly face. "Thou shouldst not be here," she says in an urgent whisper.
"No kidding. I should be at Bloomingdale's. Doesn't take a psychic to figure that one out."
Chrissie swats me from behind, and I giggle.
"No." The woman looks suddenly fierce. "That is not what I mean. I mean thou art out of time."
"Already? I just sat down. You haven't even told me my future yet."
"Not out of time with me. Out of time with life. Thy destiny—it is lying in another era."
You'd think with everyone paying twenty bucks admission, the fair organizers could have found a better psychic than this. "All I want to know," I say, glancing back at Chrissie with a wink, "is whether I'm going to be rich, successful, and score a really cute boyfriend. Tell me that, and I'll be on my merry way."
"Pay attention!" the woman shrieks, and I nearly jump out of my skin.
I try to pull my hand away, but she clutches it tight, digging her long fingernails into my palm. Her beady eyes are wide open now but clouded over, her nose scrunched and her lips curling into a snarl. Okay, this is getting a tad bit freaky for me!
"The lines of tragedy are clearly written on thy hand. If thou dost not take heed, thou wilt surely die this day!"
That's it! I manage to rip my hand from her claws and stand up. "Yeah, sure, whatever, psychic psycho," I spit out. I'd much rather be caught in the rain than listen to this bull. Who does this crackpot think she is, trying to scare me like this? "Chrissie, I'm so out of here."
Friends ForNever Page 18
