Meet Clara Morgan (Clara Andrews Series - Book 3)

by Lacey London

  ‘Not really.’ I shake my head and breathe in his delicious aftershave. ‘Gina fell in love with a red feathered thing, but we managed to talk her out of it.’

  ‘Red feathers?’ His eyes glint wickedly. ‘What kind of dress shop was this?’

  ‘Not that kind.’ Running my fingers through his thick curls, I rack my brains for the best way to tell him about wedding-gate. ‘You know how we decided on getting married this summer?’ He nods in response and takes a sip of Corona. ‘Well, how do you feel about maybe doing it a little sooner?’

  My heart pounds in my chest as his eyes narrow suspiciously.

  ‘How much sooner?’

  ‘Like, I dunno, maybe next month sooner?’

  Oliver lets out a half cough half laugh sound and looks a little flustered. ‘Next month! Why the rush? Is it even possible to plan a wedding in such a short space of time?’

  My stomach churns at his response. I knew that I shouldn’t have rushed into this. Why do I listen to Lianna, why? ‘It’s too quick, I understand. Forget that I said anything.’

  ‘No, it’s not that I want to wait. I just don’t want you taking too much on, that’s all.’ Tucking a stray curl behind my hair, he plants a small kiss on my cold nose. ‘If you think you can pull it off, then go for it. The sooner I make you Mrs. Morgan, the better.’

  ‘Really?’ I twist my engagement ring around my finger and look up at him through my hair. ‘You really mean that?’

  ‘I really do.’ He flashes me a wink and flicks on the television.

  ‘That’s fantastic!’ I breathe a sigh of relief and feel the tension in my shoulders slip away. ‘By the way, I booked The Millington for April 5th. Now can we order? I’m starving.’ Skipping over to the dining table, I grab the pizza menu and pour myself a glass of wine, leaving a bewildered Oliver laughing incredulously.

  ‘Seriously? You booked it already?’

  ‘I did!’ I let out a squeal and dump the bottle of wine back into the fridge. ‘I just wanted to see your reaction before I told you!’

  ‘Well, now that you know I’m cool with it, hadn’t you better start planning? You haven’t given yourself much time.’ He drops down on the couch and kicks off his shoes.

  ‘I know. Maybe I’ll hire a wedding planner.’ I scan my eyes over the pizza menu and feel my stomach start to growl. ‘Fancy sharing a spicy pepperoni?’

  ‘Wedding planner?’ Oliver mumbles under his breath. ‘That’s actually not a bad idea, Clara. Not a bad idea at all.’

  11.17am

  To: claraandrews001@firemail.co.uk

  From: reservations@themillington.com

  Subject: Booking Confirmation

  Dear Clara Andrews,

  We are delighted that you have chosen The Millington to host your wedding day. I can now confirm that we have received your payment in full. A dedicated member of our Bridal Team will contact you shortly to discuss your day in further detail,

  We look forward to planning your special day with you!

  Margaret Bowden

  Reservations Team

  The Millington

  Chapter 4

  Bringing my knees up to my chest, I squeeze my eyes shut and will myself to go back to sleep. Until I was rudely awoken by Oliver’s alarm clock, I was lost in a blissful dream world of roses, fairy cakes and big white dresses. A world that I desperately want to drift back into. In a bid to block out the morning light that is cruelly peeping through the blinds, I yank the soft covers up over my head.

  Hearing Oliver flick on the radio I give up on any hope of forty more winks and stretch out my arms. Normally I am not a morning person, but today I have a hell of a lot to be getting on with. Not only do I have a busy day at work to contend with, I also have a wedding to plan! My wedding! Remembering that I have little over six weeks to organize the entire thing is all the motivation I need to drag my lazy ass out of bed.

  After a quick stretch I pad into the bathroom and shove a toothbrush into my mouth. Wincing at the cold tiles, I am beyond thankful that I showered last night. No amount of money would make me get into that shower in these temperatures. Cold British weather plus marble bathroom tiles are not ideal. Tiptoeing to the top of the stairs, I lean over the railing and try to work out who Oliver is on the phone to at such an ungodly hour. Too tired to care, I spit a mouthful of minty foam into the sink and splash some water on my tired eyes. Drying my face on a fluffy towel I smother my face in moisturiser and flick off the bathroom light.

  Glad to have carpet under my feet I make my way down the stairs. Carpet should be mandatory in winter. Carpet and Jim Beam. Lots of Jim Beam. Stepping into the kitchen I slip my arms around Oliver’s waist. ‘Good morning. Who was on the phone?’ I ask, nuzzling my face into his warm back.

  Spinning around to flash me a knee trembling smile, he plants a kiss on the tip of my nose. ‘Oh, just a sales call. Fancy some breakfast?’

  I catch a delicious whiff of bacon and nod my head greedily. ‘I also wouldn’t say no to a coffee.’

  Watching him dish out the fried treats, I prop myself up at the breakfast bar and flip through the TV stations.

  ‘By the way, I’m gonna be working late tonight.’ Oliver offers me a regrettable smile along with my food.

  ‘Really?’ Picking up my bacon sandwich, I take a huge bite and swoon at the salty goodness. ‘I thought things had quietened down now with the summer range finalised.’

  ‘I know. It will just be this once. I swear.’ He leans against the washing machine and takes a sip of coffee. ‘Anyway, don’t you have a lot of wedding stuff to be getting on with?’

  I try to respond, but with a mouthful of greasy food it proves tricky. ‘I do. In fact, I thought I would call around some wedding planners before I leave for work.’

  Spotting my muffin top over the edge of my pyjama bottoms, I mentally curse myself for having a calorie ridden breakfast when I am getting married in just over a month. I wonder how much weight I can realistically lose in such a short space of time. Tossing the remainder of my sandwich down, I decide that from this moment on my body will be a temple. Nobody wants to look like a killer whale in a wedding dress.

  ‘Yeah, about that.’ Oliver’s voice interrupts my thoughts and I shoot him a blank stare. ‘The wedding planner. I already sorted it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I reply, reaching out for the steaming cup of coffee that has appeared in front of me.

  ‘I mean, I sorted it.’ He shoots me a cheeky wink and puts his now empty mug into the dishwasher.

  ‘OK…’ I reply slowly, totally confused.

  I open my mouth again to speak, but before I have the chance to question him he grabs his car keys and heads for the door.

  ‘Enjoy your breakfast and remember I’m gonna be working late!’

  And with that he is and gone, leaving me totally bewildered. What the hell was that about? Not having the time to obsess over it, I slope back up to the bedroom and throw open the giant walk in closet. How did I ever cope with just a single wardrobe and a measly chest of drawers? Filling this huge space has given me a great excuse for copious amounts of retail therapy over the winter months. Buying the clothes is almost more fun than wearing them. Almost.

  Since Christmas, Oliver has been working at the new Elmhurst studio and I have to admit that it’s taken a bit of getting used to not seeing him every day. It’s strange to think that when we first met, we spent all day every day cooped in the studio eating more pizza than what was healthy and sharing stolen glances across the work bench. OK, well it wasn’t quite as romantic or as straight forward as that. It would be fair to say that at first we weren’t exactly love’s young dream, but after a lot of fast food, an eventful trip to Manchester and an unfortunate incident involving his gorgeous best friend, things have turned out pretty well.

  I look at the printed picture of us above the giant four poster bed and a ridiculous smile creeps onto my face. This is my favourite thing in the entire place. If the whole apartment wa
s on fire, this is the one thing that I would want to save. Forget the luxury fittings, the expensive jewellery and my favourite pair of Manolos, this is what means the most to me.

  If there was ever a picture of happiness, this was it. Sat on a Mexican beach with cocktails in our hands and our toes in the sand, we look so blissfully content. From the golden skin to the perfectly tousled hair, we are beach perfect. Our smiles are infectious as we clink together glasses of frosty bubbles. Just looking at that photo makes me feel all fuzzy and warm inside and that’s not just because it was 40 degrees that day.

  Exactly like the start of our relationship, Mexico was not a basket of kittens, but this image is something that I will treasure forever. From rocky paths to choppy waters, we have been through a lot of drama to get to where we are today, but I am a big believer in that things that are worth having are worth fighting for.Thinking back over my time with Oliver, I realise just how lucky I have been. It’s true that relationships might not all be plain sailing, but sometimes you find yourself in one that’s worth the ride.

  Chapter 5

  After a rather hectic day at work, I reluctantly turn down Marc’s tempting offer of an evening squeezing baby Madison along with Gina’s famous fajitas and make my way home. When I told Marc that I had booked a wedding venue, he got so excited that I thought he was going to spontaneously combust. You would be forgiven for thinking that he was the blushing bride to be, not Gina. It wasn’t that long ago that Marc would have run a mile at the mere mention of marriage. I guess that miracles really can happen. Well, miracles or witchcraft. Lianna swears that Gina cast some sort of voodoo spell on him. I still think that he finally ran out of other women to sleep with.

  Remembering that Oliver is working late, my grumbling stomach encourages me to make a pit stop at the local Indian restaurant and order enough food to feed a small army. Since I spent my lunch hour browsing wedding bands on the internet with nothing more than a cream cracker for company, I don’t feel too guilty about it. Still, I don’t even want to think about the mountain of calories that I am about to consume. So much for my body being a temple. That didn’t last long, did it?

  As I pull into our designated parking spot, my phone beeps from the depths of my beloved Cavalli handbag. I must have heard that same annoying chirp a million times today. Although I hadn’t seen Li, she had certainly made herself heard in the form of a hundred and one emails. Each one regarding a different bridesmaid dress, elaborate veil or picture perfect up do. I hate to admit it, but her incredible organisational skills are making me very nervous about my own impending nuptials.

  Struggling with my box of Indian goodies, I punch the access code into the keypad and take the lift up to our apartment. Hitting the glossy penthouse button still gives me a shiver of excitement. I’ve never told anyone this, but sometimes, when I am alone, I pretend that I am Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Not the prostitute part, obviously. Just the common girl meets rich man and moves into his eye wateringly beautiful penthouse apartment part. You know what I mean.

  Using my giant ass to slam the door behind me, I kick off my shoes and make for the kitchen, flicking on the heating as I go. Tonight has got curry, Rioja and bad reality TV written all over it. Popping a plate into the microwave, I slope up to the bedroom and pull on my favourite onesie ready for a night on the couch. Even though I miss Oliver when he isn’t here, curling up with the gang from Jersey Shore is a guilty pleasure of mine. A pleasure that I will only indulge in when I am a million and one percent sure that I will never, ever be caught.

  Heavy rain batters against the huge floor to ceiling windows as I pile my plate high with delicious spicy food and collapse into a comfortable heap on the couch. On a cold winter’s night, fast food plus wine makes for the perfect evening. Well, if Matthew Mcconaughey and Bradley Cooper aren’t available of course. Shovelling a mouthful of curry into my mouth I chew away happily. Seriously, this is worth being fat for.

  Switching on the TV I try to lose myself in a world of hair gel, skimpy clothing and tequila slammers, but it’s not long before my mind is filled with all things wedding again. Even Snooki is getting married! What is wrong with the world? Not being able to shake off the panicked thoughts, I grab my laptop and bring up a word document.

  Ten minutes later, I have a rather lengthy to do list and as my eyes scan the text I suddenly feel a little queasy. I definitely need a wedding planner, that’s for sure. There’s no possible way that one person could organise all this in such a short space of time. What was I thinking? Photographer, florist, chair covers… it’s just impossible. Taking a deep breath, I reach for the wine and take a big slug and then another for good measure. Thank God for wine. A few gulps later I turn my attention back to the now barely warm curry and pick up my fork.

  Just as I am about to refill my glass, there’s a knock at the door. Letting out an annoyed sigh, I push myself to my feet and pad across the plush carpet. I swear, if this is Lianna with yet more bridesmaid dresses I am going to explode. Flinging open the door, my jaw drops as the world’s biggest, blonde beehive pushes past me in a cloud of Chanel and duty free shopping bags.

  ‘Jesus Christ! What is this place? Alaska? Get outta my way!’ The southern drawl hits me like a blow to the stomach.

  Janie? What is she doing here? I blink a couple of times, just to make sure that I’m not hallucinating. How much wine did I drink?

  ‘Janie… what are you… why are you…’ I stare at Oliver’s Texan mother open mouthed as she throws down her bags and takes a swig directly from my wine bottle. ‘Just get me a goddam drink!’

  Chapter 6

  Pouring out another glass of wine with trembling fingers, I cautiously sneak a peek at Janie out of the corner of my eye. Wearing a hot pink bobble hat, sparkly ski pants and more layers than a North Pole Eskimo she looks utterly crazy. She still hasn’t told me what she is doing here. So far, all I have gotten out of her is that England is a joke and that she needs a drink, a big one.

  As I hand her the glass she looks me up and down dubiously before downing it in one swift gulp. ‘What the hell are you wearing? And what the hell was that? Get me a proper drink!’

  Realising that I am wearing a bumble bee inspired onesie complete with furry antenna I suddenly feel a little silly, but then again she can’t really say much considering her choice of outfit. Chewing my cheek, I resist the urge to tell her that people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones and take back her now empty glass.

  ‘It’s called a onesie.’ I pull the sleeves down over my fists self consciously and offer her a friendly smile. ‘I really wasn’t expecting company.’

  It’s almost six months to the day that I first laid eyes on Janie and it’s fair to say that our first meeting was far from cuddles and cupcakes. After vomiting on her cowboy boots in a tequila infused state, things didn’t get off to the best start. However, during a drama filled vacation in Mexico we finally bonded over a psychopathic Barbie doll and an overly amorous dolphin. Well, sort of.

  ‘I need to take a shower!’ Janie announces, piercing my day dream bubble. ‘Nine hours stuck in coach next to some greasy old British woman. Where are the bathrooms in this damn place?’ Janie’s voice trails off as she disappears towards the bedroom.

  Watching her sashay confidently across the living room, I pinch myself to make sure that I’m not dreaming. What is she doing here? I feel like I am in some kind of weird, parallel universe. The last time I saw Janie she swore that she would never come to cold, old, boring England as long as she lived. Her words, not mine.

  Discovering that she has finished the last of my much loved Rioja, I run back into the kitchen and frantically look around for something else alcoholic to put in her glass. Thankfully, just as I am about to resort to a heady dose of Listerine, Oliver appears in the doorway armed with two bottles of what I hope are Champagne. Champagne or arsenic.

  ‘Hey!’ He shoots me a grin and makes a sorry attempt at hiding the bottles behind his back.

>   Scurrying over to him, I am about to speak when his eyes land on the dozens of shopping bags and neon pink suitcase by the couch. ‘Aww, man! She’s here already?’ He lets out a laugh and holds out the Champagne. ‘It was meant to be a surprise!’

  Taking the bottles, I look at him perplexed. ‘You knew that she was coming here? Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Because it was meant to be a surprise!’ He replies, planting a kiss on my head.

  ‘Oh, right.’ Still none the wiser, I grab a couple of champagne flutes and bite my lip thoughtfully.

  Why would Janie being here be a surprise for me? He knows better than anyone that Janie is a handful at the best of times. As if reading my mind, Oliver slips his arms around my waist and nuzzles my ear.

  ‘You said that you wanted a wedding planner. My mom is the best in the business.’

  Feeling my blood run cold, I spin around to face him. ‘W… wha… what do you mean?’

  ‘It’s fantastic, right? My mom has planned all the Morgan weddings. It’s kind of a family tradition.’ Popping a bottle of Moet, he hands me a glass and fills it to the brim. ‘She’s here for six whole weeks, right up until the big day.’ Seemingly oblivious to my horrified reaction, Oliver shakes off his leather jacket and wanders off in search of Janie. ‘You can thank me later!’

  Six weeks? Janie can’t be here for six weeks! Where is she going to stay? She can’t stay here! I tip toe over to her suitcase and my heart sinks as I read the address on the tag. Oh, God! She is staying here, isn’t she?

  Oliver pops his head back into the room and I try to paste a happy smile on my face. ‘Mom’s hungry. Have you eaten already?’

  ‘Um, yes. I got a chicken curry earlier. There’s a load left if you want me to dish some up?’ I reach for the take out box and grab a plate, trying to mask the panic that is whirring around my body.

  ‘Mom doesn’t eat meat, remember?’