by Emily Childs
I don’t feel unprofessional making friends with all these Minnesotans. I’m not really part of Daddy’s business, simply the dutiful daughter when he needs me to make an appearance.
“Tom,” I say. “Look at her dress. Ah, it’s perfect.”
My fiancé is tall, chiseled, horribly handsome, and spares a moment to indulge me. He smirks. “Yours better show more skin.”
I smack his chest, and roll my eyes. He’s always saying stuff like that and thinking he’s some kind of comedian.
Mercy, watching my friends tie the knot brings sneaky tears to my eyes. Using my best lace kerchief, I dab the salty pests before my face starts to run, but it’s darn near impossible the way Bastien is choking up through his vows. I think my heart grows a twin when Bastien smashes—yes, smashes—Laney’s mouth to his the second the preacher says husband and wife. Clearly, he couldn’t wait much longer. Not that I blame him; his wife is a babe, and newlyweds shouldn’t be keeping their hands to themselves, thank you very much.
I love the way their family cheers louder than anyone. I know Laney and her sister are all that’s left of her side, but from the looks of it, Bastien’s loud clan makes up the difference best they can.
Standing with the rest, I clap, unladylike and over the top, when they come back down the aisle, hand in hand.
Ah, be still my heart. I love weddings.
I only wish my heart raced with excitement, like it is now, for my upcoming nuptials. Tom stands, adjusting his tailored suit jacket, no doubt he spent an egregious amount on his entire ensemble. He looks like walking money, and he loves it. I sigh, watching him check his Rolex as if we have anywhere else to be. He’s funny, though, and has an even temper. Rarely raises his voice, and all that. Mama loves him. Daddy is indifferent, but I think he’d be the same with any foolhardy man coming to take away his girl. I’m pleased to be marrying Tom. Really. It’ll be the wedding of the season back home if Mama has anything to say about it.
When we arrive at the reception hall everything is elegant and simple and I love everything about it.
“You are stunning,” I say when I get my shot at hugging the bride.
“I’m so glad you came,” Laney says, and the way she smiles I’m positive she’s never going to stop.
“I wouldn’t miss this,” I say and glance at Bastien. “And you, sir, lit my shoes on fire with that kiss up there.”
He laughs. “We’re here to please, Ollie.”
I’m happy they call me Ollie now. Only my friends do, and it’s something special to me when it naturally starts to happen.
Laney glances at Tom, still beaming. “We’re excited to see you two make it official soon.” My stomach flips over, but I don’t think Laney notices when she squeezes my hand and says, “I bet you can hardly wait.”
I know she’s trying to help my attitude. Since our conversation months ago, I admit I’ve confessed more than once something feels dull. Like I ought to be more interested in my own wedding planning than I am. But at this point with the day creeping up, I think instead of offering more advice, Laney has taken on the supportive friend role.
“It’s coming fast,” I say.
“We better keep the line moving, baby,” Tom says, his hand on the small of my back. “Congratulations, y’all.”
I wave over my shoulder, and let Tom lead me to where Daddy is sweet-talking all the head honchos who share offices around Bastien.
Oh, but the best part is yet to come. At the buffet table, my mouth is wetter than a hurricane when I take note that most of the catering is made up of the Scandinavian Market. I wave at one of the old men sitting in the corner. I think he might be Bastien’s granddaddy since he’s wearing a tie made of Danish flags, then help myself to a few ginger cookies.
“Took more than enough, don’t you think Ollie?” Tom asks, one brow lifted at my plate when I take a seat beside him.
I snicker. “Oh, I’m taking some home.”
“Baby, that’s tacky.”
“No,” I say, patting his arm. “They’re for Rafe. When he came with me the first time, we both loved these little things.”
I wave one of the cookies between us, but Tom’s not smiling. Mylanta, he looks downright furious.
“I thought you weren’t talking to Whitfield as much.”
It feels like the words are a thorn pricking the center of my heart. And it’s the truth. Since coming to Minnesota, Rafe has been pulling away. Slow enough I hardly noticed. He had his girl, but not anymore, thank heavens. Now, his excuse for keeping a distance is out of respect for Tom. I’m madder than a wet hen simply thinking of such a pitiful reason. It’s no secret Rafe and Tom have never got on, so respect has never been a word used between them.
Of course, the last few weeks we’ve seen more of each other, like old times. I simply wish different circumstances brought us back. “Tom, you know his mama is sick,” I say. “He needs some cheering up, and so does she.”
Tom rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his champagne. “Two-day old cookies aren’t going to do anything.”
I cross my arms over my chest, pouting a little. “Well, friends do thoughtful things for each other.”
Since we were kids, Tom and his posse, including my snobby cousin, have had it out for Rafe and his brother. I talk about him as little as possible, but I wasn’t going to lie about why I’m smuggling cookies in my handbag.
Because of his distaste for my oldest friend, I consider our discussion over until Tom swivels in his chair and leans in close. Not romantically, but honest-to-goodness threatening, if you ask me.
“Olive.” Tom snarls my name. “When we’re married all that ends, you hear.”
My mouth drops. “I beg your pardon. What ends, exactly, Thomas?”
His jaw pulses. “I’ve indulged you and your sympathy for the Whitfields for years, but when we’re official, it’s done. The likes of them got no place near my family. That includes my wife.”
The nerve. My eyes narrow into nothing but slits. “Let me tell you something, Thomas Abernathy. This ring” – I hold up the excessively sized diamond on my finger – “Does not mean I am your possession. Understand? Now, if you’re looking for a trophy to take to galas and to brainlessly feed your over-zealous ego, then I’d be obliged to give this right back.”
He seems ready to say something, hurtful to be sure based on the way his faces flushes red, but he forces a smile again. His handsome face shining through his irritation. “Come on, baby, don’t take it so personal. I love you, that’s all. I want the best for us, and that includes the best people. Now, forget I said anything. It’s bad luck to bicker at a wedding, don’t you think?”
He kisses my cheek. I’m stiffer than a board. Perhaps on the outside I simply appear to be a frustrated woman, angry at her man, but inside I’m a ghastly mess.
Best people? There aren’t better folks than the Whitfields.
Blasted Rafe, you stubborn fool. Pushing me away when most of my life all I’ve wanted is for him to take me into his arms, and tell me he wanted me. Rich girl and all. How many times has that man told me he wasn’t up to my level? How many times have arrogant men like Tom made sure Rafe knew he wasn’t suited for me?
Enough times that he absolutely believes it.
It shouldn’t matter.
I’m getting married. I love Tom. He’s a good match.
The truth is, if Rafe told me he loved me, I’d call this entire wedding off. But he won’t, so Rafe Whitefield won’t ever know I love him.
That I’ve always loved him.
Want more Laney and Bastien? Enjoy a bonus epilogue(s) with a scene from college, the office, and life after the wedding.
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Sneak Peek into my new series, the Debutante Rules:
Don’t Mar
ry the Mechanic
Chapter 1
Olive
Oh, Mylanta!
The clickity-clack of my sky-blue pumps across the veranda fade against the chords of the hired orchestra. Yes, orchestra. Scratchy tulle underneath my pastel pink dress chafes my thighs despite the nude, humidity-soaked stockings. The longer I stomp beneath the noonday sun, the more the fabric shrink-wraps to my every curve.
The backyard is my favorite part of the old house. Every inch is filled with the sweetness of blooming hydrangeas, the silk of magnolias, and the calming drapes of wisteria on old, cobble stone walls.
“Ollie, wait. Baby, please. Olive, stop!”
Oh, no sir. I will not be stopping. I sniff without turning around and lift my chin even more. Each heel sinks slightly into the damp lawn, but I go on undeterred. At my sides, my arms swing, making my hips sway a little, but I pick up the pace. I want it crystal clear to the man at my backside what his sorry hide has lost today.
Both palms are clammy in my lacy tea gloves; the coming rains in the air don’t help. Everything is sticky as a honey pot and my mama will gasp in shame if she catches sight of my frizzy, robin’s nest of auburn locks.
When he calls out my name again, I still don’t stop. No, I’m not willing to see his chiseled chest as he, no doubt, adjusts his tie and his shirt flaps open. Catching a glimpse of that rump swaying and moving in ways no respectable woman cares to see her fiancé sway and move is utterly out of the question. Based on the speed he’s pursing, he probably still has his zipper down.
“Olive.” Tom’s voice is fading. Probably because he’s bouncing on one leg, tying his Italian leather shoes that I bought, thank you very much!
“Leave me be, Thomas Abernathy!” I say through my teeth. I have high hopes the tremble in my voice is buried in all my hissing rage.
Of course, I never pick up her pace more than a furious, yet acceptable, stride. Every step taken is rife with learned propriety. Despite my distress, I refuse to lower my standards. My gaze is locked and loaded on the gargantuan oak tree near the back gardens. My haven, yet today not even the cascading Spanish moss lifts my spirits. I hiccup and bite back the wave of tears burning behind my eyes.
Stop blubbering.
No makeup will be running today, but concern for my smeared face doesn’t stop a stinging tear from dripping down my cheek. Tom’s pleas are lost to the comradery of the soon-to-be party. I take a breath, pace in front of the oak tree, my hands clasp the sides of my face. The party is over. Shame prickles across my neck. How will I face everyone? Oh, gracious… blood drains from my cheeks, how will I face Mama?
Ms. Bernadette Cutler. This will certainly tumble into my mother’s opinion of dark stains on the family name. A rattling chortle-sob bursts from my throat. The thought of Mama’s flat, calm-before-the-storm face is so terrifying it’s nearly laughable. I dart around the thick tree trunk, to the back, ready to vanish into the jessamin garden, taking cover until the dastardly day ends. Or at least until Mama’s frustration eases—living underground for ten years is reasonable, right?
“Umph,” I grunt when I slam into the firm backside of another human, tucked deep into the branches of a newly planted dogwood tree. “Oh, I beg your pardon. Excuse me.” I don’t look up, knowing full well my cheeks are coated in black makeup lines by now.
“Olive? Where are you running off to?”
The smooth baritone shakes me from my retreat. His calm eyes bring a bit of soothing relief, but it’s not enough. He’s irritating me too.
“Ollie, Rafe,” I snap. “How many times must I beg you to quit with your propriety! Heavens, men are the most aggravating creatures under the sun! And I’m leaving. No, I’m high-tailin’ it out of here to be more precise.”
“Now, hold on,” Rafe insists as he drops his pruning shears and tears off his gloves. He reaches one of his strong, calloused hands out, touching my forearm. “You know I’m working, and I can’t just be calling you Ollie. Where you going? I’ve been out here pruning all morning for this party, now I reckon that earns me some kind of explanation, don’t you?”
Rafe Whitfield. Sweaty, tanned skin glistens in the sun with enough of his dark, chestnut hair falling in gaps across his forehead to cause a girl to swoon. We’ve known each other since I first formed complete sentences. Rafe was my first kiss—of course he’d been seven and me only six, but it counted. I can’t deny that standing in front of me is a man. By all meanings of the word. He doesn’t know how delicious he is in his dirty jeans and tight T-shirts.
He is, and I’m rather grateful to him.
“What’s this?” Rafe asks softly, his blue eyes narrow, so they shimmer like the diamond chips in my earrings. He brushes a soil-scented thumb across my cheek, swiping away a tear. Unbidden, my chin quivers. “Why are you crying, princess?”
I dip my chin, wringing my hands, desperately trying not to crumble like a ninny. Rafe always calls me princess, but he’s the one person who makes the title sound wonderfully beautiful, not degrading, or condescending. More like I’m to be cherished, not worshiped because great-granddaddy lined my family’s pockets for life.
“Oh, Rafe,” I finally choke out. I clap a hand over my mouth before anything squeaky and embarrassing follows. “I’m such a fool.”
“Hey now,” he says as he brushes the back of his hand over his sweaty forehead and takes a step closer. “You can be a lot of things, but a fool doesn’t even make the top ten. What happened, Ol?”
Ollie is what my closest friends call me, but Rafe sometimes shortens it even more when no one is looking. He’s the only friend who does. I love it. “It’s my engagement announcement today, right?”
Rafe nods, although his grin fades.
“Well, catching the bride and groom tucked in a back closet might be a laughable thing.”
“Olive, I don’t need to hear this.” Rafe waves his hands in front of his face and steps back.
“Mercy me, I wouldn’t kiss and tell, Rafe,” I snap. “That’s what I’m saying. The two celebrated lovers wouldn’t be so shocking, albeit inappropriate, but finding the groom tucked in a closet with Eloise Tinley would be a bit more of a shocker.”
Rafe is silent for half a breath. His brow lifts, and it adds to his sharp, distinguished face. Yes, even beneath the grime of labor, Rafe has a distinguished look. “Are you telling me that idiot was getting to it with Eloise?”
“Getting to it is putting things lightly,” I mutter and wipe my eyes once more. “They’d already got it if you catch my meaning. At my engagement party, Rafe!”
Rafe’s cheeks shade a scorched crimson, and the blue in his eyes flashes dangerously. I’d gladly add a few more wretched details if it means the veins in his forearms thicken again from clenching his fists.
Rafe’s gaze flicks over my head. “Get behind me, Olive.”
He practically growls like a caged lion. I’m ready to protest until Rafe takes a forceful step in front of me and I understand. Cheater, cheater Eloise eater is ten yards away.
“Go on now, Thomas,” I shout, but in truth, I enjoy the way Rafe has formed a human shield between me and my wandering Casanova.
“Olive come on. Don’t throw a hissy fit. It’s not what you think,” Tom insists. The man has the audacity to keep his white shirt half untucked. On his smooth, square chin I can just make out a bruise—a hickey! Divine intervention won’t be able to save Thomas if I get my hands on him. Tom’s dark eyes drift to Rafe. “You’re not invited to this conversation, Whitfield. Why don’t you get on back to trimming those trees?”
“That’s up to Miss Cutler to tell me don’t you think, Tommy?” Rafe doesn’t budge.
His new grumbly tone brings a kind of deep-rooted southern empowerment into my already heated blood. “I would say catching your two-timing fiancé with his trousers around his ankles permits a hissy fit,” I shout. “You unfaithful, ungrateful, wandering—”
“I think it’s best if you get on out of here, Tom,” Rafe interjec
ts before I can curse out of place.
I’ve never been a professional curser. They come out all wrong, in all the wrong context.
Doesn’t matter anyway. Tom ignores me and seethes his fury at Rafe. “I don’t care a lick what you think, Whitfield. Now, get on out of here, boy. Leave me to talk to my woman without your stink staining the air.”
I suck in a sharp breath. “Thomas, you can’t talk to Rafe that way! And for your information I am not your woman and—”
“That will be quite enough.”
Everything freezes. Stills, until even the cicadas are silent.
“Mama,” I say in a breathless gasp over my shoulder. I’d know that tone anywhere. I swallow with effort, and I’m pretty sure Rafe and Tom do the same.
Manners and pearls are the two words I’d use to describe Bernadette Cutler. Everyone is expected to be on their best behavior and remember their place every day, all day. One toe out of line growing up, and I’d learned the frosty gaze of my mother meant pain on her rear end. Daddy is larger, but softer with his discipline, despite being the final word in the house.
My mother swirls her chardonnay in her crystal glass, pulverizing each of us into fine powder with her steely gaze. “Now, I expect to know what y’all are doing out here causing a scene.”
“Mama,” I whimper, but try to control my chin quiver. Tears won’t help my case. “I’m sorry, but the party is off—the entire engagement is off.”
If my mother is surprised, then she certainly doesn’t show it as she enters the shadows of the oak. Her chiffon dress glistens in the sunlight, the same as her rose-colored tennis bracelet and matching choker.
Her lips press into a bloodless line as she sips from her glass with more etiquette than a queen. “Really? Well, this is a shocking turn of events, Olive Jane. I wonder what brought on this rather unrequited dismissal of our generosity in planning your party. Certainly, you would never intend to leave your father and I to attend to your guests alone.”
