Beneath the Frost (Star Harbor #3)

Chapter 1

ONE

CLARA

Well, Phil was dead. Again.

There was something about staring at that pathetic little houseplant that made me want to burst into a fit of the giggles . . . or maybe it was tears. I couldn’t quite tell.

When was the last time I watered Phil?

That could have been my first clue as to why I struggled to keep a houseplant alive . . . even the ones the tag claimed were unkillable.

January snow fell outside my window in thick, heavy clumps. This side of the apartment hadn’t seen daylight in what felt like forever, so maybe it wasn’t all my fault that the houseplant had kicked the bucket.

A soft knock at the bedroom door drew my attention away from poor Phil. “Come in.”

My mother peeked from the doorway, looking me over as her eyes widened. “Sweetie, you aren’t even dressed!” She stepped inside my bedroom and quietly closed the door behind her. “We need to leave for the church in five minutes.”

I swallowed past the lump in my throat.

Church.

The word alone made my stomach swoop, like I’d missed a step on the stairs. It wasn’t nerves, not really. It felt more like I was walking into a performance I wasn’t sure why I had agreed to star in.

I nodded and moved toward the closet in my room.

The expansive walk-in closet was exactly what had sold me on the apartment when Greg and I had decided to move in together.

For my job, I needed the closet space, and there was something delightful about twirling in front of a floor-length mirror, ya know?

Standing in the doorway now, it didn’t feel like my closet so much as a costume department. Racks of happily ever afters, none of which actually belonged to me.

With my mom behind me, I walked toward the open door.

Rows and rows of wedding dresses hung there—all shades of white and cream and alabaster.

There were dresses with tiered layers of tulle, sleek silky numbers that hugged my curves, and even one that was a smoky gray that almost matched my eye color.

The one I’d picked for today was hanging in the center, perfectly steamed and ready to go. It wasn’t my favorite, but it had been Greg’s mother’s preference, and I didn’t have it in me to argue with her.

Beside me, my mother’s wistful sigh floated through the air. “Just gorgeous.”

The lie pulsed in my throat. She was looking at her little girl like this was finally it—the moment I joined my sisters in the “happily ever after” club—and I couldn’t even give her the courtesy of the truth.

I forced a smile at the lace atrocity.

It wasn’t that the dress was horrible. None of them were. It was just that the dress I was going to be walking down the aisle in was the last one I ever would have picked for myself. Maybe that was why, when it came to today, I couldn’t shake the overwhelming sense of dread.

“Give me a minute?” I smiled at Mom. “I’ll call you in when I need to get zipped up.”

My mother’s eyes searched mine. I was sure she knew something was off, but my perfectly painted red lips pulled into a smile I thought she might believe. “Of course, honey. I’ll be right outside when you need me.”

She closed the closet door behind her, and I allowed myself to exhale. My fingertips dragged down the scratchy lace. I already knew it would rub and irritate me all day.

“Here goes nothing,” I whispered with an exhale. “It’s just another day.”

You see, I’d been a bride before. One hundred thirty-two times to be exact. As a bridal model, I had been lucky enough to wear the world’s most elite dresses, hot off fashion week runways. Most times designers would need them back, but sometimes I was told to keep the sample dresses that were sent.

Getting laced into a gown was nothing new.

Only this time, it was real. Well, real enough.

I slipped out of my robe and into the body-skimming dress before calling back to my mother. “I’m ready.”

She stepped inside the closet and pressed a hand to her heart. “Oh . . .” Tears welled in her eyes and I looked away. I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth.

Mom zipped up the back of my dress and pressed her hands at my waist. “You haven’t been eating. Are you nervous?”

I looked over my shoulder. “A little.” It was the first honest thing I’d said to her all day.

Her phone vibrated, and she pulled it from her beaded purse. “The limo is here. All set?”

I smiled and nodded, unable to make myself move. With one last look around my overstuffed closet, I steeled myself for the day ahead of me.

It was supposed to be the happiest day of my life, and I felt like I was dying.

The rest of the morning flew by in a blur.

When I arrived at the cathedral-style church, the coordinator and photographer were already waiting.

The air inside smelled like old wood, candle wax, and fresh flowers—a Pinterest board come to life.

As soon as I saw the camera, my spine straightened and my chin tipped, like my body knew how to slide into bridal Clara whether I wanted to or not.

I hit my best angles, pausing at the right moment to capture the slit in my dress as I stepped from the limo.

If anything, the day felt like another day on the job.

Flashing lights, gentle orders to lean my shoulders or tilt my chin.

Bridal modeling had never been the plan for me. Though, neither was marrying a man that I knew couldn’t love me. Somewhere along the way, pretending had become my default. Pretend bride. Pretend college major. Pretend fiancée. I was starting to worry I wouldn’t recognize real if it ever showed up.

When I went away to school, I’d just assumed I would find something that lit me up, but that particular muse turned out to be a fickle bitch.

Four major changes later, I was struggling to even graduate.

When I needed some quick cash, I’d answered an ad for a bridal model with zero experience because How hard can that be?

Turns out, really fucking hard, but I fell in love with it. I fell in love with pulling all the pieces together and watching a vision come to life. It was the first time my “too much” energy actually had somewhere to go.

Initially I stayed in my lane as the model only, but the disorganized photo shoots got old quickly. I found I had a knack for finding hair and makeup experts, looking up dress designers online, researching florals and photographers. Mood boards were my specialty, and they never felt like work.

I eventually got a generic degree in “general studies,” but if you asked me what that meant or what you could do with it, I couldn’t tell you. So far, it meant that I would meet other wandering souls who also had no idea what they were doing.

Which is how I met my fiancé, Greg.

Greg had gone to school knowing he’d take over his father’s tech company. His life path was set for him, but his father valued the experience of college. Greg’s experiences mostly entailed partying and skipping class.

But he’d always made me laugh.

When we met, we became fast friends. He was as wide-eyed and enthusiastic as I was. If I got the wild idea to move across town or foster a rescue kitten or take up tap dancing, Greg was there to cheer me on.

Somewhere along the way, he’d become the man I agreed to marry.

Not because there’d been some sweeping, cinematic moment where everything clicked. Mostly because he was safe and familiar and already sitting next to me when the idea was floated. It felt less like a proposal and more like . . . forward momentum.

A creepy voice floated through the door of the bridal suite, where I was waiting for the ceremony to start. “Hello, Clarice.”

My eyes rolled as I pulled the door open. “You’re an idiot.”

Greg stood with his silly grin, and I yanked him inside. “Your mom is going to freak out if she sees you and me talking before the ceremony. What’s wrong with you?”

He scoffed and leaned against the counter, crossing one long leg over the other. A hand gestured between the two of us. “Please. She believed this schtick a long time ago.”

A dry laugh escaped me. Shortly after meeting, Greg and I were hanging out, and I told him I had a crush on a guy in my math class. Turned out, Greg also had a crush on him.

The trouble was, Greg’s parents were assholes, and his being openly gay wasn’t an option if he wanted to take over the family business.

He’d been hiding his true self nearly his entire life.

I’d grown to feel oddly protective of him over the years.

If I could stand between him and their disappointment—even for a little while—it felt like maybe I was good for something.

I suppose that was a major reason why I’d agreed to marry him in the first place. We had a great time together, liked the same food, and laughed all the time. We were great friends, even if he tended to be a little bit shallow and self-centered.

It also helped that Greg knew I dreamed of opening my own business.

Bridal modeling barely paid the bills, but it was the planning that lit me up.

A designer could come to me and say she needed four dresses to be captured, ten photos, and fifteen seconds of video per dress for their website and social media.

I’d put together a quote that included a photographer, videographer, hair and makeup, and a florist. I could run the show and make sure the team was paid well and on time.

All I needed to get my business off the ground was time and money to make it happen.

Greg’s plan was simple—we’d pretend to be engaged and get his parents off his back. Then, when he finally took over the family business, he’d be my first investor.

He asked, and I said, Why the hell not?

The worst part was lying to my family, but I’d made a promise to my best friend.

A huge part of me knew that when it came to the Darling family, any gossip would spread through our small town like wildfire.

I was desperate to get my dreams off the ground, so I convinced myself that a little white lie would be worth it in the end.