Bottle Rocket (The Rookie Hawkeyes #3)

Chapter One

VIVI

Five minutes until I marry a man I don't love.

The bridal suite is decorated with expensive taste.

My future mother-in-law’s taste. Cream and blush roses climb the walls in elaborate arrangements, their floral perfume mixing with the smell of hairspray and anxiety.

Crystal chandeliers throw rainbow prisms across the marble floor, and somewhere in the corner, champagne chills in a silver bucket, untouched.

And then there's me, trapped in a hundred-thousand-dollar dress that feels more like armor than silk.

I run my unsure fingers down the corseted bodice, trying to ground myself in the sensation of cool fabric against my fingertips.

My reflection stares back, honey-colored eyes wide with something that looks dangerously close to panic.

God—how did I get here? But I know exactly what got me here. From my own doing.

"You’re a vision, Vivi," the wedding planner, Natasha, says while adjusting my train for the hundredth time.

She's been my only ally in this entire planning process. Working behind the scenes to tame down Genevieve Holiday’s "vision" for her firstborn's wedding. Keeping an eye on my reaction whenever my future mother-in-law suggested more flowers, releasing doves after our vows, a larger guest count. I’d just smile and nod her on. She needs this commission, and I’m the only one who knows why.

“Absolutely perfect,” she tells me, knowing full well that Genevieve picked out this dress and not me.

Perfect.

The word everyone's been throwing at me since the engagement.

Perfect match. Perfect merger. Perfect optics.

The seven-carat ring catches the light, throwing sparkles across the wall like a disco ball of bad decisions.

It's a Holiday family heirloom—fourth generation.

Jameson didn't pick it. His mother did. Because God forbid her son's reputation-cleansing bride wear anything less than the price of a home in the Bellevue area.

"Five minutes!" The venue coordinator's voice carries through the heavy wooden door, making my heart stutter.

"Okay, thank you. We're almost ready in here," Natasha calls back and then smiles at me in the reflection of the mirror.

"I'm going to head over to the groom's room and make sure they all file out before your cue so that Jameson doesn't catch a glimpse of you before you're walking down the aisle.

Your father is standing at the double doors, greeting guests as they come through.

He'll be ready to walk you down the aisle when you are. "

Conrad Newport. My ex-stepfather but the only real father I've ever known. The man who fought to let me keep his name even after my mother left him—his third wife, though she should have seen that coming. Still, he gave me more stability than my birth father ever did. A man I’ve never met.

I turn back toward Natasha and grab her hand before she heads for the door.

To be fair, this wedding has probably been a wedding from hell for her.

With my future mother-in-law being the closest thing to a Bridezilla, Natasha has been running herself ragged trying to please Genevieve’s every wish for her son's wedding.

And Jameson has barely acknowledged Natasha's presence as if the wedding details are a bore and an inconvenience, keeping him from closing on a merger overseas for a cake tasting.

God help Jameson’s other four siblings. They’re next in line to be off to whichever dynasty heir the Holidays pick to boost their influence among Seattle’s elite. Not that I can judge. I’m marrying a Holiday for the same reason. My wedding is just as much a calculated transaction as theirs will be.

If Natasha nails this one, Mrs. Holiday promised her the rest of the siblings’ weddings too. That means a massive commission—and a shot at making her firm the go-to wedding planner for the rich and famous.

A lot’s riding on this. The red splotches climbing up Natasha’s chest and her flushed ears say what her smile won’t: She’s barely holding it together.

"Just in case I don't get a chance to tell you this. I appreciate everything you've done. The wedding is gorgeous, and you're doing a terrific job today."

Her cheeks pinken, and her eyes begin to well with unshed tears. "Thank you for saying that. If I lose this account, my boss will probably fire me," she gives a nervous laugh. "But today is about you. Good luck out there."

"And good luck heading for the grooms' room. Don't pay Jameson any mind. He has a lot riding on a new merger he's working on. Don't take it personally," I tell her.

She squeezes my hand and then opens her mouth. There's a hesitation in her eyes. "I know I shouldn't be saying this … but I can't help but feel that you're too nice for—" and then she stops, clamps her eyes shut, and shakes her head.

"Too nice for what?" Am I crazy to think she was about to say, "You're too nice for Jameson" or "for the Holiday family"?

But neither are true in my case. I was raised for this lifestyle—these people—and my company will now have the capital to go public with the funds and influence that being married to a Holiday will bring me.

I've let go of the dream of a white picket fence and marrying for love like my sister Isla has accomplished.

And I can't blame anyone for this decision. I've made it for my business, and the board members are ecstatic. It will all be worth it.

The moment she walks out the door, my stomach lurches.

Five minutes until I marry Seattle's most eligible bachelor. Five minutes until I secure my company's future. Five minutes until I prove to my father that I did it all without his precious Newport money.

Even if it means trading my dreams of a real family for a manufactured future.

Because who am I kidding? Jameson is handsome, wealthy, and from the outside, this looks like a fairytale. Only, there’s no spark between us, no fire.

Six months of engagement have brought nothing but polite dinners, careful touches, and a gifted Bellevue mansion as a wedding gift from Genevieve—all part of the perfect image we're selling, though we’re secretly in separate living situations.

He moved into the Bellevue mansion, while I still sleep every night in my townhouse.

We haven't even slept together yet, both of us too focused on maintaining the facade of a love match for his family's expectations.

I have no idea what he looks like without his shirt on, besides the old tabloid photos I’ve seen in the past of his yacht with one woman after another.

The exact image of a Playboy billionaire that Genevieve is trying to rebrand with our union.

I have no idea how he stores his toothbrush in his bathroom.

I barely even know how he takes his coffee because his assistant is never far off to take care of it for him.

Our marriage is practical. It makes sense for both parties.

In the future, children will come, a requirement of the Holiday family, and maybe even love—or a version of fondness that makes sense considering our situation.

I already have a lot of respect for Jameson and what he has done for the family—the deals he's closed—and the fact that he's willing to marry a stranger to keep his family trust growing.

Not to mention that he's a fierce business negotiator and on paper … Well, we're kind of a perfect match.

The door opens again, and Isla enters with Yvanne, my good-friend-from-college-turned-my-lawyer, both radiant in ice-blue silk.

My sister's eyes scan my face with the knowing look she's had since our parents married in middle school.

We couldn't look more different—her soft blonde beauty contrasting sharply with my dark hair and olive skin from my mother's Brazilian side.

But we've never felt like "step" anything.

She's just my sister, my rock, the one person who's always seen through my carefully constructed business-as-usual facade.

"You okay?" she asks softly, moving closer.

"Fine." The smile feels plastic on my face. "Just nervous."

"Vivi." She takes my hands, her blue eyes turn serious. "If you're having second thoughts, say the word. Kaenan can grab Berkeley and Oliver, and we'll be gone before anyone realizes. Just like that—poof, runaway bride."

The temptation hits so hard my knees actually shake. And my knees never shake. I'm Vivi Ann Newport, the woman who built a college nanny service into a nine-figure staffing empire. I don't do uncertainty.

"I promise, I'm fine." I lie, squeezing her hands. "I just need a minute."

She searches my face but nods, slipping out with Yvanne. Another knock comes immediately.

My heart jumps. Maybe it's Jameson. Maybe he feels this wrongness too. For the first time, I feel a sense of relief, but then my heart sinks when I see who comes through the door.

It's his mother.

"You look radiant, my dear." Genevieve Holiday's voice is smooth and precise. "The perfect bride for the perfect future that awaits us."

Us. Always us.

Never me. Never him.

"Mrs. Holiday," I start, "I need to see Jameson."

I just need to see him—talk this out. I know he'll rationalize all of this—make sense out of what we are doing and why this is a good idea.

He's emotionally solid, confident, and seems to know all the right things to say when we're being interviewed by the media or when people ask him for business advice.

He's exactly the kind of partner I need beside me.

I would follow him into any boardroom, any negotiation without hesitation. But marriage?

I need to hear him say it.

I need to hear him say that this marriage is a good idea because then, I might believe it.

"Absolutely not." She adjusts my veil with careful hands. "We can't afford bad luck today. The press is already restless. I promise you, Jameson is just as anxious to get this wedding underway as we all are."