Never Been Worse (Evergreen Park #3)

Chapter 10 – Harper

TEN

HARPER

Today is my wedding day.

I’ve had to repeat that sentence to myself over and over all day. None of it feels real, but as Ava brushes over my cheeks with blush once more, and I stare at the wedding dress hanging a few feet away, I know it’s the truth.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Ava says with a chuckle, standing back to take in her handiwork, her hand resting on her very faint baby bump. Stella came in an hour ago, and they squealed together about having babies around the same time. Sophie, Nate’s daughter and Jules’s soon-to-be stepdaughter, smiled and giggled, asking when Jules would give her a sister, which only made her blush.

It was another vivid eye-opener. A reminder of how my friends are progressing with their lives and doing the “normal” steps, but here I am, starting over.

Or, somehow even worse, starting a completely fake relationship just to piss my ex off and save my friends from losing everything they’ve worked for.

What was I thinking? For the hundredth time today, the anxiety that’s been living in my chest as of late tightens around my airways. When I said I was going to be more spontaneous, I don’t know if this is what I meant.

“Do you think it’s a bad idea?” I ask, as I look at Ava in the vanity mirror. I barely slept last night, though her master skills cover up any sign of that. This might not be a wedding for true love, but photos of it will be spread everywhere, and I don’t need everyone on the earth to see me at my worst.

“No,” she says quickly, applying a bit more blush onto the apples of my cheeks. “Not at all.” I look to Jules, the slightly more reasonable one.

“Jules?” I ask. “Do you think this is a bad idea?”

She shakes her head confidently and smiles. “I think it will be good for you. I’m just bummed we won’t get to see stupid fuckface Jeremy’s face when he realizes you’ve married into rock royalty. Do you think he’ll be able to listen to their music again without thinking of you?”

I think about that, knowing his entire running playlist is just Atlas Oaks and smile in bliss.

“God, that’s truly amazing,” Ava says with a giggle, fingers brushing over the gold W on a chain around my neck that Wes had delivered to our room this morning.

“And this is going to totally fix your media issues,” Stella says gently. “I mean, Leo is a mastermind. I don’t know how he does it, but he can spin absolutely everything to look good. I mean, when Riggins told everyone Willa’s relationship with him was fake, he somehow spun it to make Willa and Riggs look good. No one even suspects it’s a trend of hers, dating for PR.”

“Yeah,” I say with a smile. She’s right, too. I’ve already gotten one of the clients who dropped me to reach out and apologize for believing what the media and Jeremy were spinning about me, on top of a few new inquiries.

If only I wasn’t still completely artistically blocked, things would be almost perfect. Instead, every time I stare at a piece of paper to try and create something new, I hit a wall. I’m hoping once the stress of the wedding is over, my mind will clear up a bit, and I’ll be back to normal.

Ava’s brows furrow like she’s noticing me mulling over something, and she opens her mouth to speak but is stopped when someone pops their head in.

“Are you all ready to line up?” the wedding coordinator asks, and we all look at each other and nod. We all stand while Jules grabs my bouquet and hers.

To make it seem less like a last-minute public relations setup, we are having a real wedding. In his planning, Leo went all out: a ceremony, the processional, professional photos, and a reception where only our closest of friends know the truth about what this marriage is. There are fifty or so people in attendance, but barely ten people know the truth. Everyone else thinks we’re just so crazy in love, we don’t want to wait.

“I’m nervous,” I whisper as Ava grabs her own bridesmaid bouquet, and Jules hands me mine.

Ava shakes her head with a smile. “No way. You know what I say,” she starts, but Jules continues the mantra Ava started years ago.

“Shoulders back.”

“Tits out,” I continue. and then Ava gives me a soft smile, her hand on my cheek.

“You were born for great things, Harper Abbott. Let’s go start your forever.”

When I agreed to go along with the ruse of marrying Wes, I didn’t think much beyond the yes of it all. I definitely didn’t consider what a wedding would look like if we were going to successfully bamboozle the press.

I didn’t think I’d be in a gorgeous gown I made, the silk fabric grazing over my body, multiple strings of faux pearls draping along my back to keep it together.

I didn’t expect an archway of cream roses, baby’s breath, and eucalyptus to greet me as I made my way down a brick walkway littered with flowers Sophie threw down, as I walk on the arm of my father toward…

My soon-to-be husband .

And I sure as fuck didn’t expect full-blown chills when I saw him standing at the end of the aisle in a well-fitting tux, his dark hair pushed back, a small smile on his lips as he watched me move toward him.

I did expect the photographer going crazy and Ava being emotional just because she’s alive, a hopeless romantic, and pregnant.

But most of all, I didn’t expect the way the world would fall away when Wes stepped forward, playing the part of the eager groom as he grabbed my hand once I handed off my bouquet to Jules, pulling me toward him at the altar. I definitely didn’t expect the way his lips grazed my cheek in the most gentle press of a kiss or the way warmth ran through me when he whispered, you look beautiful, in the most sincere way.

The ceremony flew by as we recited traditional vows. Wes slid a heavy diamond-encrusted platinum wedding band onto my finger, and I returned the favor with a thick silver one.

And then it happens.

I’m staring at Wes, his hands moving to lift the lace veil over my face and behind my head, the only tradition I cared for, even if I regretted it halfway through hand sewing dozens upon dozens of tiny seed beads and gems onto the edges. His hands then move to my jaw, tipping my face up, and I take a small step closer, my body melding to his like magic.

“Spontaneous, yeah?” he whispers against my lips, and I smile as my hand lifts, resting along the back of his neck like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Because, strangely enough, it feels that way: natural.

“Yeah,” I whisper back, and then his warm lips are pressing to mine, a smile caught up in our first kiss like the jovial, goofy man genuinely can’t keep it out, even in this moment.

His warm, soft lips move on mine, one hand slipping to my lower back to pull me in closer, touching my skin beneath the layer of pearls. His warm, calloused skin on mine soothes me, and I shift closer to him without meaning to.

I simply can’t get close enough as the heat of him fills me, as my lips part, as he shifts my face with his hand just a bit to deepen the kiss. The room erupts in cheers, but I barely register it as he kisses me, long and deep and probably a bit much for an audience, but we’re putting on a show, right?

The kiss finally slows, and then he breaks away before pressing his forehead to mine and smiling. That’s when I feel it.

Butterflies.

But butterflies are dangerous.

Butterflies are big, fat liars, things that make you see possibilities when they are nowhere to be found.

I felt butterflies with Jeremy, and what that taught me was believing in butterflies gets you stuck in four-year relationships, waiting for a ship that will never sail.

I can’t make any more mistakes like that in my life or my career. That’s why I make a decision not based on spontaneity at all this time, but in self-protection and nothing else.

I will keep that wall up between Wes and me because even stumbling for my fake husband would spell total and complete disaster for everything: my friend group, my mental health, my career, my reputation, and based on those goddamned butterflies, my heart.

As we’re introduced as Mr. and Mrs. Wes Holden and walk down the aisle to cheers and congratulations, I start making my plan on how to survive the next year without issues.

Step one?

Avoid my new husband at all costs.

I’m pretty successful in my mission to avoid and ignore Wes for the night whenever I can. Especially after we took what felt like thousands of photos together, his warm, calloused hands on my skin scrambling my brain each and every time.

Once we did the required entrance, I got away with the barest of pecks to my lips before I scurried off to speak to our guests.

I barely sit, spending most of the time on whatever side of the room Wes isn’t , but my plans are foiled when the DJ gets on the microphone.

“And now, it’s time for the couple’s first dance as husband and wife!” he says, his voice booming through the room before guests clap and cheer, Ava’s the loudest as she gives me a knowing, conniving look.

I love my best friend, I love my best friend , I remind myself as I glare at her, slowly making my way to the center of the dance floor where Wes is already waiting for me, a hand out like some prince ready to take me away.

Cheers get even louder when I reach Wes, taking his hand only for him to tug hard until I’m flush against his chest. The drinks I’ve had to calm my spiraling nerves make me a bit unsteady on my feet, and my hands shift to his shoulders to catch myself. I think for a moment we can keep this friendly, maybe middle school dance style, but Wes isn’t having any of that. Instead, his arms wrap along my waist, his thumb grazing a stretch of bare skin, and I gasp at the feel of it against my will.

“Hello there, little wife,” he whispers into my ear as my arms wrap around his neck awkwardly, despite our need to make this look convincing. Not just for cameras that will surely leak clips of our first dance to some tabloid. But because everyone else in this room, including my parents, who we flew out for the wedding and showed minimal surprise or even interest in my news, thinks we’ve been experiencing some low-key, whirlwind romance out of the eyes of the press and they’re in the presence of true love.

His words send a shiver through me, my body unwittingly melting into his touch without my permission, making it all the more believable. But my pulse starts pounding as the opening strings of “At Last” by Etta James fill the room.

“You’ve been ignoring me all night,” he whispers as he begins to sway my body easily in time with his, the cloyingly sweet tones of a song I’ve loved for as long as I can remember playing.

Over his shoulder, I glare at Ava, who definitely knows this is the song I wanted to one day dance to with my husband at my wedding.

“No, I haven’t,” I deny impulsively, even though we both know it’s absolutely the truth.

“Now, now, Harper, let’s not start this marriage off on a lie,” he says, and I pull back to look at him, his eyes twinkling as he smiles.

“Isn’t that exactly what we started this with?” I whisper.

“No,” he says, then twirls me out and then back in smoothly, despite the drinks and heels that should make me clumsy. It’s as if my body just instinctively knows how to work alongside his.

I hate it.

“We’re both very much aware of how this is starting, so it’s not a lie at all.” I’m back against his chest when his hand moves up, tipping my chin to look at him. “I’d like to keep it that way.”

I can’t look away from him, from the earnest look in his eyes, even though a warning bell in the form of fluttering wings in my belly is going off.

“My only request is we never, ever lie to each other, Harper. That’s all I ask of you. Can you agree to that?” His breath ghosts along my lips as he speaks, and it wouldn’t take much at all for him to dip a bit, to press his full lips to mine again.

“Okay,” I whisper without even meaning to, though the wide smile he gives me makes it worth it. It also desperately makes me want to keep that promise.

“So why have you been avoiding me?” he asks.

I bite my lip, and his thumb moves up, tugging it out from between my teeth before brushing over the bruised skin. The move sends bolts of desire through me, desire I should absolutely not be feeling .

“Because you’re hot,” I admit, deciding it’s both the truth and the safest one to admit.

Wes’s head tips back in a laugh, and it rumbles through me, forcing my own lips to tip up in response. A camera flashes somewhere, and subconsciously, I think I want a copy of that photo, of Wes’s handsome face tipped back with laughter, my face most likely tipped up to look at him adoringly…

I’m so fucked.

“You’ve been avoiding me because you think I’m good-looking?” he asks, and I nod.

“You’re gorgeous, and I find it annoying,” I grumble under my breath, my typical filter completely annihilated from the chaotic day. Or maybe it’s just Wes .

“I’m annoying because I’m hot?”

I shake my head. “No, it’s annoying that you’re hot. I think you’re just annoying because you were born that way.”

His smile widens, making him even hotter, and that confirms that he is, in fact, annoying as can be.

“Is it bad that your husband is hot?” he asks, our bodies still swaying in time to the music on the dance floor, everyone still watching us. But the way he’s holding me, the way his attention is locked on me, it’s almost like it’s just us here, alone and bickering as we move together perfectly.

“Technically? No. I think most people tend to consider that a good thing. For me, however, very much so.”

He leans forward, lips moving to my ear, his breath grazing there, sending an unwanted chill down my spine. “Why’s that?” he asks. I open my mouth, but he speaks again. “Remember, no lying.”

I sigh, recalculating my answer before laying it out there.

“Because this… this is not that,” I say low, ignoring the sharp bite of disappointment in my stomach. “It can’t be that.”

A long beat passes, Wes swaying me to the music as he contemplates my response before he speaks. “It could be,” he finally replies in almost a whisper, that hand on my bare back burning now in a different way.

His gaze meets mine, and for a moment, I consider some other universe where this is actually our first dance, the start of something beautiful.

Then a photographer takes our photo, and the flash shakes me out of my daydreams, promptly back into reality.

I am here to help sell a narrative for the band.

I am here to build my business, to get clients, and make myself slightly more bulletproof from people like Jeremy.

I am here to repair my reputation.

I am here to help make sure Stella gets the peaceful pregnancy she wants and deserves.

I am not here to flirt with the admittedly hot guitarist of Atlas Oaks.

I once let a man convince me we were perfect for each other while he bled me dry of creativity and destroyed my self-confidence. I have no place wrapping myself up in something like that once more.

I can’t afford to lose myself more than I already have.

“It can’t,” I whisper, his eyes locked on mine.

With that, the song trails off, the small crowd clapping and cheering. I can pick out both Ava’s loud hoot and Reed’s whistle, the two basically the same person.

“We agreed to no lies,” he whispers before stepping back, grabbing my hand, and bending to kiss the top of it like some gallant prince. My mind is reeling with his words, but still, I can’t help but laugh at his antics, shaking my head.

He smiles back, wide and true, and in that moment, I realize my mission to keep my head and my heart completely separate over the next year might be a lot harder than I anticipated.

“We leave for our honeymoon in thirty minutes. You should probably say your goodbyes,” he says, then walks off.