The Art of Marrying Your Enemy (The Richmond Brothers #2)

6. Aaron

6

AARON

“ A llow me.”

Daisy jerked back when I grabbed her wrist. I yanked her close to me. Without the espresso machines spewing out the smell of burnt coffee, I picked up her sweet, familiar summer scent—strawberries and saltwater taffy—as I slid the sparkling diamond on her finger.

Hurt and furious, Daisy glared up at me. “Get out of my kitchen. You got what you wanted.”

“Don’t take it off,” I barked at her when she twisted the ring.

Her family huddled at one end of the sunlight-filled kitchen, waiting to see what I’d do.

A better man might say something reassuring to his soon-to-be new bride, but I wasn’t that kind of man, and Daisy wouldn’t deserve my care even if I was.

Her mom rallied from the shock and jumped into host mode.

“Don’t you want to stay for breakfast, Aaron? I made grilled asparagus. You still like that, don’t you?”

“Mom, no, he doesn’t get breakfast. Aaron, leave.”

“We’re not done here. Now get dressed,” I ordered.

A stubborn set of her jaw.

“Fuck you. You’re not my husband, and even if you are, you’re not going to tell me what to do.”

“Fine. Suit yourself. A ketchup-stained T-shirt is on par with the rags you usually have on. You want to wear that to go shopping for a wedding dress? Fine. Then they can see the real you. Really get a sense of your individual style.”

“For someone who didn’t want to get married, you sure brought a whole entourage,” I remarked.

Daisy sat, arms crossed, outwardly defiant in the small bridal boutique on the quaint commercial stretch down the road from the Hampton beachfront mansions.

The room reeked of starch and ancient lace and was stuffy and hot with all of her female family and friends.

I already dreaded the oncoming wedding.

To keep it simple, Bill had decreed that the ceremony would be at the beach house from hell, where this had all begun.

Her mother sighed. Somehow, Mrs. Coleman had produced a three-inch binder full of wedding planning material, like she was going to war.

Daisy’s little sisters giggled next to her.

I’d pointedly ignored them on the car ride over. They had lost their wary look and were now happily planning the wedding.

Something sharp gouged my leg.

I cursed.

“Don’t even look at my sisters, mister.”

I slapped away the hand that held a sharp silver hair accessory.

“You’re so easy to manipulate, Coleman.” I smirked at her confusion. “Like I want a bunch of teenage girls in my house. I always know how to make you comply.”

That earned me another sharp poke from the comb.

“You fell for it. That’s on you, Princess.”

“I want a black wedding dress, like I’m going to a funeral,” Daisy declared over the other women’s chatter.

“Hell no.” My voice rolled around the room.

“Let’s compromise and do gray,” her friend Reese offered. “A nice warm dove gray…”

“She can have white,” I told Reese flatly.

“It’s my wedding,” Daisy protested.

“You’re wearing cutoff overalls. You don’t get to have a fashion opinion, Coleman.”

“‘Jortorals’ is the technical term,” Daisy replied.

“You do wear those a lot,” her mother said with a sigh and tugged at one of the worn buckles.

Alex breezed back in from the dressing room, wearing a big white gown.

“What about this one, Daisy?” She spun around in the room.

“Bet you wish you were marrying Alex,” Daisy hissed at me.

“Of course. She was my first choice,” I shot back at her, not because it was true but because I knew it would upset her.

Daisy recoiled.

“It’s not personal,” I reminded her. “You’re the one having an emotional overreaction.”

“We’re supposed to be shopping for Daisy’s wedding.” Reese shooed Alex away.

“She’s never going to fit into a sample size,” Daisy’s sister scoffed. “She needs something custom.”

“Only a week?” Mrs. Coleman gave me a pleading look.

I was unmoved.

“The wedding will occur in seven days’ time,” I said. “You will find your daughter a dress that costs between seven thousand and ten thousand dollars. It will be white. She will wear a veil. Bridal jewelry and matching tiara will be provided to you on the day of the wedding no later than nine thirty a.m.”

I’d spent last night combing through the contract. Coupled with Betty’s notes, it gave me a good idea of where the line was on these wedding stipulations. I’d adjusted all dollar amounts for inflation and added a ten percent buffer.

I wasn’t going to spend a bunch of money to catch the falling knife that was Coleman Mining only to miss the fine print in this gratuitously long marriage contract and lose my investment.

All contractual obligations of the marriage to Daisy Coleman would be fulfilled to the letter, but not to the spirit.

“Pick a dress for her or I will,” I threatened.

“Does he talk like that in bed?” Daisy’s grandmother whistled.

“You’re no fun.” Alex pouted.

Thirty-one days, plus seven to plan the wedding, then I was done with the Colemans, I reminded myself.

I survived eleven years locked in a cellar. This would be nothing.

Yet somehow repeating that experience seemed preferable to marrying Daisy.

“We have three dresses in plus sizes.” The bridal consultant gave me a worried look. “Though two of them are closer to fifteen thousand.”

“Fine,” I said. “Coleman, pick one.”

Her mother shooed me to the door. “The groom can’t see the bride’s dress. It’s bad luck.”

“This whole entire wedding is bad luck,” Daisy declared.

The door shut on her complaining when I stepped out into the hot summer sun.

The ocean breeze didn’t reach quite this far inland on the island. The warm salty air filled my lungs. I both loathed and craved the ocean. It was so different from where I’d spent the first decade of my life, but it was almost too different, the air too pure, too fresh.

Like Daisy.

Until yesterday afternoon, I’d sworn to myself I would never marry, didn’t want to chain any woman to me, either physically or metaphorically.

I didn’t trust myself with some helpless girl. Couldn’t trust that too much of my father didn’t exist in me, an oily shadow waiting for the opportunity to burst out of my chest and wreak havoc.

A car screeched on the street in front of me and barely came to a stop before the back door flew open and a thin, angular brunette tottered on high heels through traffic toward me. Meanwhile, the driver, wearing a stiff-brimmed hat, gestured wildly.

“Aaron.” Tears streaked my mother’s face. “How could you do this to me? How could you lie to me? You saw me on Friday, and you lied to me,” she wailed, heartbroken.

I tried to gather her in my arms, but she hit me with her handbag, one of those tiny designer ones that a duchess might carry to a tea party.

“After everything,” she sobbed out.

“Mom, this is just business. I don’t love her.”

“You were supposed to marry Aurora. That was my dream. That’s what Becca and I always swore when we were girls. She’s my best friend. You promised you’d marry her daughter. Aurora loves you.”

“I’ll marry her after I divorce Daisy, Mom. This was your father’s idea,” I reminded her, trying to modulate my tone, keeping it low and nonaggressive. Bowl your words. That was how my mom’s therapist recommended I speak to her to avoid setting her off.

“You think I’m crazy. That’s how it always is with you and my father. ‘Emily’s overreacting,’” she ranted. “‘Emily’s being mean. Emily’s emotional.’ You don’t tell me things because you think I’ll react badly or strongly, but this is a perfectly normal reaction to being betrayed by the people who are supposed to care about you.”

“I do care about you,” I assured my mother. “I love you more than anyone.”

“Then why did you lie?”

Because it was like she’d said: I didn’t want to deal with the fallout, and it was better to let Bill deal with it.

“Why, Aaron?” She was going to keep prodding, keep picking at this—wouldn’t accept any explanation other than the one she felt was correct.

“Just admit it. Admit that you think I’m crazy. This is a trauma response from you.” She spewed out the therapy speak, a rusty rake down my spine, while I had to stand there and take it, hoping she’d wear herself out and move on.

“You never resolved your trauma from Stuart,” she continued. “You’re reacting. You’re not thinking. You’re just reacting against what I’m proposing, even though I’m right. Aurora is the girl for you. What will I tell Becca? Aurora will be so heartbroken.”

“I’ll talk to Aurora. She’ll understand.” It was a struggle to keep my voice smooth.

My mom hit me with her purse. “No, don’t say anything to her. You’ve traumatized her enough.”

“Emily!” the silver bells on the door to the bridal salon announced in a singsong. Mrs. Coleman gave my mother an air kiss, politely ignoring her angry tears. “You’re looking lovely. Are you here to help plan the wedding? I do believe Daisy’s chosen a dress already—you can see it at the altar. Aaron, they will send you a bill, so be on the lookout, dear.”

I just nodded.

Mrs. Coleman continued, “We’re going to visit the caterer next, Emily, Artful Eating. They did the Ambroses’ garden party in May. We were so fortunate that they could work us into their schedule.”

Peggy linked arms with Emily and escorted her slowly down the sidewalk.

Had Daisy seen my mother berate me? I bet she fucking did. She was probably filing the sight away for ammunition to use against me.

“Grilled chicken tastes like condoms,” Daisy complained as she and her sisters pushed their way out into the bright sunlight.

“Then you can eat the fried shrimp, and the rest of us can have grilled chicken.” Alex slipped designer sunglasses on her head.

Daisy glowered at me.

“Why are you even here? To torment me?” she attacked. “I know a man like you doesn’t want to be involved in wedding planning. I know you. You think weddings are dumb. I heard you complaining about it at the coffee cart the day after you ghosted that girl you took out for drinks at Argonaut.”

“Coleman, were you eavesdropping?” I drawled, grateful for the argument, the distraction. “How unprofessional. I expect more from the resident coffee-cart girl.”

“You C-suite types think that us minimum-wage food workers can’t hear you when you shout at the top of your lungs.” She sniffed.

“It’s because Betty can’t decide if she wants to lean into the fake hearing loss or not.” I needed to get out of the sun. It was oppressive.

“I stand by everything I said,” I added as Daisy raced to keep up with me.

She had glitter from the wedding dresses in her sun-burnished hair.

“And the only reason I’m wasting my time on this is because I can’t trust you to behave maturely.”

“I'm not a child,” she shrieked from somewhere below my shoulder. “I am working on a PhD.”

“In English. That’s not a real degree. Only spoiled princesses get PhDs in early Victorian women’s literature that their trust funds pay for.”

“It’s not women’s literature. It’s literature by women.”

I looked down at her.

The bridge of her nose was reddening in the summer sun. The effect would have been adorable—if the cuteness and the messy blond braid didn’t hide someone who would use any excuse to twist a knife in me.

I needed to strike a killing blow.

“If you read more books by women, maybe you’d respect them more,” she added hotly.

“I respect women. I just don’t respect you.” I opened the door of the caterer’s store for her sisters then let it slam in Daisy’s face.

She yelped in surprise then fumed when she joined me inside the shop.

I grabbed her arm and dug my fingers into the soft curve above her elbow.

“You should be a little more grateful, Princess. This is your once-in-a-lifetime shot at a wedding. The only way a man would ever marry you is if he was forced to.”