Chapter 2 #2
The Humphries family conducts most of its business outside the U.S.
If rumors are true, it’s for good reason.
There’s no way they could run the profit margins they do in the States.
They take every advantage of cheap labor and little oversight.
Albert has made a name for himself as being different from his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather.
He might come from a long line of arseholes, but he’s done everything he can to set himself apart from them.
Even still, how he managed to win over the American beauty—whose only job is to heal the sick, feed the poor, and protect mother earth—is beyond me.
And a beauty she is. She took my breath away last night when I saw her in the flesh for the first time, but that’s nothing compared to this moment.
There’s nothing traditional about this woman. Her gown fits every slight curve and hangs on her in a way that makes me wonder if she’s wearing anything beneath it.
I have no fucking idea what the hair and makeup army were doing in here for so long.
She doesn’t look like she needed them. Harlow is natural and effortless.
Her eyes are so dark and sultry, they stand on their own without any help, and her lips are the perfect shade of pink against her fair skin.
Her blond hair, which was blown and mussed by the time I delivered her back last night, is pinned low to the back of her head with loose curls kissing the skin around her face.
Harlow tips that perfect face to the suite behind her. “I was about to call you, Mr. Donnelly. Come in.”
I narrow my eyes. “I thought we were past the mister.”
She turns back to me and hikes one perfect brow. “That was before you pulled the miss on me.”
“Fair enough.” I force myself to look away from the bride who’s momentarily blinded me from this hell I call reality to glance at my watch. “You’re late.”
When she turns away, I have to catch the door so it doesn’t slam in my face.
She doesn’t do what she needs to do, which is to get the fuck in gear.
She retreats into the suite and goes straight for the dining table that sits in front of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the gardens, lake, and mountains.
It’s also the perfect view of the ceremony that’s set to begin. She stares down at the more than four hundred guests and chamber orchestra.
Let it be known I had no fucking idea what a chamber orchestra was before the Madisons and Humphries entered my life in the form of a never-ending migraine.
But I do now.
I’ve also been schooled on how to properly brew a fucking cup of coffee, and let me tell you, it tastes the same as the cup of joe I’ve been making myself ever since I was at uni.
Harlow’s dress drapes so far down her back, it rests right above her arse.
That arse.
The only thing that could divert my attention from it is the fact she kicks her heels to the side at the same time she pulls at her long gloves, one finger at a time.
What in the bloody hell is she doing?
I’m not familiar with brides, but this can’t be good.
I step through the entry, shut the door behind me, and move to the main living space that mirrors mine next door to state the obvious. “Everyone is waiting.”
She doesn’t turn back to me, and her tone is clipped and efficient. “I know.”
She almost sounds pleased with herself. One assumes billionaires might be self-indulgent wankers, but this is not what I expected from Harlow Madison.
“We should go. Everyone—” I motion to the windows. “And I mean everyone is waiting for you.”
She continues to speak as if she’s speaking about a normal weather day. “They’ll get over it eventually.”
Get over it?
Maybe this is normal. What do I know? I’ve never been a bride’s assistant before.
It’s all I can do to steady my tone. “Are you okay?”
She drops the gloves to the floor and turns on bare feet with gleaming, pale pink polished toenails before she leans her fine arse against the edge of the dining table. She hesitates and bites her perfect, plump lip.
Fuck.
As good as that action looks on her, right now it’s really fucking bad.
“Harlow.” I lower my voice and pretend I know how to handle a bride with cold feet. “I’m sure walking down the aisle in front of all those people has to be nerve-wracking—”
“Nerve-wracking?” she interrupts and gives me a lazy roll of her dark eyes.
“This is nothing. Janie has trained me for times like this from the moment my dad invited her into our lives. I’m used to being thrust into the public eye.
I know what’s expected of me and can deliver.
This might be my first wedding, but it’s certainly not my first rodeo. ”
Impressive. What I did not learn about Harlow Madison from my research is that she’s got grit.
I hike a brow. “Rodeo. Not what I expected, but quite American of you.”
That wins me another eye roll.
Now that I know she won’t break into a pool of dramatic tears, I get to it. “Tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it. I’ll move mountains to get you to put those shoes and gloves back on so I can deliver you to your groom.”
She moves, but not for her gloves.
She turns back to the dining table and picks up a folded piece of paper the color of natural linen.
I know that for a fact, since it’s the official stationery of The Manor at Winslet.
I selected it myself. It’s one of the ten million ridiculous choices I had to make while bringing this place back to life.
She walks on bare feet and stops so close to me, a hint of floral hits my senses. It’s faint and natural, like the scent of a spring day when the breeze is light and perfect off the lake. She presents me with the folded stationery. “I need a favor, Devon.”
I take it, hold it up between us, and frown down at the woman who stands at least eight inches shorter than me without her spiked heels. “What’s this?”
“Please deliver that to Albert.”
Bloody hell. I am not cut out for this kind of drama. Both my brows rise in unison this time. “I’m supposed to deliver you to Albert.”
Her expression isn’t apologetic in the least. “That’s not happening today.”
It’s a good thing I’m a trained operative and know how to keep my cool. I need every ounce of it at the moment, and still, the best I can come up with is, “I’m sorry. What?”
That came out more clipped than I meant for it to. Operative or not, I’m not trained for bridal drama.
“You heard me. I’m not getting married today.
” She brings her hands to her earlobe and continues doing what she’s done since the moment I stepped into the penthouse—stripping off her accessories.
When both ears are free from the big-ass diamonds, I have no choice but to take them because she shoves them into my other hand.
“And return these with the letter. They were a gift from Albert’s mother.
They’re ostentatious and gaudy, just like her. I never want to see them again.”
“Harlow—” I start, but the woman continues to get un-ready for the big event that’s about to thrust my business into the spotlight, but not the way I had planned.
Hell, this is the opposite of what I planned. I thought I prepared for every hiccup that comes with weddings. But this was not on the list.
Her hands come to her hair as she starts to pull pins out left and right.
“I’m sorry to put you in this position. I promise you’ll be paid for every expense.
I’ll even make sure Stonebridge compensates you for the extra trouble.
I get that you didn’t sign up for this. If my father’s company is good for anything, it’s fixing problems with money.
I can promise you no more drama after this weekend. ”
I stand here like a dumbfounded bloke holding enormous diamonds and a breakup note.
I do the only thing I can think to do—talk some sense into her. “What can I do to help you work through this? Maybe you should just take a breath—”
A single, sarcastic, high-pitched ha bursts from Harlow’s lungs.
I get the first view of her other than the in-control, stick-up-the-arse American Princess I thought she was.
“Is that the English way of telling me to relax? Because if so, Devon, I can promise you, I’m the least relaxed woman on the planet right now.
I haven’t been for the last six weeks. So if you are unable or unwilling to deliver that letter and those diamonds to the asshole standing at the altar, I’ll find someone who will. ”
I slide the diamonds in my trousers pocket so I can hold my hand out.
“Let’s take it down a notch. I told you I’d be here for whatever you needed, though I thought I’d be helping you get married, not helping you cancel your wedding.
I may be a fish out of water here, but if you don’t want to get married today, no one’s going to force you to. ”
She turns back as her thick blond hair falls in one wave after another down her back. “Oh, as soon as Albert gets that note, he’ll try.”
For someone who doesn’t ever give two shits about other people’s business so long as it isn’t a threat to national security, curiosity claws at me. I’d sacrifice a mundane royal secret or two to read her Dear John note.
“Are you sure about this?” I press. The last thing I need is to march through a throng of guests straight to the groom only for her to have a change of heart.
When she turns back to me, there’s no question. This woman knows what she wants.
“I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life. If you’ll excuse me, I need to make a phone call.”
I drag a hand down my face and curse my family once again for convincing me this place would be a path to a new life. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Yes. I need the code changed for the penthouse suite. I don’t want Albert Humphries, or anyone related to him, anywhere near me ever again.”
I exhale and don’t pretend I’m not at my wits end. I thought being the bride’s assistant was bad. Being dragged into a lover’s spat was not on my list of shit to complain about today.
“I’ll be back to check on you. You have my number in case you change your mind … again,” I mutter.
For the first time since I walked into her penthouse, Harlow Madison looks relieved. “Thank you.”
Her response is sincere and earnest. But more than anything, she bleeds relief.
I need to get this shit done and deal with the tsunami that’s about to hit. I thought Janie Madison was a royal bitch last night. I can’t imagine what’s in store for me the rest of the day.
The moment I’m out of her suite and the door shuts behind me, I stop and open the stationary.
Well then.
The handwritten note from Harlow Madison to her very much ex-fiancé is clear.
She’s done.
What’s not clear is why.
“Fuck.”