Chapter 25
Three Weeks Later
Mallory
Beatrix had to scramble to pull off a wedding in record time, but she said she likes a challenge.
“I can’t believe you’re really going through with this,” Mary stage whispers from a chair next to me, where she sits in a peach-colored bridesmaid dress and black cowboy boots.
It’s my own fault. I specified that the bridesmaids should wear light colors, but I didn’t say anything about shoes. I, Mallory Rutherford, forgot to specify shoes. Falling for my fake fiancé has made me go soft.
“Excuse me, I believe it was your idea.”
She snorts. “Sure, it was an idea. I have lots of ideas, very few of them good. But look at you, you ran with it.” Then her squinty smirk turns to a real smile, and she kisses my cheek. “Are you nervous?”
“No,” I insist.
“Yes,” I admit a second later.
I shouldn’t be nervous about a fake wedding.
In fact, I should be excited. This is the closest I’m likely to get to a real wedding, and at least I’m going through the motions with a gorgeous guy who treats me better than all the men I’ve dated in the past. I might as well enjoy it.
Sipping from a champagne flute that PJ deposited silently before slipping away to have her makeup done, I choose not to dwell on the irony of my life. I mean, sure, Dash has been acting like the model fiancé, defending my honor, attending to my every sexual need, and listening to me describe my hopes and dreams and taking them seriously. He’s exactly the kind of man I would actually consider marrying, and the sham of a wedding we’re about to enact couldn’t have less to do with reality.
“Up or down?” A voice disrupts my thoughts.
“Sorry?” I meet the eyes of my hair stylist in the mirror.
“She was asking whether I think you should wear your hair up,” Beatrix says as the stylist piles my blown-dry hair on top of my head.
It’s early afternoon as I sit in the bridal suite at the Inn at Buttercup Hill, where Dash insisted we spend our honeymoon night later on. He also insisted I use the suite all day to get ready.
Beatrix took over from there, ordering in platters of finger foods and a bar cart filled with drinks, everything from sparkling water and orange juice to wine and champagne. My college bestie has been having her nails done with PJ and my mom on one side of the room while Beatrix hangs with me and confers with the stylist like I’m not even here.
“Well, don’t bother asking me. Not like I have an opinion.” I don’t mean to sound snarky, but Beatrix herself admitted she sometimes gets carried away and forgets she’s the event planner, not the bride. And I know how it feels to be a woman in her thirties in a small town where some of the love matches seem to have been forged at the swing sets in preschool. If she wants to live vicariously as a bride through the events she plans, I’m certainly not about to stop her.
“Sorry. She’s asking both of us what we think, but I guess I answered first.”
I’m just nervous about getting fake-married, and I shouldn’t be taking it out on the nearest person, but that’s what’s happening. The neckline of my long, silk sheath dress cuts low, and I suddenly worry that it’s too sexy for a wedding dress, even though it is, in fact, a wedding dress.
“You don’t need to apologize. Sorry if I’m being a bitch.”
Beatrix laughs. “You’re not. You’re being a bride.” She leans in and whispers so the stylist can’t hear. “And doing a good job of faking it.” Straightening up, she meets my eyes in the mirror and winks.
I give her a closed-lipped smile that masks how I feel, which is uncomfortable in this too-sexy virginal dress and a little unsure I’m doing the right thing by marrying Dash for the good of my future business dreams. But I’ll just smile my way through it. I’m good at that.
If Beatrix and I had stayed better friends since high school—and if she wasn’t related to the man I’m fake-marrying—I’d admit that I can be bitchy without being a bride. I might even admit that I have confounding feelings for my groom and ask her what to do about them. But I’m not sure how Beatrix feels about her brother doing me this favor even though he’s assured me his siblings are supportive. So I say nothing. Better that she thinks we’re marching forward in this charade for the good of our family businesses and keep things simple.
The stylist continues piling my hair on top of my head and uses a few bobby pins to keep it there. Then she pulls down some long tendrils around my face. I take in the image in the mirror. On one hand, I look like so many brides I’ve seen in so many social media feeds. It’s like she’s given me the insta-bride updo that assures I’ll look the part.
I should love it. Add a little tiara and I’ll look like a little girl’s dream of a perfect bride. But this fake wedding has been so far away from perfect bride territory that I just can’t do it.
“I think I prefer it down,” I tell them. “Is that very un-bridey?”
The stylist stops fussing with my hair and lets it fall down my back. As the picture-perfect bride image falls away, I instantly feel more like myself.
“It should be however you want,” she says, arranging my hair over my shoulders and plugging in her curling iron. “I think we could add some soft waves. What do you think?”
“Soft waves sound good.”
Beatrix nods.
I sip my champagne and hope it will calm my nerves.
Almost like she can read my thoughts, Beatrix meets my eyes in the mirror. “It’s still nerve-wracking, isn’t it?”
I watch my brow crease in the mirror and unconsciously bite my lip, nodding.
“Hey, how about a bathroom break?” Beatrix asks me, standing up and gesturing with a tilt of her head before I agree.
The stylist doesn’t have to be told twice. “I’ll get some coffee. We have plenty of time,” she says, dismissing me. It’s like both of them see something I don’t, but as soon as I stand from the chair and start following Beatrix out of the suite’s main room, a cold sweat breaks out across the back of my neck.
“Yeah, it is nerve-wracking,” I mutter, not fully understanding why I can stand in front of a room full of men and present my business ideas, but the idea of wearing a frilly dress for a few hours and acting like a bride has me flustered.
Beatrix opens the door to the bridal suite and walks into the hallway, and even though there’s a perfectly good bathroom in the suite, I blindly follow her lead. She walks quickly, and I need to gather my wedding dress and hold it against my hips so it doesn’t drag on the floor. I’m still barefoot, and the dress is hemmed for my three-inch heels. The last thing I need is to trip.
As soon as we’re away from the bridal suite, I relax slightly. Too many people in that room. Too much anticipation of the big wedding.
Beatrix bypasses the public restroom in the hallway and ushers me outside through a glass door leading to a private patio. I haven’t spent much time at Buttercup Hill, so I follow her to wherever she plans to take me.
She stops and points at a pair of chaise lounges under a giant orange umbrella, so I drop onto a soft white towel atop one of the chaises. She takes the one next to me, but not before sweeping my dress off the ground and gathering it around my ankles to keep it clean.
“See, if I were a real bride, I’d know to do that,” I mumble, air leaving my lungs as I give in to how ill-prepared I am for my role. “I thought on the day of the wedding, some sort of bride sixth sense would kick in, and I’d be able to run on instinct. Guess not.”
I don’t plan to sound so defeatist, but the words took up residence someplace in my chest about an hour ago, and apparently, they took their first opportunity to escape. I sneak a look at Beatrix, expecting to see disappointment in her eyes. After all, she should expect a better performance from me when I’ve spent years convincing everyone in town that all I’ve ever wanted was a husband.
So it surprises me when she reaches over and pats the back of my hand. She meets my eyes, and I don’t see disappointment. If anything, it seems like she understands how I feel, which is impressive since I’m still grappling with it myself.
“Let it out.” Without removing her hand, she leans back on her chaise and closes her eyes. Warm afternoon sun kisses her skin, and I feel tempted to crank the umbrella above my head shut. Eyes still closed, Beatrix points at the lever. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Your makeup looks perfect. Stay in the shade so you don’t sweat it off, for heaven’s sake.”
“Are you a mind reader?”
Beatrix shrugs and lets out a laugh. “I’m an event planner. Kind of the same thing. I also double as a therapist, punching bag, and general idea person for anything that has nothing to do with event planning.”
“In other words, you’re like a professional friend?”
She opens her eyes and swivels her legs around so she’s sitting on the lounge facing me. “Yup. If you need one.”
Some people collect friends like treasured mementos. They tuck them into their friendship bank regardless of whether they shared an apartment for two years or met on an airplane and talked for only an hour.
New friends enter the collection like seashells pocketed on vacation or ticket stubs from a favorite event. And there they stay, a link to some meaningful time or event in the past. A roadmap to new treasures in the future. Why would anyone squander that potential?
I can’t answer that because I do the opposite. Friends correspond to the moment in my life when we were thrown together, and generally, I leave it at that. I assume it’s what the other person wants. The only ones who’ve chased me have been men, and they want sex, not friendship.
So Beatrix confuses me with what sounds like an offer of friendship at the very moment when I could use one. At least, I think that’s what she’s doing.
“I—I think I always need one.” It’s way too confessional for a moment between future fake sisters-in-law on a couple of chaise lounges. The champagne must have gone to my head.
“You do.”
“Sorry?”
“We all need a good friend. Doesn’t have to be a best friend, but yeah. You should always have someone to lean on. Talk to.”
I open my mouth and close it again. I want to tell her that she’s right and wrong at the same time. I’d love to have that kind of person in my life, sure. Who wouldn’t? And it’s worked out fine.
“I have…people.”
“People?”
“You know, people who work for me and all that. I have conversations. It’s all good.”
Beatrix bursts out laughing. “You’re funny. I really wish we’d stayed friends because I always really liked you.”
I’m glad she can only see me from the side because my eyes are probably as wide as saucers. “You did?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
I shake my head and think back to high school. I try to remember what Beatrix was like and why I assumed she didn’t like me all that much.
The high school Beatrix was similar to the woman sitting next to me now. Self-assured, beautiful, smart. She was all the things I aspired to be, but back then, I didn’t know how to be any of those things.
I wonder how differently my life would have turned out if I’d stopped walking with my head down to avoid what I felt sure were judgmental looks from my female peers. Maybe I’d have a crew of women as friends now. Maybe I’d have gone to business school a long time ago instead of letting other people’s perceptions dictate my path.
“Sorry. I guess I’m just nervous about the wedding.”
“No worries. That’s why I herded you out of that room full of cackling bridesmaids. I had a feeling your head was about to explode.”
I exhale a long breath. “Was it obvious?”
She tilts her head from side to side in that way that says it was obvious to everyone except me. “It’s normal bride behavior. Trust me, I’ve seen about a thousand of them, and you’re no worse than anyone else.”
“And I’m not even a real bride. What’s my excuse for nerves?”
“From where I sit, you have even more of an excuse.”
From an unseen pocket, Beatrix produces a package of Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups and tears open the package. Without asking whether I want one or worrying about what it will do to my makeup, she hands me one.
I bite into it gratefully and realize it’s the first thing I’ve eaten all day. “Maybe it’s just low blood sugar. Even the hint of this on my tongue feels mood-changing.”
“It’s why I carry them around on wedding days.”
“I appreciate it.”
Beatrix lets me chomp through the peanut butter cup before handing me the second one. She fishes a napkin from another pocket and waits until I’ve devoured the second cup to hand it over.
“Thanks.” I dab at my mouth.
“So you’re good going through with this, the marriage?”
“Yes. It’ll accomplish what we both need and we have clear parameters for ending it once my ex is out of the picture.” It’s the party line, what I’ve been telling myself from the get-go.
“That’s not what I’m asking. I mean, are you really okay with it being fake? What if you want to date or what if you meet someone and fall in love? What if you fall in love with Dash?”
I’m not expecting such a pointed question, so it takes me a moment to figure out how to respond.
“It’s not forever.” I don’t know why saying it out loud makes me more sad than relieved. Beatrix meets my eyes. “And as for the love part, it’s fine.” My voice breaks on the last word, and I fight back the tears that want to spring forth.
Makeup. Can’t mess up makeup.
“Does he know?” she asks gently, putting a hand on my shoulder.
My heart sinks because if it’s obvious to her, it’s probably obvious to other people. Just not Dash because he doesn’t feel the same way. I shake my head.
“You should tell him.”
“Why? It will only make things awkward. My temporary feelings aren’t important. I need to focus on the big picture, stay focused on business.”
“It’s all important.” She gets up from her chair and extends her hand to me. I take it and she pulls me up, careful to keep my dress from touching the ground. I take over from her and hold the hem up as we walk back to the bridal suite.
It’s all important.
Her words echo in my ears.