Chapter 4 Mila
Chapter 4
Mila
Poor Evie. She wasn’t joking.
As I sit at the dressing table in the resort’s bridal suite, I feel a little skeevy as I search for the gossip column she mentioned. I know her distress was genuine, but I’d be an idiot to take it all at face value, wouldn’t I?
An idiot already wearing her wedding dress, a little voice offers as I pull up the latest in a very long line of posts about the couple.
A Little Bird Told Us ...
we’re looking for a man in finance ...
More specifically, we’re looking for Oliver Deubel, because what could he and his gorgeous doggy-doctor fiancée, Evie Fairfax, be doing leaving the private terminal at City Airport last night? Where, oh where could they be going? Has Evie packed her bikini, or did she have something else in mind to wear? And might that garment be white or come with a veil? She was spotted in an exclusive wedding boutique recently trying on a host of designer gowns.
Might she have packed something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue?
Could that have been the sound of wedding bells we heard over the roar of Maven Inc.’s private jet’s engines?
And where, oh where could the rest of his crew be?
We know the ladies’ favorite, gorgeous Fin DeWitt, is in Jakarta on “business” right now, and we have it on good authority that the mysterious Matías Romero has dusted off his tux and is likewise Far East bound.
Messrs. DeWitt and Romero, if you’re reading this, this Little Bird would be your plus one any day of the week. Especially to, say, an exclusive (elusive?) wedding.
So much mystery. But watch this space, my little tweeters, because we’ll be back with juicy news very soon ...
Notorious . That was the word Evie used. If she’s notorious, these newshounds are scum.
“Did you really say that to him?”
I drag my attention away from the truth of Evie’s life and back to the reality of mine, lifting my gaze to the dresser mirror. Sarai stands behind me, her head canted quizzically, her eyes sparkling with humor.
Did I really say ... oh, that .
“I didn’t mean to,” I begin, still distracted. “It just fell out of my mouth.” I pluck a tissue from the box and blot my lipstick. But it didn’t so much fall out of my mouth as it was propelled, missile style.
“Man, that sends me!” she howls, her body a sudden explosion of energy. “I wish I’d been there to see his face.”
It is a very pretty face, even if his mouth spoils it. Not the shape of his mouth, because that’s quite lovely. It’s not even the feel and press of it, because that was also very nice, as I recall. It’s the stuff he says that ruins the effect.
Except, he did help me get more money from Oliver.
But I don’t remember him as being annoying. Then again, he’s also hotter than I remember. Bigger. Better looking. And way more maddening.
All in all, Fin DeWitt is a bit of a mixed bag.
Like he’s not pressing every single one of your hot buttons, whispers a voice in my head. Once more, the voice sounds like Ronny’s. I imagine picking it up by the collar and booting it away. Boof! Be gone.
But what’s done is done, and what’s about to happen I can deal with. I need to keep the potential consequences in the front of my mind, because no man, hot and annoying or otherwise, is going to ruin this for me. I’m holding tight to this opportunity, this chance to get back on my feet.
“It’s seriously classic, Meels!”
“What?” Meels. Oh, that must be me. “It was rude of me.” Even if Fin laughed and I felt his laughter in the center of my chest. “I don’t know where it came from,” I say, sliding my pendant back and forth on its thin chain.
“ ‘I’m not kissing you and that half-grown Chia Pet’ is a modern classic,” Sarai says. “Someone needs to put that shit in a book—it’d go down in history along with Mr. Darcy’s She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me ,” she adds in a tone that’s all Oliver Deubel. Or Mr. Darcy, I suppose.
Dammit. It did sound a bit like that.
As though I could be the Mr. Darcy in this scenario! I suppose we do seem to share moments of monumental social awkwardness.
“I just panicked.” It wasn’t bravery or banter, and there’s nothing half-grown about it! It was just word vomit. Like now—I’m not really sure why I told her, apart from the fact my nerves are rattling like a ring full of keys.
“ Real kiss. ” Every time Fin’s words float across my frontal lobe, my stomach flips and I get a little flutter somewhere farther south. And then I have to have a stern word with myself, because that is not happening. A quick peck at the end of the ceremony is fine, but anything beyond that is off limits. I won’t ruin this opportunity.
“You’re sure about that?” Sarai flops to the huge bed like a landed fish. Bending her elbow, she rests her cheek on her palm.
“Yes, I’m sure.” Deadly sure.
“Because it sounds like angry flirting to me.”
“What? No!”
“Come on, what man wouldn’t love to hear his mustache looks like a dead caterpillar taped to the top of his lip?” She collapses into a fit of giggles as I groan.
“Stapled,” I correct.
“Huh?”
“I said, ‘I’m not kissing you and that half-grown Chia Pet.’ And he laughed.” Which annoyed me. “And then I said, ‘It looks like someone stapled a dead caterpillar to your lip while you were sleeping.’”
“Like I said—classic!”
“Don’t.” In my imagination, I lean forward and bash my head on the dresser. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.
“That shit’s gonna live rent-free in my head forever.”
“I can’t believe I said it. In front of my clients—his friends! What was I thinking?”
“I bet they thought it was hilarious.”
“I suppose Mr. Deubel—Oliver, I mean—laughed.” And Evie smiled sort of serenely. Or maybe secretly.
“I bet Fin laughed too.”
Did that sound wistful?
“How come he’s Fin now, and not Mr. DeWitt ?” I ask.
“Because now you’ve met him,” she says, unconcerned. “He’s a lot of fun, don’t you think?”
He’s a lot of something. Trouble, mainly. “You don’t mind, do you? That I’m doing this?”
“Mind that you’re marrying him?”
“Pretend marrying,” I correct. Again. Clutching my robe at the chest, I shuffle around on the stool to face her, struck once more by how beautiful the room is. I’ve been in a lot of bridal suites, but nothing quite like this. The furniture is a modern take on the region’s traditional style: Indonesian dark wood and neutral soft furnishings, intricate carvings and hand-painted artwork. A delicate mother-of-pearl chandelier hangs from a high ceiling, reflecting light in a cascade across the room.
Then there are those breathtaking views—mile upon mile of uninterrupted blue visible from every room. There’s a private terrace with sumptuous daybeds and a dark infinity pool to take cooling dips in. There’s even a private garden, its high stone walls concealing a small tropical paradise and a sexy-looking outdoor shower that I’d never in a million years be brave enough to use. I’m more of a bath girl, anyway. It’s just a shame I won’t get to use the tub in this suite, because it looks like it’d be an experience. The black stone looks so inviting and sits in the center of the room like an altar. I’m sure I’d feel like Cleopatra lounging in it.
“Why would I mind?”
“It’s just, well, earlier, you seemed very enthusiastic about him. Like you might like him, I suppose?” And there’s nothing worse than someone stealing your teenage crush. Except maybe that crush being unrequited. And it did seem unrequited.
“Fin is flames ,” she says, shaking her hand as though her nail polish is wet rather than just glossy. “He’s such a zaddy.”
“He is?”
“Yeah, he’s got it goin’ on. Don’t act like you don’t see it!”
“I’ve got eyes, Sarai. Even if I don’t know what I’m looking at. I mean, what even is a zaddy?”
“Fin is like a daddy but leveled up. He’s a little older, super hot, a snappy dresser ...” She shrugs. “The man has serious rizz.”
“This is like another language,” I mutter, killing what little “hip” social currency I have. Though maybe using the word hip means I have negative social currency.
“Rizz. You know—charisma.”
“Oh.” Sarai, and Ronny, make me feel ancient. But I suppose I’ve always been older than my years. “He does seem like he could be charming,” I hedge. I have experienced that charm. Not that I’m about to admit it.
“A total zaddy, but in answer to your question, no I don’t mind. Fin is old enough to be my dad.”
“Is he?”
“Technically, yeah. You bet he knows what it’s like to be called daddy.”
“You mean he has—”
“ In the bedroom. ” She gives a little squeal. “A zaddy on the streets and a daddy between the sheets.”
“This conversation is very inappropriate,” I answer, mildly horrified. Mainly because I can see it, but I must ignore it as I press my elbows on the dresser and my fingers to my temples.
More than rizz or good looks, Fin has a gives-no-fucks, I’ve got my shit together energy. And for someone whose life shit is currently falling apart, that could be kryptonite. If I let it, which I won’t. I will categorically not be hitting that a second time.
Not that we quite . . .
Stop!
The bottom line is there are two very important reasons why I won’t be sleeping with my soon-to-be pretend husband. First, it would be unprofessional, especially given he’s the close friend of my clients. Who are paying me to pretend marry him. And I am a person who prides themself on their professionalism.
Second is the fact they’re paying me. I’d have to be completely bonkers to risk the kind of figure that has the potential to turn my life around.
“He totally gives off hot daddy vibes.” Sarai sighs. “Like he’d take care of you in and outside of the bedroom. Be firm but gentle. Take charge but make you feel safe.”
“You sound like you’ve given this a lot of thought.” Like she is crushing on him.
“Nah,” she answers with a shrug. “I just spend a lot of time on the internet.”
It’s probably too late to restrict her internet privileges, I think as I reach for the clasp on my chain and loosen it from my neck. I place it carefully on the dresser and slide my finger over the blue agate eye. The absence of it feels strange, even if it hasn’t been much good in terms of warding off ill intentions.
“Obviously, my dad would put me in a monastery if he heard me say any of this.”
“Nunnery,” I say, massaging my temples again. Maybe I should dig out a couple of the fun-size vodkas I keep on hand for anxious brides.
I’m anxious. And I’m a bride. I qualify.
“No, a monastery. My mom is Buddhist. Dad might run the resort, but my mom rules the roost. All four feet ten of her. But to answer your question, I’m cool with you marrying Fin.”
I don’t bother correcting her this time.
“Besides, it’s not like I can complain when I’m making bank because of it.”
“You are? How?”
Sarai gives a defensive tilt of her head. “Hot Mr. Moneybags promised me five thou for helping you.”
“Mr. Deubel? Oliver, I mean?” She nods, and I frown. “He probably wanted to make sure I didn’t run away.”
“Where would you go? We’ve had all the boats locked up. Seriously, though, I would’ve been your maid of honor for free, but when he offered to pay ...”
“It’s kind of you, money or not.” Can’t judge a girl for being enterprising, not when a tiny part of me is still judging myself. That old adage, Everyone has their price ? Well, it seems I found mine. What I won’t allow is anyone else to judge me. Not unless they know exactly what it’s like to watch your business collapse. Feel your life unravel.
“Brides are supposed to have loads of attendants and stuff, aren’t they?”
“I think that’s fairy-tale princesses.” I indulge in a small smile. Sarai is like a breath of fresh air. Or maybe a sharp gust.
I never wanted the kind of wedding that comes with a dozen bridesmaids or, worse, hired ladies-in-waiting, which is an actual thing for some moneyed brides. Not that the white-glove approach is my business model, which is why I was surprised when Evie contacted me originally. Given Oliver’s status and cash (and her family background, according to the internet), I thought she would’ve gone with one of London’s more prestigious wedding planners. At least, until I met her.
“Two hours in the spa were enough attending for me.” I’m not sure about Sarai, but I was rubbed and scrubbed and plucked quite aggressively. They even did my hair and my makeup, though I’m currently trying to tone down the vibrant-pink lipstick and blush.
“I love the color of my nails.” She holds out her hand admiringly.
“Let’s hope the gel is strong, because it’s going to take some oomph to fasten me into that dress.” I glance at the delicately beaded ivory gown hanging from the bathroom door. The top is corseted—which will probably make me look like I’m considering an OnlyFans account or just cut off my circulation—and the skirt is tightly fitted before fanning out in a gorgeous mermaid’s-tail effect. I can’t believe it was Evie’s second choice, because it’s an absolute showstopper.
I am going to feel very uncomfortable wearing it. As a wedding planner, I’m used to being in the background. As a person, that’s where I prefer to be. I hate being the focus of attention and have always dressed to blend, not to stand out. Even my own choice of wedding dress was quite plain.
“You’re gonna look so hot in it.”
Hot, yes. Like a sausage on a grill, threatening to burst from its skin. I can’t imagine I’ll be able to sit in it, as I doubt Valentino thought to reinforce the seams with steel.
“I hope you know the extension for the maintenance crew,” I say with a sigh. “I think it’s going to take someone with superior upper body strength to strap me into the corset.”
Sarai scoffs. “Bestie, it’ll be just like getting into a pair of skintight jeans you know you’re gonna look as hot as fuck in.”
“So you’re saying I’m going to end up with a muffin top?”
She laughs, though there’s no way she can understand. Maybe in a few years, when her metabolism slows and she’s working so many hours she can’t get to the gym. Then, at some point, she’ll realize she can’t afford the membership she doesn’t even use and cry over all that wasted money. Or maybe that’s just me.
I return to my reflection. I’ve fixed enough bridal tears over the years to be able to fix my makeup. Not that I have any intention of crying. I’m marrying for money, not for love.
Fake marrying, I mean.
I was never what you might consider a romantic. As a little girl, I hadn’t dreamed of being a wedding planner and didn’t own a toy box full of Barbie dolls dressed in white. Baba wasn’t demonstrative, and love was rarely spoken of. Rather, I fell into the industry after my first part-time job in a wedding shop at the age of fifteen.
Watching brides sparkle and sip champagne as I fetched and carried dresses with extortionate price tags—dresses they’d wear only for one day—opened my eyes to another kind of life. I eavesdropped and was blown away by the figures they expected to spend on their big days. Then I learned how they outsourced the whole thing.
No one I knew could pay for someone to clean their house, much less someone to design, then take responsibility for their wedding. These women made me hungry for another life. I was determined to make something of myself—to make success mine.
I would never have contemplated marrying a man for money, yet here I am.
And while my reasons for choosing the field were pragmatic, it turns out you can’t work in the industry without being bitten by the love bug. I adore being behind people’s delight, and I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve cried listening to my couples exchange their dreams and their vows. You’d need a heart of stone not to be affected. Not to yearn for the experience yourself.
I thought I had found love, and while my day wasn’t to be Valentino and vintage champagne, I was no less seduced by the prospect of the experience. I was looking forward to a wedding of my own, of a future. A promise and a lifetime of love, support, and acceptance. Maybe even a family in the years to come. But it all came to nothing in the end.
“Did Fin seem cool to be marrying you?”
“Pretend marrying.” The reminder is important. Even for myself.
“I bet he was amped,” she adds.
I pause, eye shadow brush suspended midair. “He seemed okay about it, I suppose. He pretended to be annoyed with Mr. Deubel—Oliver, I mean. They slung insults for a bit, but they seem to have a really solid friendship.”
“Yeah, but how did he look at you?”
“With his eyes?”
Sarai rolls hers.
Well, he didn’t run for the hills. Maybe he was pleased to see me again? Surprised but not horrified? I consider that moment, playing it back in my mind, remembering how his gaze lifted and how he slowly took me in, from top to bottom. And how I felt that look every place in between.
It felt as though he was looking at me with intent. But maybe he was just looking at me like I was some random girl he’d gotten to feel up in a coat closet. One of many, by the sound of things. Whatever he thought, I was too busy dealing with my own feelings to guess at his.
“I don’t know,” I say eventually. “I don’t know him, so it’s hard to tell.”
That’s true enough. For instance, I didn’t realize, according to his friends, he’s no saint as far as women are concerned. But I know he’s kind and that he kisses well. And I know he loves his friends. That’s why he didn’t need a monetary incentive to agree to this piece of unhinged ridiculousness.
“Why do you ask?” I add.
“It’s just, when they all arrived, and I was talking to him and you were talking to the couple in the pavilion, his eyes kept straying your way. Like he recognized you. Or maybe like he was into you?”
I ignore the effervescent fizz bubbling away in my chest. “He was probably just trying to work out who Evie and Oliver were talking to.”
“It was more than that, it was like he couldn’t wait to—” A knock sounds at the door. “That’ll be the photographer,” she adds.
I groan. This is so ridiculous. I mean, I get it: we should try to keep everything the same to fool those intrusive press idiot shitheads. Which means the photographer, the band, the catering, and the guests (who are now stand-ins from the hotel) are all important props. But this bit—prewedding photographs—who’d know if they didn’t go ahead?
Evie said we can just destroy the photos afterward, but it just feels like one more thing. One more reminder of what I didn’t get to experience myself.
But that’s a me problem, not an Evie problem. I need the money more than I hate being caught in a photographer’s lens. Even if having my photo taken turns me into a wooden, grimacing thing.
“Hi!” The photographer breezes in, her assistant trudging behind her, weighted down with bags and bags of equipment. “What a fabulous room.”
“Isn’t it just,” I say, playing my part.
“So.” She smiles widely. “I thought we might start with the lingerie shots.”
What?