Chapter 1 Rosalie
one
Rosalie
The dress is nice. The dress is fine. The dress is… Well, it’s… it’s kind of…
Oh, who am I kidding? This dress is beautiful. It’s breathtaking and romantic and fits me like a song. The way I love it makes my throat close—but not in a good way.
I lay my palms flat against my middle. Tiny beads and threaded sequins stab my skin and make me press a little harder. A hundred tiny pinpricks feel a thousand times better than being strangled by this existential dread.
My personal assistant Lauren hovers at my shoulder. “Wow. You look gorgeous, Rosalie. And I’m not saying that because you pay me to. I say it with my whole chest and an obsession with bridal couture to back me up. This dress is going to break the Internet.”
I manage a smile despite the queasy roll of my empty stomach. She’s such a liar. Maybe not about the dress but about everything else.
Violet James, the designer responsible for my dream dress, drops her eyes and fusses with the lace falling off my shoulders to hide the self-conscious rise of color in her cheeks.
“It really is stunning,” I tell her, because it’s true, and it’s not Violet’s fault I’m in this mess. “Stunning and… perfect.”
She replies with a shy smile before stepping back and regarding my reflection in the enormous three-way mirror.
“When I saw this lace in Paris, with all the roses and the birds hidden in the detail, I had to have it, even though I had no clue how I might use it. Now I can’t imagine it on anyone but you. ”
I force down a swallow, square my shoulders, and face the picture in the mirror. Blonde curls. Blue eyes. Small stature. It’s me… and it’s not me. I’m having an out-of-body experience. I pinch some of the softer fabric between my fingers, exploring the texture until it brings me back to earth.
Oh, God. I can’t do this. I can’t get married. Not wearing the most incredible dress I’ve seen in my life… to a man with the ugliest heart I’ve ever known.
Breathe, I remind myself. Just breathe.
I lift my chin and then my skirt, step off the carpeted dais onto the hardwood floor of Violet’s San Francisco design studio, and instantly lose three inches.
In bare feet I’m barely five foot tall. I cross to the wall covered with sketches and photographs and fabric swatches and point to a glossy page torn from a magazine.
Although I’ve been here a dozen times, I discover something new at every fitting, and in this picture, a curvy model stares down the lens wearing a fuchsia-toned bra-and-panties set underneath a matching lace-trimmed robe.
“Is this your new lingerie line?” I ask.
Violet materializes at my side and runs her fingertips across the paper. “Yes. It’s mostly mulberry silk in vibrant colorways as well as classic neutrals. Every piece is simple but sensual. Designed to make the person wearing it feel confident and comfortable in their own skin. Beautiful. Sexy.”
What I wouldn’t do to feel confident again. At home in my own skin. Beautiful. Sexy. Like a person and not a product. Desired for the right reasons. Someone a man wants to earn instead of just another investment he owns.
“I’ll take one of everything,” I say. “In white, black, and coral pink.”
Violet’s brows shoot up. “One of everything?”
I hesitate, thinking of the spending limit on my credit card. I’ve got more than enough funds to cover it, but Chip will see the purchase on the statement and want to know why I spent thousands of dollars on lingerie. Out of habit, I prepare my excuses.
I was thinking of him and how much he’d like to see me wearing it. I promise I won’t buy anything else for another six months. It’s all returnable, so no harm done, right?
I feel a hush come over Lauren, a gleeful silence that rolls off her in waves, and I grit my teeth. Chip will know what I did today long before he receives the credit card statement because Lauren will tell him the first chance she gets.
My muscles tense at the thought of it, and I wonder what glitch in the universe put me outside my bedroom door at the exact moment they thought they were alone and decided to screw in my bed. And what’s wrong with me that it’s been six weeks and I’ve been too afraid to confront either one of them?
It’s the dress, I decide. This magnificent dress that will go to waste.
It’s the wedding invitations and the thousands upon thousands of flowers.
It’s the press releases and the contract for exclusive pictures with Celebrity magazine.
It’s the social media scrutiny and the pain that’ll come with having my humiliation splashed all over the people’s screens.
It’s my fear of being alone.
But then Lauren makes a noise. A deep kind of hum in the back of her throat that sounds a lot like satisfaction, and I see it again. A flashback of betrayal tangled up in my two-thousand-dollar ivory silk sheets. My personal assistant naked and moaning and wearing my shoes.
Lauren and Chip. Chip and Lauren. Chip. Chip. Chip.
Better late than never, something snaps, and I’m suddenly mad.
Screw her. And screw him. Buying new underwear is a small thing, but it feels so big.
“One of everything,” I confirm. “And add a few more pieces in powder blue and cherry red.”
“Absolutely, Miss Thorne.” Violet’s brown eyes are wide and there’s a breathlessness to her voice. “Thank you.”
I give Violet a small smile, but at least this time it feels genuine. “You’re welcome.”
Wondering if my racing heart is a result of anger or anxiety, and then deciding it’s probably a mix of both, I move down the wall a pace or two at a time, stopping when something catches my eye and letting myself be distracted by the diary of Violet’s career.
It’s fascinating, and I forget myself long enough that I’m taken off guard by a trio of candid Polaroids.
Each one is a picture of Violet James and Chord Davenport, her famous hockey player boyfriend, wrapped up in each other’s arms. Their happiness is a stark reminder of how hopeless my own situation is in comparison, and panic hits me hard and fast enough that my head spins.
How did I get here? How could I be so weak? So dependent? So stupid?
“The driver will be here in twenty minutes,” Lauren announces, and I glance at her as she raises an eyebrow in Violet’s direction. “Unless you need more time?”
“No,” she replies. “I think we’re done.”
Violet turns to me, beaming over hands clasped underneath her chin. I bet that’s the face she gives to all her clients, but I wish she wouldn’t look that way at me. I’m about six seconds from a full-blown anxiety attack but, apparently, I hide it well.
“We’re finally finished, Miss Thorne,” Violet says. “Your dress is ready for Saturday. I’ll have it pressed and boxed and delivered to your Los Angeles address by end of day tomorrow. Is that all right?”
Is that all right? Is that all right? No, it’s not all right. But how do I say that? How do I tell her this dress and this wedding and my whole entire life are all huge mistakes?
As I concentrate on breathing at a steady pace, my gaze slides to a framed photo on the wall.
It’s new, or at least, I haven’t noticed it before, and the joy it captures practically hurls itself at me.
The picture was clearly taken on a farm or a ranch somewhere.
A pretty redheaded bride and her good-looking groom clasp each other mid-laugh in the foreground.
Violet and her boyfriend are mid-kiss to one side.
A young blonde woman grins, a bouquet of flowers in one hand and the grasp of a happy little girl in the other.
A pretty brunette is on the far side, smiling down the barrel of the camera, next to a man so broad and so tall his tux can’t hide his size.
Neat blond hair, warm eyes the color of cognac…
I gasp, then belatedly raise a hand to cover the sound. Lauren’s head whips up from her mirrored compact, an opened stick of bright coral lipstick halfway to her mouth.
“Lauren,” I say, struggling to keep my voice smooth. “Run out and find me a salad. And a filtered iced water with lemon.”
“Now? The car will be here soon. We can pick something up on the way to the airport.”
It’s hard to stay calm, but I need her to go before I lose it. “My blood sugar feels low,” I lie. “I’ll be lightheaded in half an hour.”
“There’s an organic delicatessen just down the street,” Violet suggests. “They make great salads. Gluten-free muffins too.”
“That’s perfect.” I shoot Lauren an exasperated look. “You should hurry.”
I can tell she wants to argue, brow furrowed and mouth unhinged, but she gives in with an exasperated glance at her smartwatch. “Fine. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Violet walks Lauren out of the private studio and through the display room of her flagship store, releasing her into a throng of people shouting and holding up cameras, and at the click of the door closing behind her, a little of my anxiety disappears. One less problem to worry about.
Now for the bigger, and more stubborn, obstacle. The six-foot-five slab of animated marble standing just inside the studio door.
“Daryl?” I say. “Please step outside. I’ll undress and then we’ll leave.”
A small crease pops up between his thick dark brows. “You want me to leave you alone in the studio? Chip won’t—”
“Just while I change,” I tell him, thinking on my feet. “And I need to talk to Violet about, uh… women’s things… to do with fabric and my, um… bridal underwear.”
At his flicker of discomfort at the mention of women’s things and underwear, I press my advantage. “Ten minutes,” I beg. “This is a big day for me. I need ten minutes with Violet to talk in private.”
Violet gives me a curious look when she returns to find Daryl on the wrong side of the doorway and another when I indicate she should shut him out of the room, but she doesn’t say anything when she joins me in front of the photograph that makes my heart skip every other beat.
I gesture at the picture. “Is that—” I stop myself just in time and rephrase the question. “Who—I mean, where—What was the occasion?”
If Violet notices my agitation, she’s too polite to point it out.
“Chord’s brother was married last week at his ranch in Sonoma Valley.
” She points to the faces behind the plate glass.
“That’s Dylan—the groom. And that’s Poppy—his wife.
The little girl is Dylan’s daughter, Isobel, and the woman holding her hand is Daisy.
She’s Dylan’s younger sister and Poppy’s best friend. ”
I point at the picture again. “And that’s you?”
Violet flushes prettily. “Yes. That’s me. And Chord, of course. That woman over there with dark hair is Chord’s other sister, Charlie, and the man next to her is the middle Davenport brother. Finn.”
Finn. Finn Davenport. It is him.
“And Finn,” I say a little breathlessly. “He lives on this ranch?”
“Silver Leaf Ranch & Vineyard in Aster Springs,” Violet clarifies. “And yes. Sort of. Finn has a bungalow. It’s a cabin, really. Small, a little rundown, and nestled up against the river. It suits him. He likes to keep to himself.”
I study the picture, running my eyes over the hard edges of Finn’s shoulders and the square set of his smooth jaw. The barely there smile on his full mouth and the restrained twinkle in his steady gaze, like he’s amused by something nobody else sees.
Finn Davenport. The last decision I made by myself, for myself.
“Do you have a car?” I ask.
“Me?” Violet looks over her shoulder like I might be talking to someone else in the otherwise empty room. “Yes. It’s parked in the private lot out back.”
Adrenaline makes my pulse skitter. Is it hope? Fear? Insanity? I can’t tell and I don’t care. “Can I borrow it?”
“Borrow it?”
“Yes. Borrow it.”
“Now?”
“Immediately. I need to get out of here before Lauren comes back.”
“But…” Violet’s gaze sweeps down my body. “Your dress?”
I snatch up my purse from where I tossed it on a blush-colored cushioned sofa, then look down at my gown. It took ten minutes to fit and button me into it and will take as many to get me out. I can’t risk changing and missing my chance to run.
“No time.” I hike the skirt up at my hips to let her know I mean business. “I’ll take it now.”
To her credit, Violet asks no more questions before she crosses the room to collect her car key.
She’s clearly not sure she should hand it over.
I’m not sure she should hand it over, but there must be a reason I stumbled across that photo today.
A sign or fate or a cosmic nudge to go in another direction, and I haven’t felt this sure about anything in a very long time.
This is my shot. Finn is my shot. He’s how I’m going to reclaim control of my life and my career and find my way back to the woman I used to be. Before Chip Daniels set his eyes on an easy prize, sank his teeth into my soul, and sucked my spirit right out of me.
At the last minute, I remember to remove my engagement ring, dragging the six-carat oval-cut diamond off my finger and handing it to a surprised Violet.
“Can you give this to Lauren when she gets back?” I ask. “Tell her she can have it. I think she’ll get the message.”
Violet gapes at the giant diamond sparkling on her palm. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”
“It is,” I confirm. “It really, really is.”
So, with Violet’s car key in one hand, my purse in the other, wearing a fifty-thousand-dollar wedding dress, and with my hopes pinned on a man I barely know, I run.