Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
The Charleston Place Hotel has been a fixture of Charleston’s landscape for over a century, a symbol of the city’s grandeur and elegance. The hotel first opened its doors in 1853, then managed to survive the devastation of the Civil War and the economic upheaval that followed. Over the years, the hotel has played host to a who’s who of American history. Presidents have slept in its suites, literary giants have penned masterpieces in its writing rooms, and Hollywood starlets have graced its ballrooms with their presence.
And now, here I am, a small-town baker from Tennessee wearing a designer dress I rented online and a set of pearl earrings I borrowed from Mrs. Romano. Tucker surprised me last week with a pale pink Chanel bag, which I am now clutching to my chest like a piece of armor. I feel about as out of place here as a weed in a bed of prizewinning roses.
It takes me a few minutes to navigate through the storied halls, but eventually I find my way to the private room where the bridal luncheon is being held. I open the doors and step inside.
It comes as no surprise that Monica has gone all out to decorate the room for the party. Every table is adorned with white linens and an abundant display of freshly cut white roses, pink peonies, and fragrant lilies. There’s a giant wall of flowers in the corner of the room for guests to snap a photo for their socials, and the place settings are full of delicate crystal and polished silver, carefully wrapped napkins with matching ribbons.
I immediately start to scan the room for a familiar face. There are about thirty women present and Monica is the only person I know.
Zach was right. I’m truly a lamb being fed to the lions.
“Reese, darling!” Monica trills, and she zigzags toward me from across the room. She’s wearing a fitted lace sundress that hugs her curves in all the right places, radiating an air of effortless elegance. Her raven hair is set in loose waves that frame her striking emerald eyes.
She grabs my shoulders and begins to air-kiss my cheeks with the precision of a surgeon. “I’m so thrilled you could make it. Come, let me introduce you to the girls.”
Tucker’s cousin is the epitome of Southern charm, all perfectly coiffed hair and impeccable manners. But beneath that sugary exterior is a core of steel. She is the undisputed queen bee of Charleston society, and the kind of woman who can make or break a reputation with a single raised eyebrow. I’ve heard stories about Monica from the patrons of my shop, whispered gossip that paints her as a force to be reckoned with.
As she leads me through the crowd of chattering women, a flutter of nervousness stirs in my stomach. Every move I make, every word I speak, will be scrutinized and judged. And this isn’t just about impressing them at fancy events, it’s about securing my place beside Tucker in the upper echelons of society. One misstep and my dreams of a perfect life with him will crumble to dust.
I allow myself to be swept into the whirlwind of introductions, trying desperately to keep track of the endless stream of double-barreled names and designer labels. There’s Shelby Ann, the former beauty queen with a laugh like a hyena on helium; Caroline Louise, the trust fund baby with a penchant for polo players; and Eliza Jane, the aspiring Instagram influencer who seems to have a filter for every occasion.
As we settle onto the plush upholstered furniture, a veritable army of servers descends upon us, bearing trays of dainty finger sandwiches and miniature quiches. I nibble on a cucumber round, trying to ignore the fact that it probably costs more than my entire weekly grocery budget.
After a few rounds of mimosas, the conversation begins to flow freely, with topics ranging from the latest charity gala to the newest Botox injector in town. Caroline Louise settles down into a chair opposite mine.
“Reese, darling,” she purrs, her eyes glinting with a mischievous light. “I couldn’t help but overhear that you’re working with Zach Caldwell on the museum gala. He’s quite the catch, isn’t he?”
My cheeks flush, a telltale sign of discomfort that I’m sure isn’t lost on Caroline. “Oh, well, yes, Zach and I are collaborating on the dessert menu,” I stammer, trying to keep my tone light and breezy. “But it’s strictly professional.”
She arches a delicately sculpted eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips. “Really? Because I seem to remember hearing rumors that you two were quite the item back in the day. Something about a steamy encounter at a gallery opening?”
I nearly choke on my mimosa, my eyes widening in horror. I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks. “That…was a long time ago,” I manage to sputter.
Caroline leans in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Don’t worry, darling, your secret is safe with me. But I have to wonder…what does Tucker think about you working so closely with an ex-flame? Especially one as dashing as Zach?”
I glance around the room, desperate for an escape route, but all I see are curious eyes and barely concealed smirks. And there, in the corner, I catch sight of Monica. She is chatting with another woman, but keeping one eye trained on the two of us.
Now I’m in trouble. One word of this to Tucker and I’ll have a whole new set of problems to deal with.
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to meet her gaze head-on. “Tucker is fully supportive of my work with the museum,” I say, my voice steady and unwavering. “He knows that Zach and I are just colleagues, nothing more. And he trusts me completely.”
Caroline’s smirk only widens, her eyes dancing with barely contained glee. She leans back and waves her hand. “Of course he does, darling. But you know how men can be. So possessive, so easily threatened. I just hope you know what you’re doing, mixing business with pleasure like that.”
A surge of anger rises up in my chest, hot and fierce. How dare she insinuate that I would ever betray Tucker’s trust, that I would risk everything we’ve built together for some silly flirtation?
But before I can open my mouth to deliver a scathing retort, Monica swoops in. “Caroline, darling, I’ve been meaning to ask you about that new brow lift of yours. Who did you go to, and how much did it set you back?”
Caroline’s eyes widen, her hand flying up to her forehead. “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she stammers, her voice suddenly uncertain.
But Monica just laughs, a tinkling sound that seems to cut through the tension like a knife. “Oh, don’t be coy, darling. We’re all friends here.”
“Oh, well, it was Dr. Stevens,” she stutters. “He?—”
“Right. Dr. Stevens,” Monica replies, cutting her off mid-sentence. She then turns to me, her smile softening into something almost genuine. “Anyway, Reese, darling, why don’t you come with me? I have some people I’d love for you to meet.”
I nod gratefully, allowing myself to be led away from Caroline’s piercing gaze. Monica gives me a sideways glance and I mouth the words thank you.
Honestly, Monica was the last person I expected to come to my aid. Our interactions have always been a delicate dance, each word carefully chosen, each reaction scrutinized. She’s never given me the impression that she particularly likes or dislikes me, always maintaining a polite but distant demeanor. But today, she stepped in when I needed someone most, and I feel a tiny glimmer of hope.
Perhaps there’s more to Monica than I’ve given her credit for. Maybe, just maybe, she likes me after all.