The Lovers (Towerfall #2)

Chapter 1

One

The Jaguar rental was a mistake.

Not because I can’t drive it—oh, I can drive the hell out of this car. But because it looks like I belong in it.

And that’s the problem.

Everyone here thinks I’m the hometown girl who made it big and never looked back. The girl who flew to the big city and lives in a loft and takes important meetings over brunch. They think I’m rich, successful, and have it all together. And I want them to keep believing that.

But the truth? I have about three weeks of savings left before I’ll have to move back here to South Carolina and crash in my childhood bedroom like the cautionary tale of every failed entrepreneur.

The thought makes my stomach twist as I kill the engine in front of Wilder Ever After, a Gothic fairy tale of a bridal boutique nestled between an antique shop and a bakery.

Before I can continue second-guessing everything about my life choices, my phone buzzes against the leather console.

Mackenzie.

I sigh and answer. “If you’re calling to make sure I actually showed up, the answer is yes.”

“Good,” she says, a little breathless. “I had a feeling you’d try to escape.”

I roll my eyes, even though she’s not wrong.

“I’m not escaping,” I mutter, adjusting the thin strap of my dress that’s already sticking to my skin in the South Carolina humidity.

“I’m sitting in a very nice rental car outside the bridal boutique, trying to remember why I agreed with you that having your wedding in the South at the beginning of summer was a good idea. ”

Mackenzie snorts. “Because you love me, obviously. And because, if I had it in fall like my mama wanted, we both know she’d turn it into some sort of shabby chic barnyard-themed nightmare.”

That earns a laugh. “Ah, yes. Now I remember.”

“Stop stalling and get inside,” she says. “I’ll see you at the rehearsal dinner.”

I hang up and exhale slowly, staring through the windshield.

The boutique is beautiful. Ivy-covered brick, arched windows draped in silk, sunlight catching on crystals that send rainbow prisms through the store.

I should be excited to be here. I should be thrilled to see Mackenzie, to celebrate, to pretend for one weekend that my life hasn’t completely gone to shit. Instead, all I can think about is how quickly a month can disappear.

The bell chimes as I step inside, and cool, lavender-scented air washes over me.

The place is pure witchy romance. Bridal gowns hang like ghosts along the walls, shimmering with lace and satin.

Vintage furniture is cluttered with crystals, tarot decks, and floral arrangements designed to manifest true love.

It’s very Mackenzie.

I drag my fingers across a nearby velvet-covered chair, but my mind is already cataloging the space like I’m in a client meeting.

The lighting’s too harsh for an intimate setting. The floral arrangements are too symmetrical. And those pink…vagina sculptures? Bold choice.

“This is a vacation,” I mutter to myself, picking up a brochure about crafting your own magickal bouquet.

The irony isn’t lost on me that I’m supposed to be here as a bridesmaid, supporting my best friend since diapers, but all I can think about is work even though I don’t technically have a job anymore.

A burst of movement catches my eye as a girl rushes out from behind a display of tulle and crystal dildos—yes, dildos, because why not?

Her wild red curls frame a round face dusted with freckles, her button nose scrunched in concentration.

She looks both adorable and like she’s on the verge of a breakdown, her wide brown eyes darting around the shop as if something is about to explode.

“Oh! Hi! Welcome to Wilder Ever After!” The girl—Elsie, according to her name tag—practically vibrates. “Are you here for a consultation? Or maybe a fitting? Oh, I bet you’re here for the sample sale—we’ve got the most amazing deals today.”

She’s a whirlwind of energy, her red hair bouncing as she springs toward me like she’s been shot out of a confetti cannon.

“No, I, uh—” I start, but before I can finish, she’s talking a mile a minute.

“Like, seriously amazing. And, oh, all our statues are 20 percent off! Well, that’s just the fertility statues, though. The gods and goddesses—Aphrodite, Demeter, Priapus, Ostara, Dionysus—they’re all still full price. But you know, if you’re looking to manifest something…”

I blink. “Fertility statues?”

“Some say they work, some say they don’t! But I always tell people: what’s the harm in a little magick?” she trills, her grin wide and infectious as she shoves an iPad into my hands.

“You just need to fill out a few details,” she chirps. “Nothing too intense—just your name, wedding date, style preferences, favorite colors, mood board links, venue details, guest count, all of your fiancé’s info, and”—she winks—“a promise to give us your firstborn.”

I bark out a laugh.

“Kidding.” She grins. “Mostly.”

I glance down at the screen like it’s suddenly sprouted fangs. The questions glare at me, demanding answers I don’t have. So, I fill in the only one I do.

NAME: GEMMA SUMMERS

It takes less than a second to bring back zero results. “It doesn’t look like I’m in your system. Maybe the appointment’s under—”

“Oh, you don’t need to do that if you’ve already got an appointment!

” she says, cutting me off. “Shoot darn, I was supposed to ask that first.” Her laugh is breathy and nervous as she bobs on her toes and holds up two fingers.

“It’s my second week.” She beams at me like that’ll explain everything.

“And it’s almost June. You know what they say about a June bride… ”

I don’t, but I nod along like I do. “It’s close to your busy season?”

“So busy!” She practically bounces out of her skin. “And we just got a new shipment of gowns, and my manager’s in the back dealing with that, so it’s a bit chaotic—”

“I can wait,” I offer.

“No, no, no!” Elsie insists, waving her hands. “It’s a special day!” She motions for me to follow her toward an antique desk tucked along the side of the sales floor where a computer sits nestled among crystals and lace swatches. “Your special day.”

“Oh, it’s not my—” I start to tell her I’m the bridesmaid and not the bride, but she bumps into a toddler -sized clear crystal penis, and I have to catch it before it falls to the ground and shatters into a thousand pieces.

“Oh my goddess. Oh, wow,” she says, staring wide-eyed at my hands wrapped around the gleaming shaft.

She looks at me, panicked now. “Sorry. I mean, thank you. I swear I’ve had some training.

Enough training. Totally enough training.

” She sits down shakily, fingers fluttering over the keyboard, and looks up at me.

“So, what name is your dress listed under?”

I’m sure my smile is strained as I release the giant phallus and resist the urge to run.

“Roberts. Mackenzie Roberts,” I say, suddenly a 1960s action star. “I’m here to try on and pick up my dress,” I say, shifting my bag on my shoulder. “I submitted my measurements online, but this is my first time being able to make the trip back home.”

Elsie nods enthusiastically, tapping away at the keyboard. “Ooh, exciting! Big trip home, huh?”

I hesitate. “Something like that.”

“Charleston is the perfect place for a destination wedding.” Elsie squints at the screen, her pale white skin blooming splotchy pink around her collar.

“It’s not really a destination wedding—”

“Aha! Found it!” She presses her palm to her flushed chest. “I was worried there for a minute that I’d accidentally deleted your file.

” She straightens and clears her throat as if suddenly aware she’s oversharing.

“What I mean is, come with me to the Spirit and Silk Suite. We’ll get you all set up, and I’ll bring in your dress.

” She offers a nervous smile and gestures for me to follow.

The suite isn’t much bigger than a closet, but it’s trying very hard to be luxurious. Satin-lined walls gleam under the flickering glow of dozens of lit tea lights, and a puff of sandalwood-scented mist curls up from a corner diffuser.

My stomach twists. The dress that’s waiting for me isn’t free. Neither was the flight, or the rental car, or the gift I bought for Mackenzie, or the hotel I booked for appearances even though I should be staying at my parents’ house.

I shove the thought away as Elsie flutters around like an excitable fairy.

“Would you like tea, coffee, water, or maybe a mimosa?” She claps her hands, not waiting for my response. “Grapefruit mimosa, perfect for the occasion!”

Before I can protest that day drinking in my thirties only leaves me puffy and tired, she disappears through a velvet curtain in a blur of red curls.

A moment later, she’s back, thrusting a crystal flute filled with pale pink liquid into my hand. “Here you go!”

And just as quickly, she’s gone again to fetch the dress.

“What the hell? Maybe this will be the thing that fixes me.” I swirl the liquid and take a sip.

My phone buzzes. Amanda.

I don’t answer. Instead, I take another drink, forcing the bubbles past the knot in my throat.

Amanda is the only one who knows the truth—that I’m drowning.

That I got laid off from my job right after I’d spent my savings to leave South Carolina and move up to Manhattan for a promotion that was supposed to catapult my career.

That the Jaguar rental and the bougie hotel are a lie.

That in less than a month, I won’t be drinking mimosas and pretending everything is okay.

I’ll be back in my parents’ house, in the room I grew up in, trying to figure out where it all went wrong.

The phone vibrates again. I silence it and take another sip.

This is fine. Everything is fine. I have three weeks to figure it out. Three weeks to fake it till I make it.