7. Emma
7
EMMA
T he Timber Vale Lodge looked like something out of a fairytale—if fairytales had valet parking and rooms starting at two thousand dollars a night, at least.
I stepped out of my rental car, immediately grateful for the heated driveway keeping the snow at bay. Between the puffy, snow-coated trees, the mountains blanketed in white, and the chill in the air, I knew I was definitely not in San Francisco anymore. Thankfully, the sun was bright and warm in a way that cut through the cold a little.
I’d been warned, but I was learning first hand about altitude adjustment as well. We were around nine thousand feet high, and even lifting my carry-on out of my Uber’s trunk had me winded. Supposedly, it could improve in as quick as a day, or it could take months.
Yay. As if I need any help feeling unathletic.
A group of guests glided past in designer ski wear, all smiles and happy faces. Meanwhile, I was pretty sure my nose had turned an attractive shade of red from the cold. My only “heavy” jacket was definitely not rated for this kind of cold, either. I had considered upgrading before the trip, but the good ones cost too much for my budget, which was currently fueled by very small wedding planning. I did occasionally pick up a few extra dollars doing freelance photography gigs, but those weren’t anything I could count on.
"Miss Marshall?" A uniformed attendant appeared at my elbow before I even approached the main steps leading up to the lobby. "Welcome to Timber Vale. May I take your bags?"
"Only if you promise to give them back!” I joked.
The attendant stared at me until I cleared my throat awkwardly.
“Sure,” I said quietly, handing over my carry-on and suitcase.
The man headed off with my bags, leaving me to lift my eyes to the resort itself. It was hard not to feel intimidated by the massive log and stone structure looming before me. It managed to look both rustic and obscenely expensive. Thick, natural wood beams and countless architectural details covered the outside of the lodge. Somewhere above, smoke curled from multiple chimneys into the crystal-clear mountain air.
An actual honest-to-god sleigh with horses stood near the entrance, apparently waiting to take guests on rides through the surrounding winter wonderland. Because of course it did.
Some deeply buried, definitely romantic and fantasy-land version of me squealed a little bit. I suppressed it as much as I could.
Fantasies set people up for disappointment, Emma. You know that.
Before “the wedding wrecker” and the subsequent Irish disaster, I probably would have already asked if I could sit in the sleigh or pet the horses. Instead, I let out a weary sigh and averted my eyes, heading for the main entrance.
My phone buzzed. Maggie.
"Are you an ice cube yet?" she asked when I answered. “Are you absolutely freaking out because your sister’s wedding is only like… two weeks away? Or is it one?”
"I'm here,” I said, laughing softly at her barrage of questions. I followed the attendant with my bags through carved wooden doors into a lobby that took my breath away. An ornate stone fireplace dominated one wall, while antler chandeliers cast warm light over leather chairs and plush sofas. A full wall of windows gave a sweeping view of the snow-capped peaks and one of the ski slopes outside. I was already daydreaming about curling up in one of the comfy chairs with a good book so I could drink in the ambiance—if planning the wedding of my life didn’t keep me too busy, at least. "It's..."
"Overwhelming?" Maggie asked.
"I was going to say perfect." I lowered my voice as I passed the group in the fancy ski wear, who were now complaining about the champagne selection at the slope-side bar. "But also that."
"How's the altitude treating you?"
"Like I aged fifty years overnight." I paused to catch my breath. "Walking up a couple stairs makes me feel like I just ran a marathon.”
"Just wait until you try skiing,” Maggie said.
"Bold of you to assume I'm going anywhere near those death slopes. I've seen way too many movies where the girl tries to ski to impress some guy and ends up taking out half the resort."
"Speaking of guys trying to impress you..."
"Please don't."
"Three texts this week! That's commitment."
“If I was responding? Maybe. But I’m not, so I’d call it harassment.”
“Come on. It’s kind of sweet.”
“I went on one date with him over a month ago now. And I told him in completely clear, unambiguous terms that I didn’t think it was going to work out.”
“Didn’t think, ” Maggie chirped, as if she had discovered a vital clue.
“Oh, come on. I was just trying to put it nicer than saying ‘we have literally nothing in common and we have about as much chemistry as a lukewarm glass of water.”
“Hey, water has chemistry. Hydrogen bonding with oxygen. It’s basically the building block of all complex chemistry.”
“Bad example,” I sighed. “But I’m really not interested in Kyle. At all. Yesterday he sent me a photo of his lunch with the caption 'wish you were here.' It was a protein shake."
"Men are weird." Maggie paused. "Though you could do worse. He's stable, successful?—"
"Not interested. Just like I told him," I finished. "Besides, I'm here to work. No distractions. I already had to block him on Instagram after he liked every single one of my posts from the last year."
"Right. But I feel like it’s my duty as your closest friend to point out the obvious.”
“Why do I feel like your point is neither going to be obvious or necessary?”
“Which is,” Maggie continued, unbothered by my question, “that you haven’t been the same since Ireland. Before that, you would’ve been daydreaming about these guys you’ve dated. You would’ve been adding to your little ‘secret’ wedding board. And now? You’re like a crotchety old woman who can’t be pleased by any guy, no matter how acceptable he might be.”
“Acceptable?” I laughed. “Is that the bar we’re aiming for here? Because what’s the point of hitching my wagon to a guy if it’s not right? So we can get to our wedding day and watch it all fall apart?”
There was a long pause. “You realize that’s not?—”
“Hey, Maggie,” I said, cutting her off as it was my turn to step up to the counter and check in. “I gotta go. Bye.”
“This isn’t?—”
I ended the call and gave the staff member my information and waited while she clacked away at her keyboard while wearing an odd smile.
Did rich people get offended if staff didn’t look like they were enjoying themselves while doing menial, tedious tasks? Or maybe this girl just… loved typing?
My thoughts drifted back to Maggie, and the point she was trying to make. It wasn’t the first time she’d tried to broach the subject of my… distance. But I knew there was no point in trying to explain it to her. She just didn’t understand.
I spent so much of my life romanticizing love and weddings. I let it get to the point where I was completely blind to reality—where I thought all I needed to do was reach the wedding, as if it was some kind of finish line. It was, of course, ridiculous.
The wedding was hardly even the beginning, and people who reached that point with the wrong person were only setting themselves up for failure and heartbreak.
So, sure, maybe guys like Kyle and Brad weren’t terrible, but they also weren’t good enough. They weren’t perfect, and I wasn’t going to waste my time or risk my heart on anybody short of perfect. I’d just keep focusing on my own career, my professional goals, and… well, if Mr. Perfect never came along? So what? At least I’d be spared the heartbreak of forcing it to work with the wrong guy.
“There,” the woman said, her artificial smile widening. "You're in the Mountain View Suite." She handed over a satisfyingly heavy black and gold keycard. "Mr. Wellington specifically requested it for you."
Of course he did. I'd only spoken to Martha Wellington over the phone so far, but her husband's reputation preceded him. Richard Wellington III didn't do anything halfway. According to my research (okay, late-night web searches), the family owned properties across five continents and had some connection to actual royalty that I couldn't quite figure out.
It was all oddly vague and hard to pin down, actually. When I had tried to look at exactly which properties they owned or who they were related to, I kept finding myself in circular loops that wouldn’t say where or what they were. But it wasn’t shocking. With money like that, it probably wasn’t hard to buy privacy, even on the internet.
But how dare they? Didn’t my idle curiosity and nosiness have rights, too? Damn them and their endless supplies of money.
I wove my way through hallways decorated with landscape paintings, over-the-top custom-made wood slab furniture and things like… ornamental root balls encased in epoxy, because of course that’s a thing.
When I reached my suite, I couldn’t help but squeal and do a little happy dance.
The huge window theme continued, giving me my own personal balcony view of the Rockies. A stone fireplace was already crackling and giving off delicious heat while an actual platter of sweet pastries, cheeses, an assortment of crackers, and all kinds of fancy sliced meats were set out on my bed.
And there was champagne.
“Don’t mind if I do,” I said to myself in a crappy British accent.
I stuffed some cheese in my mouth as I gently touched the petals on a bouquet of pure white roses in a crystal vase. I tipped back some of the champagne as I read the note on my pillow.
Welcome to Timber Vale, Emma. Dinner at seven - RW
I set the note down with a smile, and then my stomach dropped. Even though the major parts were already in motion for the wedding next week, I felt like I was in way over my head. This place… these people…
Panic started to knock at the door, asking nicely if I’d mind letting it in.
Nope. No. “You’re Emma Marshall. Cool as cucumbers. You got this, girl.” After some deep breaths, I indulged in a little bit of food therapy.
Okay, a lot a bit.
I ate almost half of the platter, which I was pretty sure might have been meant for a larger group. I also drank half the bottle of champagne and earned myself a pleasant little buzz.
With a glance at my phone, I realized it was already closer to seven than I thought. I brushed the crumbs from my dress and used my insanely fancy ass private bathroom to freshen up. There was a towel warmer, which I might have wasted some valuable time playing with. There was even a frothy thing that dispensed shaving cream, so I gave my armpits a little touch up, just because.
I tried on the comfiest robe I’d ever felt in my life, tested the acoustics in the shower, and liberally scuffed my feet around in the “Timber Vale” slippers they had waiting by my door.
Even the freaking floor was heated, which put me in a dilemma between my slippers and bare feet—both of which were highly enjoyable.
Leaving my perfect room and entering into the chaotic world of wedding planning was hard, but I eventually pulled myself out of the room and back to the hallway.
I headed to the resort restaurant where Mr. Wellington was waiting and only got lost a few times on the way. Once I arrived, the hostess led me to a private dining room where a distinguished-looking man in his sixties rose to greet me.
"Emma Marshall." Richard Wellington's handshake was firm, his smile genuine. He had salt-and-pepper hair that was slicked back from tanned and lightly lined features. His jaw was strong and his shoulders were broad, and he had the look of somebody who used to be in great shape but had finally relaxed on his strict diet and exercise routine.
His silver eyes sparkled, drawing me from my rambling thoughts as he let go of my hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Martha speaks very highly of your work."
She does? All my interactions with Martha Wellington left me feeling like I was a bit of old cheese she’d found underneath her fingernail. "Thank you for having me," I said, hoping I sounded more confident than I felt.
"Nonsense. You're family now." He gestured to the chair beside him. "Or you will be. Speaking of family..." He looked toward the door. "Ah, perfect timing. Emma, I'd like you to meet my younger son, Richard the Fourth. Though everyone calls him Dick."
A man around my age approached, wearing an expression that suggested he found everything beneath him. Including, apparently, buttons—his shirt was undone halfway down his chest despite the December chill. A gold chain nestled in his chest hair, catching the light as he moved.
Objectively speaking, he was attractive. He had blue eyes, sharp eyebrows, an aqualine nose, and a chin and jaw I found slightly too proud. Features aside, his body language was practically radiating “douche” energy at such high levels I thought I might choke on it if I breathed too deeply.
"Dick," his father continued, "this is Lily's sister. The wedding planner I was telling you about."
"Charmed to meet you." Dick's eyes roamed over me in a way that made me want to button up my own perfectly appropriate neckline. "You know, I always say wedding planners are the most... passionate women. A career dedicated to love has a way of… greasing the wheels, if you catch my implication."
Was he actually wiggling his eyebrows? And implications were hardly the first thing I was worried about catching from “Dick.” I’d probably start the list with gonorrhea, or maybe just everyday germs. He struck me as the kind of guy who didn’t wash his hands when he used the bathroom.
"Dick's between relationships right now," Richard said meaningfully.
"How... convenient," I managed, reaching for my water glass. Maybe if I drank enough water, I could drown myself before this got worse.
"Very convenient." Dick slid into the chair next to mine, way too close. His cologne was probably expensive and smelled like he'd bathed in it. "You know, I have a suite with an even better view than yours. I'd love to show it to you. The sunsets are... magnificent. Not that you’d be paying them any attention if I had you alone in there."
He actually licked his lips after saying "magnificent."
Disaster alarm bells began to ring. The situation here was painfully clear. Mr. Wellington’s prized son, Marcus, was marrying my sister. Whether it was some kind of rich person fetish, or just a wild idea that had popped into his head, he wanted to keep adding my family to his.
He was hoping to set me up with this walking ball of ick , and I couldn’t think of a single way to shut this down without making things very awkward.
My mind raced with half-baked ideas. I could lie? Lying wasn’t always bad, right? I could claim I lost my ovaries in a tragic car accident back in 1982. No. You weren’t even alive in 1982, Emma! That plan sucks!
Maybe I could say I was the one with gonorrhea? No. Dick probably already has that, and he’d just see it as an excuse to say we already had something in common.
Think, think, think…
Instead of speaking or coming up with any kind of coherent plan, I stared at Dick with my eyes wide and my mouth half-open. I felt the sinking certainty that in a few moments, I was going to get talked into some kind of date, and that I’d have to endure Dick’s advances for the remainder of my time here.
I was about to scream in panic when a familiar voice made my heart stop.
"Sorry I'm late, sweetheart."
Strong hands settled on my shoulders. A pair of lips brushed my temple.
I looked up into eyes I hadn't seen in three years.
James. The wedding wrecker in the flesh.
"Traffic was terrible," he continued smoothly, sliding into the chair on my other side. His arm settled around me possessively. "I hope you weren't waiting long."
I stared at him, my brain short-circuiting between what the actual fuck and holy shit he somehow looks even better than I remembered.
"I don’t believe we’ve met,” Richard said, cocking his head toward James.
“James Carter,” he said, reaching to shake Richard Wellington’s hand.
“Ah, I see. I believe I saw your name on the guest list.” He snapped his fingers, as if trying to remember an obscure detail. “Was it a family friend of Lily’s parents?”
“That’s right,” James said.
"I didn't realize you and Emma were..."
"Together?" James smiled, but there was steel behind it as he looked at Dick. "Very much so. We only started dating recently. Though you wouldn’t guess it with how crazy we are for for each other. Right, babe?”
He planted another kiss on my temple, then brought his lips to my ear. “Might want to release the bomb you look like you’re holding up your ass, or they’re going to see through the lie.”
I was going to kill him.
“Uh, huh,” I managed, smiling.
Yep. He was a dead man. And I was going to do it with my own hands.
Right after I figured out how he got here.
And maybe after I stopped noticing how good he smelled.
And definitely after I figured out why my heart was doing that stupid flutter thing again.