Chapter Eleven
Wren
The next two weeks pass with alarming speed.
I see at least one member of the Ashford family every day.
Despite me protesting that I don’t mind how Cece wants to organize the wedding, she’s keen to keep me involved with every step of the wedding preparations.
A little embarrassed, I tell her early on that my mother has no money, and I only have a little in savings, so I can’t contribute much to the cost. She replies with, “Oh goodness, let’s not let a little thing like money get in the way of you having exactly what you want. ”
Marcus assures me it will make her the happiest woman alive if she’s able to fulfil my girlhood dreams of a wedding.
Edward confirms this and begs me to go for it, and says she’s spending her evenings flicking through magazines and making sketches, and he thinks it’s helping her recovery. And how can I possibly say no to that?
So, in the end, I give up trying to be modest and tell her how much I adore fairy lights and ribbons, and the colors pink and gold, and let her sweep me away with magazine photos of grazing tables and champagne-filled glasses and wedding cakes three tiers high.
It’s impossible not to get carried away in the excitement of it all, with Aurelia calling me every five minutes telling me about a wedding dress she’s spotted in one of the bridal boutiques that I ‘simply must come and see,’ Caesar occasionally picking me up when Marcus is busy, and even Edward calling by to deliver some swatches that Cece has ordered and wants me to check.
Oddly, Marcus is the one person I don’t see much of. Conscious that he’s taking a week off for the honeymoon, he’s super busy trying to sort out some business stuff before his vacation, and half the time he isn’t even in the country, let alone in the same city.
He calls me every day, though, and I get used to the jolt of my heart in the evenings when my phone buzzes in my pocket, and I know it’s him. He talks about his day and asks me about mine, and it’s easy to chat away about everything under the sun, which I like.
But he doesn’t ask to see me. He doesn’t invite me to his office, or his apartment. He doesn’t ask me out to dinner, or to the theater, or to any social events. So, of course, my brain immediately insists he’s already bored with me, even though we haven’t actually said our vows yet.
I try to keep myself busy with work, planning out lessons for the start of the school year. I’m working in my local coffee shop, three days before the wedding, trying not to think about how I’m marrying a man I hardly know, when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
“Hey babe,” he says when I answer. “How are you doing?”
“Panicking,” I admit.
He chuckles. “About something specific?”
I clear my throat. “Where are you?”
“Wellington. I’m in the foyer of the Beehive. I’m about to go in for a meeting with the PM.”
I blink. “The Prime Minister?”
“Yeah, and the Minister of Agriculture. Talking about sustainable farming practices. You okay?”
I hesitate. “I was just… Mars, have you changed your mind?”
“About what?”
“About marrying me?”
“What? No! Why?”
“I just wondered…”
“Crazy girl. Of course not. Is this because we haven’t seen much of each other?”
“Well…”
“Wren,” he says patiently, “I like to think I have amazing willpower. If I decide not to eat sugar, I can stop immediately and not look at a chocolate bar for weeks. I rarely drink to excess. I’ve never taken drugs.
I go to the gym every day. But I swear, if I see you alone again, I won’t be able to stop myself from stripping you naked and making love to you there and then. ”
I inhale sharply. “Oh…”
“I want to wait,” he says. “Until we’re married. That’s why I’m keeping my distance. I’m trying not to torture myself.”
My lips curve up slowly. “Okay.”
“Do you miss me?” he teases.
“Absolutely not.”
He chuckles again. Then he says, “By the way, I want you to choose a house for us.”
I blink. “Sorry?”
“Well, I figure you don’t want to live in my city apartment.
It’s functional and convenient, but it’s not a family home.
I think it makes sense to find somewhere on the North Shore, don’t you?
My parents and your mother live there, and when we have a baby you’ll have trouble prying it out of my mother’s arms, so it’ll be more convenient to be nearby.
Plus of course you work there, and I don’t want you to have to commute every morning.
I’ve sourced half a dozen properties. I’m emailing them to you now. I’d like you to choose one.”
Stunned, I open my laptop and wait for the email to come through. When it does, I open up the links he’s sent in several tabs and flick through them.
“Mars…”
“I admit I quite like the property at Stanley Point. It’s not as close to your school as some of the others, but it’s only a twenty-minute drive. It’s got access to the ferries, and it’s close to the Harbour Bridge. And it might be nice to take the kids out on the boat.”
“Boat?”
“We have a family yacht.”
I blink. “Wait… kids, plural? You’re expecting twins?”
He chuckles. “No, I doubt we’ll stop at one.
It’ll be too much fun when we get going.
But yeah, I like the Stanley Point property.
It looks… cozy. But the choice is yours, if you’d prefer something bigger.
Look, I’ve got to go, Caesar’s here with me, and I need to run through some reports with him before our meeting. Let me know what you think. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say faintly.
“’Bye.” He ends the call.
I lower the phone to the table and stare at the pictures of the first house. It could safely be called a mansion. It has seven bedrooms. Seven! Even allowing for one bedroom for him and one for me, that still leaves five spare. Is he expecting us to have five children?
My heart bangs, and I feel a little faint.
I thought I made it quite clear—I want one baby, and one baby only.
I accept it’ll be his heir, and that his family will want to be involved in bringing it up, but the deal was not to churn out an Ashford rugby team while he swans around the world, no doubt sowing his oats in every port, or whatever the saying is.
I’m getting a little hysterical, so I order myself an iced chocolate and a piece of cake, and take them back to the table. Then I slowly check out the Stanley Point house.
The first notes on the property state there’s easy access to beaches and parks, museums and libraries, and weekend walks in the North Head and Mount Victoria hills.
I scroll down to the property, expecting to see something extravagant and worth fifty million, like something out of a sci-fi, with glass walls and bizarre architecture and tennis courts.
Instead, I discover a beautiful Edwardian villa.
It’s up for just under five million dollars—a fortune to me, but actually not that expensive in Auckland terms. Built in 1915, the house has five bedrooms, and is a ‘testament to timeless elegance’.
It has several living areas, an English-style kitchen, light wooden floors throughout, and a panoramic turret on the top that ‘would make a great playroom for children.’ Large lawns provide plenty of room for kids and dogs to run around.
It looks like a stunning showpiece, and yet I can also picture it as a family home.
I love it.
I press my fingers to my lips, trying not to cry.
Oh, what is this man doing to me? I can’t bear it.
Is he going to give me everything my heart has ever desired, and then inevitably rip it away?
Because I can’t believe there’s a happily ever after for me.
Men don’t stay in my life. They try to take what they want and then leave when they realize I can’t provide it.
Marcus Ashford isn’t the type of guy who settles for hearth and home, and who wants forever.
He’s a man used to getting what he wants, and at the moment he’s fixated on me because I turned him down years ago, and he doesn’t want to lose the company, and he thinks he can kill two Birdies with one baby.
But I’ll never be able to keep him. I don’t know how long it will take—one week, one month, a year at most—but eventually his gaze will roam, and some younger, sexier, more beautiful, more adventurous girl will draw him away, and that will be it.
I’ll be alone again, and my heart will just be dust, blowing away in the wind.
“Wren?”
My head snaps up, and I hastily wipe away the tear that had tipped over my lashes. A man stands before me. He’s in his late fifties or early sixties, tall, with thinning gray hair. He has piercing blue eyes that dart nervously around before settling back on me.
“Can I help you?” I ask. He looks vaguely familiar.
To my surprise, he pulls out the chair on the other side of the table and sits. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m sure you can.”
I stiffen, closing my laptop as I glance around.
I’m in public, but that doesn’t always stop crazy men from doing mad things.
A couple of women are chatting in the far corner, paying no attention to me.
Two teens are waiting for their drinks at the counter, laughing at something one of them has seen on their phone.
A lone guy sitting a few tables away in a plain black tee and jeans glances at me briefly before looking out of the window.
Would any of them come to my aid if I asked for help?
“Sorry, who are you?” I demand, deciding that attack is the best form of defense.
“Don’t you recognize me?” He grins. “You used to sit on my knee and tug on my beard, when I had one.” He massages his clean-shaven chin ruefully.
My eyes widen, and my jaw drops. “Dad?”
He smirks. “Guess you took after me for your height, eh?”
I’m so shocked, I lose the power of speech. He sits there for a moment, waiting for me to say something. Then, when it’s obvious that words aren’t coming, he says, “Cat got your tongue?”