Chapter 1
September
Seven Months Until The Wedding
Present Day
Only a masochist would attend her crush’s engagement party.
“Raise your glass, Libby!” Zuri hisses out of the side of her mouth, elbowing me. She throws me a look I’ve seen upwards of a thousand times since we were fourteen. Tough love has always been her brand of friendship.
“Hey!” I rub my side, where I feel a bruise already forming.
I scan the crowd packed in tight on the Coldwell family’s rooftop terrace. Their arms are raised, glittering champagne flutes catching the evening light. I mimic the motion.
“To Carter and Sabrina,” the crowd bellows in unison.
“To them.” I drain my glass, immediately retrieving another from the tray of a nearby server.
I gnaw at my fingernails, reevaluating my tendencies for self-destruction and poor decisions. Damn, I really should’ve gotten that manicure last week. Add it to the list.
A sadistic montage plays through my head.
The time I broke one of his mom’s wineglasses and he pressed his soft lips to the bleeding pad of my thumb.
Another afternoon spent curled into his side while my tears stained his T-shirt.
That one, ill-advised yet magical night during our summer break from college.
Carter Coldwell is my best friend and the love of my life. And he’s marrying someone else.
“You alright?” Zuri’s voice is tinged with pity I can’t bear right now. “Need me to take you home?”
I can’t have her looking at me with those sad eyes and pouty lips, or I might lose it. Which I can’t afford to do in a place this public, this exposed. Especially a place crawling with people I’ve spent my life convincing I belong here.
Breathe, Libby, breathe. Don’t let the rich kids get you down.
“Are you giving yourself a mental pep talk right now?” Zuri whispers.
“Yup.”
“Right. So, we’re not leaving, then.” She tosses her braids over her bare brown shoulders.
“Nope.” I clench my teeth in a smile, bringing my champagne to my lips and craning my neck toward the corner of the terrace everyone was facing moments ago.
The crowd parts, and there he is. Beige suit, his usually unruly hair slicked back, navy tie in a perfect Windsor knot.
His left arm wraps around the waist of a fabulous-looking woman and I nearly choke on my drink.
She wears a silk sheath dress that hugs her long ballerina body as though it was made for her.
It probably was. Her auburn hair is swept back in a low chignon, and two delicate diamonds hang from her earlobes.
Not a hair is out of place, not a smudge of lipstick on the rim of her glass, not a single crease in his shirt.
They are a picture. The perfect Upper East Side couple.
I’m going to need something a lot stronger than champagne.
I shimmy my way through the sea of bodies and over to one of the bars set up on the terrace for the engagement party. The sky is a color wheel shifting from mauve to navy, and a light breeze dances over skirts and ties in the crowd.
“Hiya…” I rest both my elbows on the bar top, lean in, and read the bartender’s name tag. “…Bill.” Real name, or generic name tag provided by the catering company? “I think you and I are going to be good friends tonight. One martini, please. Gin. Absolutely filthy.”
What’s the old adage about beer before liquor? Not sure how champagne factors into the equation. Throw in the variable of your true love getting engaged and it probably negates everything, anyway. Math was never really my subject.
Bill hands me a crystal coupe with contents so cloudy, they’re nearly opaque.
I tip him handsomely, or in this case, with all the bills I have in my wallet.
My first sip of the smooth, briny liquid hits my lips, and a large arm wraps around my hip.
I startle, spilling some of Bill’s excellent work onto the pavers.
Dammit. I pout at the liquid on the ground and look up to face the culprit.
“Lib.” Carter’s face this close is like a lightning bolt to the chest. He looked handsome from afar, but it’s nothing compared with the impact of every little detail in high definition.
The freckles dotting the slope of his cheeks.
The golden shade of his eyes in this evening light.
The way his nose is slightly crooked from a lacrosse injury in high school.
I could draw the planes of his face with my eyes closed.
He flashes a strained smile. There’s apprehension in the tightness of his jaw.
Hand still resting on my hip, Carter leans in and plants a kiss on my cheek. I stop myself from swaying into him.
“How are you?” His voice soothes my jittery nerves.
Hm, good question, honestly. Can I get multiple choice?
“How are you? Summer in London? All of this?” I deflect and wave my hand at the engagement party that’s nicer than most weddings I’ve been to.
He rubs a broad palm against his chin. “Yeah, it’s a lot, huh?”
“I’d expect nothing less for the next in line to the throne.”
Carter tilts his head, eyes moving across my face, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.
“But seriously, how’s your summer been?” His voice is lower, softer.
He reaches for a piece of hair that’s escaped my topknot as though to brush it back but lowers his hand to his pocket instead.
Right, he’s engaged. That kind of familiar touch is off-limits.
The pain is driven deeper by the fact I’ve craved his touch all summer.
It’s been four months since we were in the same room, but the ache in my heart is sharp as ever, honed through transatlantic video calls and late-night texts.
I swallow. “Carter—”
A woman in a silky, cream-colored jumpsuit places a hand on Carter’s shoulder and we break eye contact. Her hair is nearly the same color as her outfit—a slightly lighter blond than Carter’s, but their eyes are the same hazel, one of the only features they share as siblings.
“Need another drink, groomie?”
“I’m good, Kit. Thanks.” Carter beams down at her.
She notices my presence and straightens, smoothing her wide-legged pants and stretching a hand in my direction. “Hi, I’m—oh! It’s you, Lizzy!”
“Libby,” Carter and I say at the same time.
“That’s right.” She eyes me from head to toe. “Nice suit.”
“Thanks.” I smooth the lapels of the lavender jacket and quickly check that my lacy camisole hasn’t fallen to immodest levels.
“Where’s it from?” And here we go. Price tags, labels, the ability to suss status from a few simple questions. Who are you wearing? Who are you?
“It’s vintage, actually. Thrifted.”
“Really? It looks like it was made for you.”
I take a sip of my drink. “I have an excellent tailor. The right fit is everything.” Six-inch heels don’t hurt either. Not metaphorically, at least.
“How’s your family? Your grandmother still a hairdresser?”
“Seamstress.” I cough.
“Babcia does amazing work.” Carter’s eyes shine and I want to hug him. “Libby always had the coolest clothes growing up. Old-school stuff no one else could pull off.”
Or needed to.
Carter smirks. “Poor woman was always fixing my St. Midge’s uniform for me. She’d sit there and mend and have me pick a few tarot cards. Does she still do that?”
I nod. Babcia would kick her heels with glee to know she was a topic of conversation at this party.
“I was terrified of her. She’d read the cards and narrow her eyes at me.” He lowers his brows to demonstrate. “Then she’d say something like, ‘I’ll see you again in two weeks’ or ‘five days,’ or whatever. And you know what? She was always right.”
“Fascinating.” Kit stifles a yawn. It’s crazy how this once pesky ten-year-old kid can make me feel so small.
“Could never figure out why you wanted to spend so much time up in…the Bronx?” She scrunches up her nose.
Carter, god bless him, wraps his arm around my shoulder. “Don’t be a priss, Kitty, it looks bad on you. Libs is one of my oldest friends.”
Friends. I want to burrow six stories down into the ground.
“Jeez, lighten up.” Her mouth draws into a thin line, and she takes a sip of her champagne.
Something gleams in her eyes and she leans in toward me.
“Well, I know my brother won’t brag about himself, so I will.
” Kit tilts her glass toward mine. “Cheers to him marrying the heiress to the biggest diamond business in London.”
“Oh?” I hold Carter’s gaze. “I knew she was British, but the rest didn’t come up.”
“And she’s just the sweetest, isn’t she?” Kitty continues.
“Actually, Libby and Sabrina haven’t—” Carter jumps in.
“We haven’t met.” I flash a smile at both of them that I hope seems genuine.
“You haven’t? Carter, call her over here!”
“That’s alright,” I half-whisper into my gin.
Kitty examines her nails. “I’ll be sad to lose him, but hard to pass up a job opportunity like that.”
“Lose him?” My voice is hoarse despite all my imbibing.
“Carter, honestly, do you tell your friends anything? He’s taking a job with Sabrina’s father. They’ll have the wedding in New York this April but then it’s over to jolly old England.”
The room begins to spin, and I grip Carter’s arm to steady myself.
Blinking, I process the words Kit is saying.
Carter is leaving. And he didn’t tell me.
Hurt smarts in my chest, but I fight to keep my composure.
He’s been abroad and overwhelmed with his family’s company; it makes sense he didn’t have a chance to tell me.
I’m sure he was planning to. Maybe it’s a misunderstanding. Maybe it’s—
Carter gives a sheepish look that tells me it’s all true.
My stomach sinks toward my knees. As if it weren’t bad enough that he’s marrying someone else, he’s going to be taken from me.
An entire ocean between us. What if I never see him again?
No more late-night outings for pizza slices we fold in half.
No more early-morning runs in Central Park and stopping at our favorite bodega. No more fantasies of what might be.
No more kidding myself.
“Will you excuse me?” I rest my hand on Carter’s forearm and make my exit.
“Libby,” he calls out.
“Someone’s sensitive,” Kit huffs.
I’m already far enough away that their voices are drowned out by the crowd. Much to my advantage, everyone wants to stop Carter and talk to him, and no one wants to talk to me, so I’m able to make my way to the other end of the terrace free of pursuit.
My whole body is hot. I need to get out of here. Locating the door that leads back inside the townhouse, I shove it open.
Five minutes in an empty room. That’s all I’ll need to get ahold of myself and return to the party.
I wind my way down the open staircase to the lower levels, getting dizzy from the endless turns of the banister.
God, this place is freaking huge. How many floors have I gone down so far?
I’ve been here a thousand times, but my sense of direction is failing in my state of panic. I should be at the bottom already.
I stop on the next landing and head down the hallway, aiming for a door at the end. Please be a spare bedroom. Honestly, a coat closet would be fine. Just a place to gather my thoughts and possibly strip down to my camisole to get relief from the inferno taking over my insides.
I twist the brass knob of a door at the end of the hall and push inside. The library.
A knot tightens in my chest. This used to be one of my favorite rooms in the Coldwell house, but it’s tainted from the last time I was here—the summer I turned sixteen.
Still, my shoulders relax at the sight of the emerald-green bookshelves lining the walls, the mahogany desk framed by the picture window, the cozy couch facing the fireplace, the red-and-green rug with its corners faded from years of use.
I shut the door behind me, lock it, and stride toward the desk.
Bracing my hands on the wooden behemoth, I take a few deep, steadying breaths.
In my periphery, springy curls stick out from my topknot.
I unhook my hair tie and let the rest of it fly free, massaging my scalp with both hands and pulling the shaggy-dog mass up off my sweaty neck.
My body is still a simmering pot, so I take off the lavender blazer and lay it on the desk. We’re getting there.
“Okay, Libby. You’ve got this.” I set my hands on my hips and start pacing on the worn rug.
“It’s not like Carter hasn’t been in love with other people before.
There have been plenty. So, she’s a diamond heiress with a posh accent?
Those are minor details.” I slam the heel of my hand into my forehead.
“Think, woman. There has to be a solution to this.”
I pick up an old-fashioned letter opener on the desk and start fidgeting with it while I pace.
The handle is a smoky glass and reminds me of one of my grandmother’s crystals.
“Let’s work backwards. He can’t move away.
Which means he can’t get married. To her.
Which means I have to find a way to bring this wedding to an abrupt halt. ”
I think of the mass of people currently on the roof terrace, the giant Upper East Side wheels that have already set this celebration of love into motion. I’m just one woman. How do I expect to stop all that? Do I even want to?
I groan. “There’s got to be a way. Sure, they might think they love each other, but she doesn’t know Carter, doesn’t know how he catches feelings every five minutes.
They haven’t even been dating that long.
He’s been in London for what—four months?
And he comes back engaged? This would be a blessing in the long run. ”
You could just tell him how you feel. I swat the thought away like an annoying fly—one that’s been buzzing around my brain for fifteen years. Too risky. It could mean the end of our friendship, the one thing I can’t afford to lose.
Think, think. But my mind is blank. I have zero ideas and zero solutions to this major life-altering problem.
I lean my butt against the desk. What I really want to do is punch something, kick something.
Unfortunately, every item in this room is quite possibly more than my monthly rent.
I settle for chucking the letter opener against the back of the couch, but it’s half-hearted.
The metal makes a depressing thud as it hits the rug.
“God, do you mind?” a low voice grumbles to my left.
My heartbeat slams to an abrupt halt in my chest. I nearly jump out of my skin, then spin around.
Someone’s in here. There’s no way. The room was empty five minutes ago when I entered, and I locked the door behind me.
But I’m wrong. Because there, in the glow of the lamplight, a pair of brown men’s dress shoes is propped on the arm of the couch.