Sneak Peak
The Billionaire's Wedding Planner
The Billionaire's Wedding Planner
Jenna
The Paradise Cove Resort should come with a warning label: May cause temporary insanity in wedding planners who think they have their shit together.
I'm standing in the middle of what can only be described as a luxury wedding planning nightmare, clutching my phone like it's the last life preserver on the Titanic.
The morning started with promise—crystal blue waters, palm trees swaying like they're auditioning for a postcard, and the kind of tropical breeze that makes you believe in happy endings.
Now? Now I'm pretty sure the universe is personally trolling me.
"Jenna, I need you to understand something," Lily Chen's voice crackles through my phone, sharp enough to cut glass. "The Blackstone merger announcement is happening next week. If my engagement party isn't flawless—and I mean flawless—heads will roll. Starting with yours."
I press my lips together, tasting the metallic tang of stress. "Lily, I promise you, everything is under control. The venue is booked, the flowers are—"
"I don't want promises. I want results. Video call in thirty minutes. Don't make me regret choosing your little boutique over Preston & Associates."
The line goes dead, and I stare at my phone like it just told me my credit card was declined at a strip club. Preston & Associates—the wedding planning empire that makes my business look like a lemonade stand. The reminder hits like a punch to the gut.
"Fuck," I mutter, then immediately glance around to make sure no resort staff heard me. Professional image, Jenna. Even when you're drowning in designer quicksand.
My assistant Emma's text from this morning still burns in my memory: Food poisoning. Can't make flight. So sorry! You've got this!
Yeah, Emma. I've definitely got this. Along with a migraine and a groom whose flight is currently playing hide-and-seek with Hurricane Patricia.
The wedding coordinator, Natalia, approaches with the kind of smile that says everything is fine while her eyes scream we're all gonna die. She's got that unflappable resort professional thing down to an art form.
"Miss Monroe, we have a small situation with the cake delivery," she says, her accent making even disaster sound musical.
"Define small," I say, already mentally calculating backup options.
"The baker just called—they're completely overextended and have to cancel. The main pastry chef quit yesterday, and they can't handle a three-tier custom cake."
"Are you fucking kidding me right now?" The words explode out of me before I can stop them. An elderly couple nearby turns to stare, and I force my mouth into what I hope resembles a smile. "I mean... that's quite unexpected."
Natalia nods sympathetically. "The local bakery can't deliver until late Thursday night—after the ceremony"
"After the ceremony? We need the cake for the reception!" My voice climbs an octave, hitting a note that probably just summoned every dog within a five-mile radius.
This is what I get for taking on Claire's wedding.
My best friend since college, who happens to be the sister of Lucas Hayes—billionaire extraordinaire and the human equivalent of a migraine wrapped in a perfectly tailored suit.
When she asked me to plan her destination wedding, I should have said no.
I should have recommended someone with actual experience handling events where the budget has more zeros than my bank account.
But Claire looked at me with those hopeful blue eyes—the same shade as her impossibly arrogant brother's—and said, "Jenna, you're the only one who gets me. I trust you."
Trust. The word that makes smart women do stupid things.
My phone buzzes with another text from Jason: Flight delayed again. Maybe landing at 8 PM if lucky. Claire doesn't know yet. HELP.
I'm typing a response when I spot a delivery truck pulling up to the resort's service entrance. Finally, something going right. The specialty pavilion linens I expedited from the mainland. Thank God for small miracles and express shipping.
I practically sprint across the pristine resort grounds, my heels clicking against the stone pathway like a countdown timer. The driver is already unloading boxes marked with the logo—Island Textiles—and I could literally kiss him right now.
"Excuse me," I call out, slightly breathless. "Those are for the Hayes-Miller wedding. I'm Jenna Monroe, the wedding planner."
But someone else is already there, talking to the delivery driver.
A tall figure in worn jeans and a white button-down, sleeves rolled up, dark hair catching the morning sun.
He's got his back to me, but something about the confident way he carries himself makes my stomach clench with familiar irritation.
No. It can't be.
"I've got this handled," the man says to the driver, his voice carrying that particular brand of authority that comes from never being told no. "Have them delivered to Villa Paradise, the Hayes family suite."
"Hey!" I march over, my professional composure hanging by a thread. "Excuse me, but those are for the Hayes-Miller wedding, and I'm the planner—"
He turns around, and my heart does this annoying little skip-and-stumble thing that I immediately tell to shut the hell up.
Lucas Hayes.
Of course it's Lucas Hayes.
He pulls off his sunglasses, and I'm hit with the full force of those piercing blue eyes that have starred in way too many of my late-night fantasies.
They're the color of deep ocean water, framed by dark lashes that should be illegal on a man.
His jawline could cut glass—sharp and defined in a way that suggests excellent genetics and probably an expensive skincare routine.
That devastating, cocky smile spreads across his face like he knows exactly how much he affects me, revealing perfect white teeth that belong in a toothpaste commercial.
The casual clothes should make him look more approachable, but somehow they just make him more dangerous.
The white button-down is rolled up to his forearms, revealing tanned skin and the kind of muscular definition that comes from actual physical work, not just a gym membership.
His jeans fit him like they were tailored specifically for his body—which they probably were, because Lucas Hayes doesn't do off-the-rack anything.
His dark hair is slightly messed from the island breeze, and I hate that it makes him look like he just rolled out of bed after doing something thoroughly enjoyable.
He's tall—probably six-foot-three—with broad shoulders that fill out his shirt in a way that makes my brain temporarily short-circuit.
There's something about the way he carries himself, that confident posture that screams success and control, that makes every woman within a fifty-foot radius take notice.
And I hate that I'm one of them.
"I know exactly what they're for, sweetheart," he says, voice dripping with that familiar condescension that somehow manages to sound sexy even when it's pissing me off.
Sweetheart. Like I'm some clueless resort staff member instead of the woman who's been busting her ass to make his sister's wedding perfect.
"Everything is scheduled and coordinated," I snap, crossing my arms. "Those linens have a very specific delivery timeline that you just completely screwed up by redirecting them."
“And you’re not supposed to be here until tomorrow,” I snap, crossing my arms.
He has the audacity to look amused. "Nice to see you too, Monroe. Still charming as ever, I see."
"Still an arrogant, trust-fund prince who thinks money solves everything, I see," I fire back, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.
The delivery driver looks between us like he's watching a tennis match. "So... where exactly do you want these linens?"
"Villa Paradise," Lucas says at the same time I say, "The bridal preparation suite."
"Please don't interfere with my vendor coordination. Those linens are supposed to go directly to the staging area, not your suite."
We glare at each other. Lucas looks infuriatingly good in his casual clothes—like he stepped out of some billionaire-on-vacation photoshoot. His hair is slightly messed from the island breeze, and I hate that it makes him look more approachable. More human.
"Look," I say, forcing my voice into professional calm, "I appreciate that you want to help your sister, but I have a very specific timeline—"
"Your timeline that apparently includes missing grooms and double-booked bakers?” His eyebrow arches, and I want to smack that smug expression right off his face.
How the hell does he already know about that?
"Information travels fast when you own half the hospitality industry," he says, reading my expression. "Don't worry, I can arrange for Jason's transport. Private jet can have him here by tomorrow by six."
I blink. "You... what?"
"Fixed your groom problem. You're welcome."
The casual way he says it makes my teeth clench. Because of course Lucas Hayes can just snap his fingers and make private jets appear. Of course he can solve in five minutes what I've been panicking about all morning.
"I didn't ask for your help," I say, hating how defensive I sound.
"No, but Claire asked me to make sure her wedding goes smoothly. And right now, you look like you're about thirty seconds away from a breakdown." His eyes scan my face, taking in what I'm sure are stress-induced dark circles and the slightly manic edge to my smile.
"I am not having a breakdown," I lie through gritted teeth. "I am handling multiple crisis situations with grace and professionalism."
"Is that what we're calling it?" He steps closer, and I catch a hint of his cologne—something expensive and masculine that makes my brain temporarily short-circuit. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're juggling flaming torches while riding a unicycle."