Chapter 1 #3
I rolled over and bumped into Bruno. I wrapped my arm around him.
My front to his big back. He liked being the little spoon when we cuddled.
He wiggled his head, rubbing his soft, furry face under my chin.
I’d have to wash the pillow he was using to get the drool off, but it was totally worth it.
Doggy snuggles helped recharge my batteries almost as much as the sleep after a bad shift.
I didn’t invite Bruno into bed with me every night.
But last night I’d needed a hug. Nothing better than one from a mastiff.
Unbidden, the image of Henry Phipps wrapping me in his nicely muscled arms popped into my head.
Bruno might be in for some competition if Henry and I navigated a first date successfully.
I pulled my phone off the charger and turned the notifications off Do Not Disturb. Dozens of missed calls and messages lit up the screen. It looked like they were all from The Duchess of Drama.
I flopped back onto the mattress with a dramatic sigh and let the phone fall into the blankets. A millisecond later, a new text alert chimed.
Ah, the drama. My stepsisters thrived on it.
The Duchess of Drama—aka the bride, aka Marguerite—was the older of the two.
And since getting a ring on her finger, she’d been the center of our family’s universe.
Her needs, whims, and desires were royal decrees her noble family had to obey.
My stepmother and Anastasia, the younger stepsister, had been swept into the madness willingly.
I tried to remain sane by staying clear of the fray.
I opened the newest text.
Drama Duchess: I need you! NOW!
I found that hard to believe. Before the chaos of Marguerite’s wedding, we’d been the kind of stepsisters that called or texted on holidays and saw each other at my stepmother’s house a few times a year.
We didn’t dislike each other, but as adults, we had little in common other than my stepmom was her real mom.
I had no animosity toward my stepsisters. I’d watched them grow up.
No matter how many times I’d tried to get out of the wedding group text, one of them always re-added me. And now there was a crisis, and for some unknown reason, I was the key to solving the problem. Doubtful.
I scrolled backward through the ignored messages.
Drama Duchess: He’s getting Chad’s mother involved.
Drama Duchess: It’s my wedding. He’s just a groomsman. He has to do what I say.
Drama Duchess: He’s being unreasonable.
Drama Duchess: There is a problem with Chad’s brother.
Ah, the root of the matter. Chad had a brother. News to me. And he had opinions. Poor bastard. I’d have thought any man with half a brain knew better than to argue with a bride. It was her way or the highway.
My phone rang.
“Hello, Marguerite.” I cuddled Bruno, looking for moral support.
“You have to do this for me.”
I knew I’d regret answering this call. “What, dear sister?”
“Meet Chad’s asshole brother and explain to him he’s wearing what I tell him.”
“It’s a black-tie wedding; is this guy not willing to wear a tux?” An image of a pot-smoking loser with the same blond hair as Chad filled my mind’s eye.
“It’s not the tux. It’s the bow ties he objects to.”
“Why can’t Chad do this?”
I’d stayed as far away from the clothing drama as possible.
I’d not even picked out my dress, opting to let my stepmother select mine.
It was pale blue chambray and lace. I’d had it hemmed, shoved it in a garment bag, and hadn’t looked at it since.
My new shoes were going to be the best part of the wedding weekend by a million miles.
The memory of Henry slipping his fingers around my ankle as he put the shoe on my foot last night brought a smile to my lips.
“The asshole brother lives in Chicago. You’re closer. You’re going to have to talk him into it. I just sent you his number.”
“Dear Lord, did you pick out bolo ties or something?” My sister and her groom had decided on a destination wedding in the small town of Elmer in the Texas Hill Country.
If Marguerite had solicited my opinion on her wedding, which she hadn’t, I’d have told her she’d taken the Texas theme a little bit too far.
If it was kitschy Texas, she’d embraced it.
Yellow roses and bluebonnets. Lone Star Beer in a can.
Red, white, and blue everything Etsy offered.
“No, that’s tacky. The formal sets have the most adorable cowboy print. Little hats, boots, and spurs. They are from Hermès.”
“Really?” I was shocked something so tacky could have come from the French fashion house that was famous for thirty-thousand-dollar handbags.
“Yep.” My stepsister chirped in a tone that set off my internal lie detector.
I’d need coffee before I talked a stranger into wearing a knock-off Hermès cowboy-themed tie. Wait—what was I thinking? I wasn’t doing this. This was a Chad and Marguerite problem. Not a me problem.
“I don’t want to get involved.” The pressure building to cave to her demands swirled in my gut. I vowed to stay strong, already dreading the calls from my stepmother and Anastasia wearing me down day by day until I gave in. Ugh.
“Cindy. Please, you’re the only one that can get in Henry’s face and convince—”
“Wait.” I jackknifed up in bed, elbowing Bruno in the side. My dog groaned and hopped off the bed. “His brother’s name is Henry Phipps?”
“Duh.”
“Henry. Phipps. Is he an accountant?” I crossed my fingers so hard my knuckles throbbed. It couldn’t be my sweatpants-wearing, age-appropriate, single and sexy HOA board member, Henry Phipps. Anyone but him. Please.
“How did you know?”
“Please don’t make me do this.”
“How did you know?!”
I winced. The Duchess was in full drama mode, and it was loud.
“Tell me!” she demanded.
“I think he lives in my building.” Understatement of the year.
Henry
I grabbed my phone from under a stack of papers on my chaotic desk. Sadly, the text wasn’t from Cindy but an unknown number.
Unknown: Guess what? Your brother is marrying my stepsister.
I reread the message. Strangest scam text I’d gotten in a while.
Henry: Interesting.
Unknown: You’re making waves. I’ve been told you don’t like the bow ties.
Shit. Not a scam. My future sister-in-law had been recruited to run interference on the fashion question. I was still pissed I’d wasted thirty-nine dollars plus shipping on that hideous formal set.
Henry: They are ridiculous.
Unknown: My dress looks like an Amish housecoat. But you don’t see me complaining.
The Zen-like acceptance of her sister’s choice was impressive. I’d met Marguerite once. Chad was either brave or stupid for having put a ring on that delicate, perfectly manicured finger. It appeared the stepsister was more practical.
Henry: I’d complain if I were you. Is it made of cheap Chinese polyester?
Unknown: Of course. Everything is nowadays.
I leaned my head on my hands, rubbing my bleary eyes. It was almost four o’clock. And my pile of work was still growing.
Henry: My brother said they were from Hermès.
Unknown: My sister lies too.
My shoulders shook as I suppressed a laugh. I doubted Mom when she told me my brother and his fiancée were meant to be… but maybe it was a happily-ever-after match.
Henry: They are tacky.
Unknown: Yes. But you’re wearing them.
Henry: You swear it’s not a practical joke or something?
Unknown: The tie? Or this conversation?
Henry: Both.
Unknown: No joke. Wear the damn tie. Cummerbund too.
I considered my reply. Unexpectedly, I wanted to agree. This woman must have mind-melding powers of persuasion. In a handful of texts, she’d done more to change my mind than all my brother’s not-so-subtle threats of impending bodily harm.
Henry: Fine. I’m going to regret this.
Unknown: I knew you were a reasonable man.
Henry: Not really, I’m just too swamped with work this week to fight. It’s tax season.
Unknown: Then get back to it. We can talk later.
Henry: Bye.
I stared at my phone. That was the strangest conversation I’d had in ages.
It had been surreal. It started midstream; she’d gotten me to laugh and convinced me to wear the stupid cowboy tie.
And the last line: talk later, why? Who was this woman?
Had Chad ever told me her name? I had no reason to talk with her again until the wedding, whatever her name was.
“Hey, how’s the K-1 for Signature Tech coming?” The managing partner poked her head around the corner of my doorway.
“Almost done.” No, it wasn’t. I’d be at my desk until after nine tonight. I hated tax season.
Before I dove back into my work, I scrolled through my sent text messages.
The one to Cindy Ash remained unread. That sucked.
Getting a drink with her had been the only enjoyable thing on my radar for this weekend.
I’d already set aside Saturday evening for her.
It was the only night off I’d get before the end of tax season and my trip to Texas.
Cindy
I stepped out of the elevator with Midnight strapped to my back, ready for another night at the clinic.
In the lobby near the package room, I saw Henry flipping through his mail.
“Henry!” I jogged over as quickly as the cat backpack would allow.
“Cindy.” His face blossomed into a wide, excited smile that put his perfect eye wrinkles on full display.
My heart fluttered, and so did my lonely female parts.
Easy does it, I thought. Between our attraction and that ridiculous—yet utterly distracting—text conversation, we were moving fast. If this went sideways, it could blow up in our faces just in time for the wedding.
Marguerite’s wedding was going to be stressful enough; I didn’t need to add awkwardness with Henry to the weekend.
“Thank you again—” I began, ready to thank him for being so easy to deal with on the bow tie thing.
“This weekend—” He began.
We both stopped talking and laughed.