Chapter 20 #3
Beside her sits a man with a thick, dyed shock of blonde hair. He’s also sitting in total silence. This must be Cecily’s celebrity wedding planner.
I tap the attendant on the shoulder. “Thank you so much,” I say. “I see them over there.”
She smiles at me, nods, and retreats from the ballroom. Steeling myself, I pick my way between the tables until I reach Reed’s mother.
“Ah, there you are,” she says, her gaze raking me. Her eyes narrow as she takes in my new coat, and she sniffs, turning up her nose. “Looks like my son is already dressing you up.”
A prickle of shame shoots through me. I shrug off the coat, my cheeks burning. Cecily’s sneer was so evident in her voice that I can’t even look the wedding planner in the eye, even when he reaches his hand across the table to greet me.
“It’s nice to meet you, Miss Quinn,” he says brightly—probably grateful that he’s not alone with Cecily anymore. “Or should I say, the future Mrs. Eastwood?”
Cecily clicks her tongue. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, now.”
I shake the wedding planner’s hand. “Nice to meet you, too.”
“You can call me Ryan,” he offers.
“Olivia. It’s a pleasure.” I think about saying something to Cecily in response to her snide comment, but instead, I just give her a cordial nod. Better not to poke the bear.
“Well, let’s get down to business, shall we?
” Ryan pulls out a wafer-thin laptop and opens it up, tapping at the keyboard.
“I’ll be taking running notes throughout our meeting to keep track of everything.
Since this is just our initial consultation, we’ll go over the basics of what you’re looking for, and go from there. ”
He smiles, and I smile back, hesitantly. Cecily’s expression remains stony. Her gaze keeps darting to the coat, which is now draped over the back of my chair.
Maybe I should’ve just been cold, I think miserably, nodding to show the wedding planner I’m listening. He seems a little taken aback by Cecily’s frosty attitude.
“So what’s step one?” I ask. The faster we get the ball rolling, the sooner this meeting will be over. I think longingly of my half-finished sweater, lying on the couch at Reed’s.
“I need to know a few simple details. For one thing—what size are we thinking for this wedding? That’ll be necessary information for finding a venue.”
“Not too big,” I say.
Simultaneously, Cecily says, “As big as possible.”
There are a few moments of awkward silence at our table. Cecily and I stare at each other, and Ryan looks nervously between the two of us.
“What do you mean, ‘not too big?’” Cecily arches a penciled brow at me. “This is important, sweetheart. In this sort of social circle, an impressive wedding is expected.”
“Well…” I glance helplessly at Ryan. “I just thought that… since it’s not…” I trail off. What can I say? I just thought that, since it’s not real, we could make it smaller?
“As I said,” Cecily says, an edge to her voice, “it’s expected.”
I’m not sure if Cecily knows about the contract I have with Reed, or if she would act this way with his fiancé no matter what the situation. Either way, I decide to give in. It’s not a real wedding, anyway, so I figure it’s better to pick my battles.
“Big wedding it is,” I say to Ryan, who gives me an apologetic frown before typing on his laptop.
“Okay. Good to know.” Ryan looks up from the screen. “Next question—how formal do we want this to be?”
Before I can say anything, Cecily scoffs. “What kind of question is that? Black tie, of course. It’s a wedding, for goodness’s sake.”
“Some people like a more casual event,” Ryan says neutrally. “It’s more common than you’d expect.”
Cecily waves a dismissive hand. “Some people, perhaps, but not Eastwoods. Black tie, at minimum.”
Ryan meets my gaze; I think he can see the argument in my eyes, even though I don’t say anything out loud. He frowns, like he’s bothered on my behalf, but writes down Cecily’s request anyway.
“Okay. Let’s talk about location. Are we thinking we want a destination wedding, or something a little more local?”
“Local,” I say, at the same time as Cecily says, “Destination.”
“The Antilles,” says Cecily, as though I hadn’t spoken at all. “Or the Caymans, if that’s more stylish this year. You would know, wouldn’t you, darling?” She waves a hand at Ryan with another delicate laugh. He winces, glancing at me with an apologetic look.
I can feel the argument welling up in me. In my mind’s eye, I can see myself slamming a hand down on the table, making myself heard. I know that every head in this banquet hall would turn toward us, and that Cecily would never forgive me for making such a scene.
A huge part of me wants to make that scene. But I also know that it would cause nothing but trouble for Reed, and I signed a contract to help him get out of trouble. So I bite my tongue and look down at the pristine tablecloth.
“The Antilles, I think,” Cecily continues, oblivious. “On a private beach.”
I nod my head robotically. What does it matter? It’s not as if this wedding is actually going to happen. This is all just an elaborate performance, even if it does make me feel lower than dirt.
For the rest of the planning meeting, I remain silent and acquiescent. I speak only when Cecily speaks directly to me, and even then, I don’t bother to contradict her. I agree to everything she says, from the color scheme that I hate to the resort location that I know my parents couldn’t afford.
The wedding planner’s questions get shorter and snippier by the minute. I can tell that he’s irritated on my behalf, but he doesn’t argue either, which is a relief. The fastest way to get out of this place is for both of us to give Cecily her way.
After an hour of misery, Ryan closes his laptop. His smile is a bit too tight as he says, “I think that’s enough for one session. Don’t you?”
“Yes,” I say immediately, before Cecily can protest. “We got a lot done.” I’m itching to get out of here.
“Before next time, each of you should put together a Pinterest board,” he suggests. “Include any aesthetics that strike your fancy. We can go over them together and get a sense for what kind of wedding everyone wants.” At that, his gaze slides over to me meaningfully.
“Sounds good,” I say with a nod.
“Great.” Ryan slides his laptop into the satchel slung over the back of his chair. He stands up hastily and reaches to shake Cecily’s hand. “Let’s schedule another meeting for next week. I have an opening on Friday, if that works for both of you.”
Cecily seems taken aback by his sudden departure, but she doesn’t want to make a scene any more than I did. She shakes Ryan’s hand, nodding. “Next Friday, then.”
Ryan hurries out of the room, and I follow in his wake before Cecily can say a word to me. Not that she would, anyway. If anything, she probably just wants me out of her country club as quickly as possible.
The trip back from Long Island drags. I spend the entire drive staring out of the window, replaying the past hour in my head on an endless loop. With each passing minute, I feel more heartsick—and more annoyed with Cecily.
I try to pass the time on my phone, putting together a Pinterest board like Ryan suggested. It only serves to make me feel worse. My board is full of things that Cecily is sure to shoot down—the exact opposite of the kind of wedding she clearly wants.
By the time I arrive back at The Luxe, I don’t have the energy to knit anymore. I stare forlornly at the unfinished sweater on the couch for a few minutes, then trudge into the kitchen. I’m exhausted, I’m upset, and I want to eat something sweet.
Luckily, Reed’s pantry is stocked. That’s one of the many perks of this penthouse—I know there will be chocolate bars.
There’s a bag of marshmallows that I picked up last week when it started to get cold outside, just in case I wanted to make some hot cocoa.
All I need now is graham crackers, or a suitable substitute.
I raid the cabinets until I find a package of gingersnap cookies. That’ll have to do. There’s a pack of wooden skewers in one of the silverware drawers—I snatch that up, too.
I light the front burner of the expansive gas range, spear one of the marshmallows on a wooden stick, and begin to roast it over the stovetop.
I hear the soft rumble of the elevator doors, but don’t look up from my s’more-in-progress. There are footsteps outside of the kitchen; they stop in the entrance.
“What are you doing?”
Reed’s voice is incredulous, but not angry. I pull my golden brown marshmallow away from the flame and use two slabs of chocolate to slide it off the skewer.
“I’m making s’mores,” I say.
“That’s usually an outdoor activity, no?” I can practically hear the raised eyebrow in his voice. “What’s the occasion?”
I shrug. My fingers are already sticky from the marshmallow, but I can’t bring myself to care. My concoction, sitting on a napkin on the counter, isn’t pretty—but it’ll do. I scarf it down within seconds, then re-light the stove to prepare a second one.
“Okay,” Reed sighs, taking a seat at the counter. “What’s wrong?”
“Don’t know what you mean,” I mumble through a mouthful of chocolate. “‘M great.”
“Yeah, sure. That’s why you’re toasting marshmallows on the stove.”
I swallow hard to clear my tongue. “I just got back from my meeting with your mother and the wedding planner.”
“Ah.” Sudden understanding dawns on his face, followed closely by concern. He grimaces. “That bad, huh?”
I spear a second marshmallow and hold it over the burner. “I know this is a make-believe fantasy wedding, but your mother is taking this planning process very seriously.”
“What did she do?”
Shrugging, I rotate the marshmallow over the flickering blue flame. “She just talked over me the whole time. Shot down everything I said, and wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise.”
I sigh, glancing over my shoulder at him. He’s watching me with a furrowed brow, his hands steepled together over the counter.