Wedding or Not (Blossom Park #1)

Chapter 1

If I were living in a nineteenth-century novel, I’d be sold off in marriage to repair the family fortunes.

That would be my fate for sure.

I’m the oldest of six sisters, and I’ve been called pretty all my life. My family owns a large property, and we’ve been struggling financially for years.

Of course I should find a respectable man with a bank account large enough to pay off our debts and bring us back to our former glory.

Sometimes I wish that was an option.

Surely navigating a practical marriage with a somewhat decent man would be easier than waking up every morning terrified that today is the day we’ll lose everything.

And it will all be my fault.

See, here’s the other thing about me. If I were living out a historical novel, I wouldn’t be one of those fiery, clever, spirited heroines who defy their circumstances and find their happiness in the end. I wouldn’t be Elizabeth Bennet.

No.

I’d be Jane.

Not the smart one. Not the talented one and not the adventurous one.

Just the quiet, responsible one who’s secretly anxious about her world falling apart.

I’d be Jane Bennet—without a wealthy, warmhearted Mr. Bingley yearning for her from the sidelines.

If I could marry a man of comfortable circumstances who would treat me okay, I would do it.

It would be better than sitting here in the lobby of a sleek, cool financial firm in DC with a seat between me and Wesley Kennedy, praying the banker we’re meeting will be willing to take a chance on Blossom Park.

To be clear, I didn’t leave the seat between us. Wes did. I sat down first, and instead of sitting beside me as a normal person would, he left one neatly upholstered chair between me and him.

Like we’re buddies at a movie theater, afraid people will think we’re a couple.

He’s focused on email on his phone, oblivious to my existence.

He put on a business suit for this meeting, although he hasn’t been wearing them lately.

Beneath the suit jacket, he’s wearing one of the sweater-vests Aunt Grace knits for him as a Christmas gift every year.

If he were someone else, I’d probably give him a second appreciative glance.

He’s got a lean, straight body, good shoulders, thick brown hair, and a slight cleft in his chin.

But all I see is Wes, a guy I’ve known since childhood and have never liked.

All I see is Wes with that disdainful tilt of his lips and judgment in his gray eyes.

“He’s ten minutes late,” I say, turning my phone repeatedly in my hands.

Wes, being him, doesn’t even slant his eyes toward me. “And?”

“And is that a bad sign?”

“Why would it be a bad sign? It’s after three in the afternoon. He’s had a day’s worth of appointments that probably ran late.”

He’s still not looking at me. He’s tapping out an email, making it clear that whatever is on that phone is more important than me.

I roll my eyes, the annoyed expression wasted because its target remains unaware. “I thought you said he was your friend.”

“He’s a professional acquaintance. We’re not besties who share gossip and giggles every night.”

My eyes narrow as exasperation rises in my throat. I’m nervous enough about this meeting. I don’t need him making snide remarks that feel like they’re covertly directed at me.

“Has no one ever advised you to adjust your tone so you don’t perpetually come across as a rude asshole?”

Finally—finally—those eyes lift from the phone to my face.

For a moment I wonder if I’ve actually made him angry. He’s one of those infuriatingly calm and controlled people it’s impossible to rouse a reaction in.

I know since I’ve been trying all my life.

But no. His mouth twitches slightly in a smug sort of amusement. “You’ve advised so. Too many times to count.”

“Then maybe you should pay attention. I’m nervous, and your superior attitude is making it worse.”

His face changes almost imperceptibly. His mouth sobers back to its normal nonexpression. “I know you’re nervous, Ella, but the nerves are wasted energy. He’ll either approve the loan or he won’t. Either way, we’ll go from there.”

My eyes widen. Indignation pulses against the edges of my being so intensely that my body jerks.

I cover it by straightening the skirt of my dress—a boring, navy-blue shirtdress whose only claim to prettiness is the subtle embroidery on the collar and hem.

(I wore it to look professional for this meeting.) I breathe in through my nose and blow it out through my mouth a few times until the outrage is under control.

He’s been watching my response, missing not a single detail of my body language. He’ll also see that my cheeks are flushed and my hands are clenched. “Say it,” he says in the clipped tone I’ve always hated.

“Say what?”

“Whatever you’re stewing with over there. It’s about to explode out of you, so you might as well get it said.”

Wes is one year older than me (he’s thirty, and I’m twenty-nine), and his parents worked for mine.

We were thrown together all the time as kids but were never friends even though we played together a lot.

He was bossy and superior even back then.

The only time I liked him even a little was when he got kind of cute in high school and joined the soccer team.

But by then he was ignoring me, treating me like a pesky little kid.

So that brief glimmer of a crush faded quickly, and he’s been lurking on the outskirts of my life ever since—always there in the background but never penetrating deep enough to matter.

It’s only been in the past few years, after he gave up his big-city job in finance to move back to town and work remotely, that my annoyance with him became a daily thing.

Now I see him almost every day.

“Maybe you can approach this situation with that smug, heartless distance you live your life with, but this is my family and my home. I can’t approach it coldly like you. This matters to me more than anything, so I’m sorry about all the ‘wasted effort’ my nerves are expending.”

I’m speaking softly since there are other people in the lobby, including a young woman with a cute hipster vibe who moved a few minutes ago and is now facing us directly.

She’s on her phone, holding it up close to her face and oblivious to anything else around her, but still…

She’s in earshot, and no one else needs to hear our conversation.

“Don’t cry, Ella,” Wes bites out. “Sit there cursing me all you want, but don’t you dare cry.”

I’m one of those people who cries when I’m angry. I can’t help it, and it used to drive me crazy when Wes and I argued as kids.

He’d always take it as a victory when it was simply an overflow of rage.

But his clipped tone diverts the growing pressure behind my eyes like he sucked the tears right out of them. I make a hissing sound that doesn’t form a real word.

Elizabeth Bennet would come up with the perfect comeback right now to put her Darcy in his place, but not me.

I’ll never be the clever one. I’ll never be the lead character of the story.

I’m just Ella Blake. Boring and dependable. Not particularly competent at anything. Not even stylish and charming. With nothing to show for herself but a soft, slim body, long brown hair, and a pretty face that’s done nothing to fix her life.

And an overflow of anxiety I can’t always contain.

My eyes wander the lobby, seeking anything to focus on other than Wes’s cold face. Unexpectedly, I catch the gaze of the girl across from me. She’s still got her phone up, but she winks at me over the top of it.

I smile back because she’s being nice.

And I smile when someone smiles at me, no matter how obnoxious the man beside me is.

“Wesley.” A voice comes from across the room. “You and Ms. Blake can come on back. Sorry about the wait.”

Forty minutes later, I’m in the lobby again, standing by the wall of windows and trying not to cry.

I’m really not one of those people who cry at the drop of a hat. Today is not the best day to prove such a thing, but it’s true. But I cry when I’m very angry, and I cry from grief and deep disappointment.

This is all those things at once.

Wes is still back in the office, probably making excuses for the way I abruptly walked out and bringing the meeting to a professional close.

But I had to leave. It was either that or burst into tears right there.

My back is to the chairs in the waiting area as I breathe slowly and try to repress my swell of despair.

I wore a little white cardigan that was knit by hand by my Aunt Grace over my dress because it’s always cool in office buildings. It has slid partway off my shoulders, but I’m too upset to even pull it up again.

When someone else gently draws it back up to my shoulders, I gasp in surprise and whirl around.

Wes.

Of course.

“We knew it was a long shot.”

“Maybe, but I was still hoping he would agree.”

“I was too.”

Peering at his ever-composed face, I catch a slight glimpse of something in his eyes.

Maybe he means it.

Maybe he’s disappointed too.

It’s enough to soften the clench in my chest so I can take a full breath. “So what are we going to do?”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“That’s not a helpful statement.”

“It’s all I’ve got right now, but we’ll make a plan and we’ll get through it, just like we’ve been doing the past six years.”

Six years ago.

That’s when I ruined everything.

Eight years ago, I was beginning my last year in college—muddling through since I’ve never cared for school—when my parents both died in a boating accident.

Back then, Blossom Park was thriving. We had two or three weddings scheduled every weekend, other events throughout the weeks, and a steady stream of visitors to the gardens.

But the loss of our parents was such a blow that I quit college and came home to help.

The twins were only five then, and little Tessa was three.

Aunt Grace moved in as their legal guardian, but between the business and the family, it was too much for one person.

She needed help.