Can't Buy Me Love (5 page)

“I know you're impulsive . . . but I never imagined you could be so . . . so irresponsible . . . so rash when it came to money. . . . I mean, if you do something like this before we get married—”

“—what might I do after we get married?”

“I didn't say that.”

“No, but you were thinking it.” Bellamy crossed her arms over her chest, catching the ends of the scarf wound around her neck so that it tightened across her throat. “You're saying you don't trust me.”

“Bellamy—how can I trust you with money when you do something like this? I mean, if you can destroy our wedding budget, we're going to have to talk about how to handle our finances once we get married.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I think . . . I think I need to establish a family budget before we get married. And then I'll figure out your allowance—”

Was he joking? “My allowance? Reid, I'm going to be your wife—not your child!”

“Well, how mature is it to spend twenty thousand dollars on a dress?”

“I told you that I realized my gown looked so much like Lydia's . . . and that stupid photographer that crashed our engagement party said ‘Been there, photographed that' . . . and I don't want to embarrass you or disappoint your parents . . .”

“Don't make this my fault, Bellamy.” Reid resumed pacing, crushing leaves beneath his feet. “You're admitting you're spending money because you want to impress people. This goes beyond our wedding. I have to think about our family—when we have children and their college educations. I don't know that I can trust you to make wise decisions when it comes to money. It's best if I handle our finances—”

“You don't know if you can trust me with finances? How can you trust me at all?” She curled her fingers into the palms of her hands to stop them from shaking, the too-long acrylic nails digging into her skin.

“I didn't say that. You're overreacting.”

“I'm impulsive. Irresponsible. Rash. And now I'm overreacting.” Bellamy pressed her lips together, hoping her voice would stop quavering. “And you can't trust me. How am I supposed to marry someone who doesn't trust me?”

She twisted Reid's ring around her finger.

“Bellamy, what are you doing?”

“Love has to be based on trust, Reid. I'm admitting I made a mistake . . . but you tell me—was my mistake buying this dress or was it saying yes when you asked me to marry you?”

• • • 

“I'm the one who may have made a mistake—”

Bellamy's gasp made him realize he'd spoken his thought out loud. “I didn't mean to say that.”

“I-I dreaded telling you what I did, Reid . . . I said I was sorry. I knew you'd be upset.” Her voice trembled. “But I had no idea that you'd be reevaluating our whole relationship like . . . like some sort of investment option just because I made a mistake—”

“Bellamy—you went totally off budget for a wedding dress—and you're only going to wear it for one day. One day.”

Rows and rows of red numbers marched through his head—an endless line of debt.

Why couldn't she understand what she'd done? How careless choices like this affected someone for years?

“You're the one who kept telling me how important our wedding was! You're the one who insisted on a destination wedding in Manhattan—wanting to get married in the same church your parents and grandparents did.”

“It's called tradition, Bellamy. What would you spend my parents' money on? Getting married in some little country church and having a backyard barbecue for a reception?”

“What do you mean by that?” Bellamy stumbled back a few steps, as if Reid had physically pushed her. “When did you become such a snob, Reid Stanton?”

“I am not a snob—I just care about family. And tradition. And—”

“And money. It's becoming apparent you care more about money than you do about me.”

“I am not the one who spent over twenty thousand dollars on a wedding gown—”

“Stop saying that! I told you what I did so we could talk about it—not so you could keep tossing my decision in my face!” Bellamy threw her engagement ring so that it hit Reid's chest.

Reid caught the ring against his shearling sheepskin coat. “Hey! Have you forgotten this ring is a family heirloom?”

“I'm sorry—how could I forget how valuable it is?”

“That's not what I meant and you know it.” When he stepped toward Bellamy, she backed away. “What is wrong with you?”

“It's become very clear to me that we've both made bad decisions.” She sniffed, looking away from him for a moment before continuing. “You said you can't trust me . . . that you don't know what I might do after we get married. . . . You want to . . . to give me an allowance like I'm some sort of child!”

“Bellamy, you misunderstood me—”

“I didn't. I-I thought you were some kind of Prince Charming, Reid. But now I realize you're nothing but a money-obsessed m-miser.”

Reid stood silent. Better for him to be quiet—anything he said only seemed to make things worse.

“I'll pay my parents back every cent I spent on the dresses.” Bellamy wrapped her arms around her waist. “And I'll pay your parents back, too.”

“Bellamy, please calm down.”

“Calm down? Oh, I'm calm, Reid Stanton. You have no idea how calm I am.”

“This whole conversation is ridiculous—”

“Oh, now I'm ridiculous. Really, it's a wonder you ever proposed to me.”

“Stop putting words in my mouth.”

“Fine.” Bellamy twisted on her heel and marched back toward her parents' home.

How had this day gone so wrong? First his fiancée confessed to spending the cost of a car on a wedding gown—and then she threw her engagement ring in his face.

There was no redeeming this day. He'd start over in the morning.

He ran to catch up to Bellamy. “Let me walk you home—”

“No. I mean,
no, thank you
.” Bellamy never even looked at him. Never slowed down. “I can walk myself home from here.”

SEVEN

T
he busier the Monday, the better.

At least when Mondays were this hectic, she didn't have to talk to either of the receptionists. Bellamy could check the schedule, get the next dog to be groomed, and get down to bathing, trimming nails, and cutting fur. And repeat. Repeat. Repeat—until five o'clock.

She kept up a steady stream of nonsense with whatever dog she was working with. Idle chatter. Comforting croons if the “client” was nervous, like Tilda, Mrs. Wilson's grande dame longhaired dachshund. Since she was the only groomer working for her father, no one suggested she go to therapy. If her father ever hired another groomer, she'd have to quit talking to dogs—or maybe their “doggie chitchats” would blend together.

She hadn't planned on grooming dogs for a living. And that, after all, was the problem. She made a plan for her life. And changed it. Made another plan. Changed that one. Plan, change, plan, change—until she'd fallen in love with Reid Stanton and thought her fur-filled days were over. . . .

“There you go, Tilda.” She ruffled the dachshund's ears, scratching behind them. Finally her long nails were of some practical use. “You're looking very stylish.”

Now why would someone name a dog “Tilda”?

Try as she might, she couldn't ignore how her left hand no longer boasted her engagement ring. Or how Reid hadn't called or texted her since Saturday, when she'd left him standing in the woods behind her parents' house.

Which is why she'd spent her lunch hour in her apartment calling the florist and canceling their order for the wedding. The invitations. And Gotham Hall, the venue. And the caterer. The elaborate monogram ice sculpture, which had been a silly extravagance even if Reid insisted his parents would love it. Family and friends could just trash their “Save the Date” announcements for their wedding on December 30th—toss the photo of a smiling Reid and Bellamy as they strolled through Central Park during their weekend visit to New York to plan their wedding. Because that couple no longer existed. Their mothers had come along with them—on the Stantons' private jet, of course—and Bellamy had joked she had a challenge keeping up with both of the women.

She blinked back the burn of tears. What was the use of crying? She'd only deepen the red rimming her eyes—the ones she'd stared into this morning as she brushed her teeth and pulled her hair into a ponytail.

Bellamy buried her face in Tilda's neck, the dog twisting to lick her ear.

“Thanks for that.”

Lynn, one of the receptionists, ducked her head into the room. “Mrs. Wilson is here to pick up Tilda.”

“And she is all ready to go home.” Bellamy straightened, slipping the restraining cord from around the dog's neck.

Later, as she swept up dog hair, her father joined her in the back area. “Did you have a good day?”

“Sure.” Bellamy kept her eyes trained on the tile floor. “A busy Monday. You?”

“Can't complain. A couple of new patients. Surgery tomorrow, of course. You seeing Reid tonight?”

Bellamy swallowed a tiny sob that seared her throat. Shook her head. “You and Mom busy?”

“No. Just a quiet night at home—paying bills.”

Okay.

“I thought I might come by after dinner. I need to talk to you—”

Her father's hair, once the same dark black that was the trademark Hillman hair color, was now threaded with gray. And there was no denying that the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes—hazel, the same as hers—were really signs of age, not his dry wit.

“More wedding details, Bella-belle?”

“Um, yes.”

“It's not like I haven't done this father-of-the-bride thing before. After you, it'll be Brooke's turn, and then I can retire my checkbook.”

She managed a hollow laugh. “Right.”

“You want to join us for dinner? We've got some ribs left over from Saturday.”

“No.” Bellamy's stomach soured at the mention of her father's barbecue ribs. And thank God that she had her own car and didn't have to maintain idle chitchat on the ride home with her father. She'd hide out in her apartment and pray for courage and the right words until she had to go face her parents.

• • • 

True to his word, her father sat at the extra-long dining room table making an entry into his checkbook when Bellamy arrived later that evening. Now that some of her siblings were having children, her parents would never retire that table.

“Dad, you do online checking for the vet practice. Why don't you do it for your regular bank account?”

“I do. I just like to reconcile my checkbook the old-fashioned way.” He slid his readers on top of his head as Bellamy kissed his cheek.

And now she knew how Judas felt.

“Where's Mom?”

“Right here.” Her mother exited the kitchen carrying a tray laden with a trio of mugs. As she set the offering on the table, Bellamy inhaled a familiar aroma.

“Starbucks, Mom?”

“No, Bailee sent me this recipe. She found it on Pinterest. Said it's supposed to taste just like a Starbucks Pumpkin Spice Latte.”

Seemed her mother was even getting pulled into Pinterest.

Not that Bellamy could blame an Internet site for her money woes. Or her broken engagement. Or her broken heart.

She had no one to blame but herself.

“So, your father said you needed to talk to us about some more wedding plans.” Her mother handed her a brown pottery mug. “Careful, it's hot. Did I mention that Reid's mother and I discussed our dresses when they were here? We don't want to do the whole ‘matchy-matchy' thing, color-wise. But we thought we'd try to coordinate with each other.”

Dresses, again. “No, you didn't mention that.”

“I know you've pinned a lot of things on Pinterest, but what do you think about a muted gray? We thought it would work with the navy blue you selected for Elisabeth and Lydia. Or maybe a Williamsburg blue—not like the color you paint the outside of a house with—”

“Reid and I broke up.”

Bellamy's announcement caused her mother to stare at her, her mug of Starbucks-inspired coffee suspended in midair.

“What?”

“After the barbecue. I gave Reid his ring back.”

“Bellamy . . . why would you do that?”

“Well . . . because . . . because . . .” How was she supposed to say all this? “. . . Reid said he couldn't trust me.”

So much for honesty—she'd just pinned the breakup on Reid.

“And why would Reid Stanton say he couldn't trust my daughter?”

Her father's voice took on the deep tone he used when he was angry, but didn't want anyone else to know.

“I had to tell him that I-I . . . overspent the budget. Some.”

Her mother huffed out a breath that ruffled her wispy brown bangs. Waved away her words. “Oh, honey, everyone overspends their wedding budget. You and Reid are going to be fine between the money we gave you and the money his parents surprised you with.”

Bellamy stared at the whipped cream disappearing on the top of her coffee. Her mother sounded like Reid did—at first.

But she'd spent all the money her parents had given them—the entire amount some couples spent on a wedding.

Her mother's smile was gentle. Patient. “Bellamy, why don't you tell us the specifics?”

Bellamy swallowed, her throat dry and scratchy, like when she was a grade-schooler and her mother used to give her hot tea laced with honey and lemon. There was no simple remedy for what she'd done.

Reid had decided not to marry her. Would her parents disown her?

“I, um, realized the first dress we'd bought looks a lot like Lydia Stanton's dress—well, she's Lydia Webster now.” Bellamy's voice was disappearing. She cleared her throat. Continued. “Satin . . . the same jeweled back . . . you know what my dress looks like. Anyway . . . I went shopping for another dress, a replacement dress . . . I mean, I can't wear a look-alike dress, can I? And I found an amazing dress. It's a designer gown and won't be in the stores until next year—”

“Bellamy, we understand.” Her father tapped the table with his ballpoint pen. “The dress is beautiful. How much did it cost?”

Just say it.

“Twenty thousand dollars.”

“Twenty thousand—” Her mother's voice trailed off as her mug hit the table with a clunk, liquid sloshing over the rim.

Her father rose to his feet, pushing his chair back. “How on earth did you spend that kind of money on a dress?
A dress
?”

“Dad, it's one-of-a-kind—and I didn't realize it cost that much until the saleswoman rang it up—”

“You agreed to buy that dress without even asking how much it cost?”

“Yes, sir.” Even as she wanted to shrink back in her chair, Bellamy forced herself to maintain eye contact with her father.

“Bellamy Hillman, how could you buy something as important as a wedding dress without looking at the price tag—”

“Now, Keith—”

“Don't ‘Now, Keith' me, Barb! It's bad enough the Stantons are subsidizing the wedding to begin with. But now this daughter of ours just blew all our money on some ridiculous amount of lace! I mean she's pulled some stunts, I admit it. Dyeing her hair that garish red color . . . throwing away five thousand dollars on that clunker of a car when she was sixteen because she liked the color—”

Bellamy bit down on her bottom lip as, once again, her previous brash choices were paraded in front of her.

“—but this . . . this . . .”

“I'm sorry!” Bellamy stood up, the chair behind her clattering to the floor. “I can't tell you how sorry I am! It was a mistake—I know it. I just wanted to look beautiful . . . perfect . . . for my wedding day. And now I'm not even getting married because Reid and I broke up. . . . All I can say is I'm sorry. I'll pay you back every single dollar. I promise.”

“Bellamy—” Her mother reached across the table.

“I mean it. I'll pay you back—and the Stantons, too, because some of it's their money. I've already canceled things—the venue, the florist—so that will help some.”

“Your father's upset, that's all.”

“I know. I let him down. And Reid. Everyone. But I'll figure out how to pay you all back as soon as I can.”

• • • 

Seven thirty.

Usually by this time every day, he and Bellamy had talked at least twice—and sent each other a dozen texts.
Thinking about you
texts.
I love you
texts.
I just had a thought about the wedding
texts.

Reid tossed his phone up on his dresser, placing his keys next to it. He loosened and pulled off his navy-blue tie and then shrugged out of his suit jacket, throwing them on the end of his bed instead of hanging them in his closet.

With a groan, he collapsed on his bed, the mattress bouncing beneath his weight.

Why hadn't Bellamy contacted him? Not a single text or voice mail. Was she really expecting him to call her—and say what? He wasn't the one who'd splurged on a dress and skewed their wedding finances.

Money
. Funny how a five-letter word could spin your world out of control.

He'd fought his way out of self-induced debt years ago—clearing dirty dishes and half-full glasses of soda or wine from tables stained with sauces. He'd endured insignificant tips and irritable customers. Watched his friends graduate two years ahead of him while every night he went home smelling of the restaurant kitchen, his feet and back aching. He'd sworn he'd never, ever, ever owe anyone another cent. All the while, he had to bear up under the additional weight of his parents' decision to dole out a Stanton-approved allowance to him for the last ten years.

Well, as much as he didn't like it, now that his impetuous bride-to-be had wasted thousands of dollars on a designer dress, he certainly understood his parents' decision. Sometimes drastic action was the best reaction.

But even though Bellamy had been reckless with their wedding budget—he still loved her.

From where he lay on his bed, the engagement ring—Bellamy's ring—glinted in the overhead light. No matter what she'd done, there was no one else he wanted wearing that ring.

For all her impulsiveness, Bellamy Hillman made him feel alive again. No, Bellamy Hillman
with
all her impulsiveness made him feel alive again. Why else had he offered to take Wiley back to get his weekly bath again—except for a chance to glimpse the hint of something special lurking in Bellamy's smile? It wasn't as if he had the time to drop Wiley off—and then return to pick him up. He'd left clients' folders sitting on his desk—something he never did—and come in early the next day to catch up. But he wanted to chat with the dog groomer with the laughing green eyes, who didn't seem to even notice his expensive car or the fact that he was—how did some of his old college “friends” describe him?—a stuffed shirt.