From This Day Forward (8 page)

Maya did another one of those happy hand claps. “Oh, I didn’t tell you! The Wedding Belles have an opening.”

Seth stared at his sister blankly.

Maya rolled her eyes. “Come on. The Wedding Belles?”

He shook his head. “Is that, like, a fancy dress shop, or something?”

“Um, try the premiere wedding-planning company in the city. Maybe the country. They have access to all the best venues, the top designers, and they never do the same wedding twice. Everything is custom, original, perfectly tailored to the bride’s needs. One of a kind.”

That, Seth could translate: expensive.

Still, if their father were alive . . .

“They’re super exclusive,” Maya said. “You have to book them, like, years in advance, but I called, and they had something open up!”

“That’s great,” Seth said, rubbing a hand down his face. He knew full well that the convenient opening had likely been a result of Maya’s very recognizable last name.

“So anyway, Friday is just a consultation. They want to hear what I’m looking for and my timeline—”

“What
is
your timeline?” Seth interrupted.

In other words, how long do I have to figure out whether Neil’s the gold digger I think he is?

“Well, I’ve always liked the idea of being a June bride,” Maya said, “but that’s less than six months away, so we all know that’s not going to happen . . .”

Seth blinked. It wasn’t? Six months seemed like a hell of a long time to him, but then he wasn’t the one who’d been marrying off the family dog when he was six. What did he know?

“So I’m thinking maybe a Christmas wedding,” she said. “It’s so festive, with the red and green, or I could go metallic, or even blue—you know what that does with my eyes . . .”

Seth tuned his sister out as she ran through possible color schemes.

Christmas. That gave Seth eleven whole months. Plenty of time to get to know his future brother-in-law, and then find a way to get rid of the bastard if he didn’t pass muster.

But if Seth was going to make this work—if he was going to have a shot at getting to know the real Neil—it meant he’d have to spend some time with the money-grabbing bastard. He had to be there when the man inevitably slipped up.

“What time?” Seth interrupted.

Maya paused mid-description of the pros and cons of flocked Christmas trees. “What time for what?”

“Your meeting on Friday with the Wedding Chimes. What time is it?”

Maya laughed. “The Wedding Belles. And it’s at two, at their headquarters on the Upper West Side.
Why?”

“I want to be there.”

His sister blinked in surprise. “You do?”

Seth lifted a shoulder. “I want to be involved in all of this. I don’t need to come along to dress fittings and whatever the hell else you’ve got going on, but the big-decision stuff . . . I want to be a part of it.”

Maya laughed. “You are so like Dad. He always liked to know how every penny of his money was being spent.”

Sure, let’s go with that.
Easier for her to think he was pinching pennies than checking out her fiancé.

Seth smiled. “Guilty. You want live doves, we’ll get live doves, but I want to make sure these wedding planners don’t think they have a blank check just because our last name is Tyler.”

Maya shrugged and bent down to retrieve her various shopping bags. “Suit yourself.”

Seth walked his sister to the office door, dipping his head slightly when she went up on her toes to kiss his cheek.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Seth nodded. “I just want you to be happy.”

“I am,” she said, beaming up at him. “I’m
so
happy. And I’m really sorry you haven’t had a chance to meet Neil, but it all happened so fast.”

Tell me about it.

“He’ll be there on Friday, right?” Seth asked. “How about the three of us go out for a late lunch after the meeting with the wedding planner?”

Maya nodded. “Perfect. You’re going to love him. And he can’t wait to meet you.”

Me and my wallet, I’d bet.

“Friday, two o’clock,” Maya said, kissing his cheek one more time. “Don’t be late, ’kay?”

Seth blinked. “Have I ever been late?”

His sister laughed. “Good point. Would you be less grumpy about the whole thing if I told you we’ll do an open bar at the wedding, stocked with all your favorites?”

Seth only had one favorite: Four Roses Bourbon. And if the ever-increasing tension in his chest was any indication, he was going to be drinking a lot of it in the coming months. Starting with tonight.

He told his sister good-bye, and then went straight to his bar cart in the corner and poured himself a generous tumbler of his beloved bourbon—hell, he deserved it. Then he went immediately to his computer to search for every possible detail he could find on one Neil Garrett.

B
rooke Baldwin double-checked the weather app on her phone. Then triple-checked it.

Nope. The numbers hadn’t changed. Twenty-four degrees freaking Fahrenheit, but “feels like twelve.” Really? Once it got below freezing, did it even
matter
what the “feels like” temperature was?

Brooke wouldn’t know. She could count the times she’d been in subfreezing temperatures on one hand. A hand that was likely to turn into a Popsicle the second she got outside because she didn’t own a pair of gloves.

Reason number 412 why moving to New York City from Los Angeles on a whim had been . . . an adjustment.

So many learning experiences. Wearing stilettos on the subway. Trying to find a taxi in the rain. Finding out that having a washer and dryer in your unit was a Manhattan rarity.

Brooke cast a look downward at the professional-yet-fashion-forward ensemble she had painstakingly assembled for her first day on the job and sighed resignedly. The freeze-your-butt-off weather definitely required a last-minute wardrobe change. Off went the sexy but paper-thin wrap dress, on went the blue turtleneck sweater and leggings. She opted for gray platform boots instead of the pink Louboutins she’d splurged on for Christmas last year. Not her trendiest attire, but it was the warmest thing she owned.

Just like her cute ivory peacoat was the warmest jacket she owned.

Not warm enough, it turned out.

The bite of the cold January air took her breath away the moment she stepped outside, and Brooke wanted desperately to turn right back around.

But there was something else she wanted more. She forged ahead.

She burrowed her face in her scarf and lifted her hand for a taxi. In spring and summer, the restaurant would probably qualify as being within walking distance.

But in the dead of winter? No. Just no.

Miraculously, a cab took pity on her, and five minutes later she was standing inside MOMA, one of the most famous museums in the country as well as the upscale eatery where she was about to meet her new colleagues.

Or, as Brooke liked to think about it: Step Two of Life After Clay.

Step one had been getting the hell out of LA.

Step two commenced today, and involved accepting a job with the uber-elite Wedding Belles.

Brooke wasn’t entirely sure what step three would be, but she was pretty sure it would involve wine and Celine Dion sing-alongs à la Bridget Jones.

In better news, swanky as the restaurant was, it was also very LA. The modern decor, efficient waitstaff, and surplus of designer handbags reminded her of the upscale haunts she used to frequent back home, and she felt her shoulders relax as she blew out a breath she did not even know she had been holding. Brooke had been one of the top wedding planners on the West Coast—fancy working lunches were her jam.

Still, her hands might have been just a tiny bit clammy as the hostess led her to her table. She might have been a wedding planner in California, but she was a long way from the Pacific.

Now she’d be coming face-to-face with the top wedding planners on the
East Coast
. If Brooke was at the bottom of her game, courtesy of The Wedding That Didn’t Happen, the Wedding Belles were at the top of theirs.

And yet, they wanted you. Buck up, Baldwin. You’ve got this.

A curly-haired blonde spotted her first, smiling in welcome as Brooke approached the table. Brooke had practically memorized the Wedding Belles’ website, so she immediately recognized the woman as Heather Fowler, one of the assistant wedding planners.

Actually, the
only
assistant wedding planner.

The Belles were a tiny company, managing to climb to the top of the Manhattan wedding scene with only two wedding planners, an assistant wedding planner, and a receptionist.

In recent months they’d been running even leaner, as one of the wedding planners had left the company to raise a family in Connecticut.

That’s where Brooke came in.

Her gaze shifted to the other woman at the table, already knowing what she’d see, and yet somehow surprised that Alexis Morgan looked
exactly
like every picture Brooke had ever seen of her.

In fact, for all the expression on the other woman’s face at the moment, Brooke might as well be looking at a photograph now, too, instead of the real thing. A cool customer, this one.

“Brooke,” Alexis said, standing and extending a hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Alexis’s voice was very much like the woman herself. Smooth, polished, and pretty. Very pretty, Brooke amended. She was shorter than Brooke’s own five eight by a few inches, but had that sort of exceptional posture that made her look a good deal taller than she was. Her chestnut-brown hair was pulled into a sleek chignon, her eyes wide and brown with just enough perfectly applied makeup to look put together without being obvious. The outfit was also spot-on. Gray slacks and a white blouse, simple pieces but perfectly tailored to cast a sleek appeal.

“It’s so nice to meet you, too!” Brooke said, hoping her voice didn’t sound
too
gushing. It wasn’t that Brooke was bubbly. Not really. But she was aware of the fact that she was quick to laugh, even quicker to smile, and eager to see the best in people.

Not so long ago, the ready smiles and optimism had been genuine. She hadn’t even been aware of them.

Lately, though . . .

Well, fake it till you make it, right?

She shook Heather’s hand as well, and the three of them sat down at the low granite tabletop. “We ordered champagne,” Heather said with a little wink. “Hope that’s okay.”

“Definitely. I wouldn’t be in this job if I didn’t love champagne.”

“Have you taken any classes?” Alexis said, leaning forward.

Brooke blinked. “Um. Classes?”

“Champagne classes.”

“Maybe we should let her drink a glass before we send her to school, hmm, boss?” Heather asked.

“Yes, of course,” Alexis said, sitting back. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, please,” Brooke said as Heather motioned for a server to pour their champagne. “I’m on your turf now. If you want me to go to bubbly school, I’m all for it.”

“It’s actually a blast,” Heather said. “They let you drink the stuff, and plenty of it.”

“They also have a spit bucket,” Alexis said mildly.

Heather waved this away. “Please. Who spits French champagne? Crazy talk.”

Brooke smiled, warming to the younger woman. Heather was every bit as pretty as Alexis, although where Alexis looked like she held the world’s secrets in some vaulted part of her enormous brain, Heather gave off a friendly what-you-see-is-what-you-get vibe. Her hazel eyes were sharp and intelligent, but there were no pretenses there.

She seemed like the type of friend who’d tell you when your haircut sucked, but only after you’d asked, and the one you’d go on a doughnut binge with you after a breakup and wouldn’t breathe a word about the calories.

Not that Heather was a friend. Yet. They’d just met. But Brooke had every intention of making her one. Alexis, too.

“So, Brooke,” Heather said. “Tell me honestly. Was your adjustment to New York as rough as mine?”

“If by rough you mean trying to get to Brooklyn and ending up in the Bronx and nearly freezing my face off . . .”

Nodding, Heather picked up a roll from the basket in the center of the table and pointed it in Brooke’s direction. “I hear you on the subway bit. Nobody ever really tells you that the entrance to the uptown and downtown trains are rarely on the same side of the street.”

“The guidebooks tell you. And the Internet,” Alexis said.

Heather rolled her eyes. “Ignore her.”

Brooke gave Alexis a nervous glance, curious if the other woman took issue with Heather’s informal tone—they were, after all, boss and assistant. But to her surprise, Alexis was smiling. She was not, however, touching the bread basket.

Impressive self-control on Alexis’s part, but Brooke had never met a carb she didn’t like and followed Heather’s lead, grabbing one of the crusty, still-warm rolls and spreading a bit of aioli-infused butter on it.

Before she could dig in, though, Alexis lifted her champagne flute. “Shall we toast?”

“Hells yes,” Heather said, lifting her glass. “To the newest Belle.”

Belle
.
I like that
, Brooke thought as she picked up her champagne. For the past two years, Brooke had thrown every bit of energy into starting her
own
wedding-planning company, determined to work for herself.

And while being the boss had come with plenty of perks, it had also been . . . lonely. She wondered if this was maybe the way to do it—to belong to something.

“To the newest Belle,” Alexis said, echoing Heather. “And to new beginnings.”

Brooke met her new boss’s gaze, wondering exactly how much Alexis Morgan knew about Brooke’s past. Wondered if the other woman knew how true her words were.

She hadn’t hid what happened from Alexis during their several phone interviews, she just . . . hadn’t volunteered it. Still, it was hardly a national secret. Alexis, and Heather, for that matter, could have found out every sordid detail with a quick visit to everyone’s BFF, Google.

Looking at Alexis’s face certainly didn’t tell her one way or the other whether her boss knew. The woman was like 007 with the unreadable.

“So, Brooke,” Heather said, reaching for yet another roll. “You’ve heard that we East Coasters are known to be a bit more blunt than you West Coasters, right?”

“You’re from Michigan,” Alexis told Heather. “That’s more Midwest than anything.”

“I became a New Yorker about five minutes after moving here,” Heather said. “We all do. Anyway, what I want to know is—and you can totally tell me to shut my trap, by the way—your, um, spicy past . . . are we talking about it, or not talking about it? I’m fine either way.”

“
Heather!
” For once Alexis’s voice was anything but calm, and Brooke sensed she’d like nothing more than to kick her assistant under the table.

“I’m sorry,” Heather said, going a little bit pale. “Was that rude? I just thought that we’re going to be spending, like, every minute of every day together, we should know what’s off-limits and what’s fair game.”

“Yes, of course it was rude,” Alexis said.

Heather gave Brooke a contrite look. “I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s
totally
not a secret, and if I’m supposed to tiptoe, I have to know now, you know?”

“Good Lord,” Alexis murmured, taking a sip of her champagne. “Have you
ever
tiptoed?”

The women’s exchange gave Brooke a second to gather her thoughts—to recover from the shock of hearing it mentioned, only to realize that Heather was right.

They would be spending a hell of a lot of time together, and as far as Brooke was concerned, the only thing worse than talking about it was
not
talking about it.

And so, after taking a sip of champagne for courage, Brooke took a deep breath, folded her hands in her lap, leaned forward slightly, and told her new colleagues all about the guy she’d fallen in love with. The one she’d almost married.

Right up until the moment the FBI had arrested him.

At the altar.