Lovestruck Forever (13 page)

I
took a moment to respond, sipping my water to buy time. “I
don’t think you’re going to be too excited about it,”
I finally said.

She
stared at me with wide eyes. “Why ever not?”

I
sighed, playing with straw. “My family has kind of taken over
the planning.”

She
made a face. “Are they…not good at planning?”

“They’re
excellent. Totally efficient and in control. But they have certain
ideas about how things should be…”

“And
how’s that?”

“The
way things always are.” Even I could hear the bitterness in my
voice. “They’re planning exactly the way they’ve
planned my sisters’ weddings and my cousins’ weddings
before them. Same hall. Same food. Same florist. Same dress
designer.”

As
I spoke, Imogen’s face transformed from concerned to downright
horrified. “But…but…you’re marrying Thomas
Harper!”

I
raised my eyebrows. “So?”

“So?
So?! Lizzie, he’s a major movie star! A celebrity! You cannot
have a run-of-the-mill wedding! It’s…it’s
scandalous!”

Her
outrage was enough to make me laugh. “I’d hardly call it
scandalous,” I started, but she held up a hand, clearly not in
the mood to listen to me downplay the situation.

“Lizzie,
you need something special. Because you’re marrying someone
special.”

I
somehow managed not to roll my eyes. “Thomas
is
special, Im. But not because he’s famous.”

“Oh,
I know,” she said quickly, waving her hands dismissively. “I
just mean…you have the opportunity to have the wedding of your
dreams! Anywhere you want, any detail you want! I know Thomas would
be happy to give you anything you even hinted at wanting.”

“I
don’t want to spend a ton of money,” I told her, starting
to feel slightly annoyed by the turn of the conversation. Celebrity
worship was one thing—encouraging shallowness was another.

“I
don’t mean a ton of money,” she said, sounding almost
offended. “I mean having the things you
want
—the
wedding you want. Whatever special little things would make the day
perfect for you.” She looked at me closely. “That’s
what I meant by Thomas giving you what you wanted. Not like,
diamond-encrusted flowers or anything silly like that. I just mean
the special details that matter to you.”

Suddenly
I felt like crying. She absolutely had a point. My sisters had texted
me a dozen times since we arrived, all of their messages relating to
wedding planning in one way or another. They’d met with the
florists and texted me pictures of several samples—not one of
which I would have chosen if I had my way. They’d also advised
me on the menu—what tasted good and what fit Dad’s
budget. I signed off on their choices without so much as tasting a
bite—it just seemed easier that way.

So
far, that had been my general modus operandi when it came to this
wedding. Whatever was easiest. Whatever didn’t hurt anyone’s
feelings. Whatever got me closer to the day when I would become Mrs.
Harper, with the least amount of resistance.

But
was that what I really wanted? Was anything we picked so far what I
really wanted?

“You
know what I think?” Imogen asked, her voice softer. I got the
feeling she could tell I was upset—she was good at that kind of
thing, at knowing how to make me feel better. “I think you and
I should take the afternoon off and go look at wedding stuff.”

“What
kind of wedding stuff?”

“Whatever
you want. Cake. Shoes. Flowers. Maybe if you had a better idea of
what you wanted, it’d be easier to tell your family.”

I
considered that. It was hard enough to stand up to them even when I
knew exactly what I wanted. It was much more difficult when I was
unsure, when my desires were even slightly nebulous.

“At
the very least,” she said, very serious now. “I think
window shopping will be fun—and you need to have a little bit
of fun where this wedding is concerned. Because you don’t even
sound the slightest bit excited about any of it.”

“I
don’t, do I?”

She
shook her head. “I know it’s hard to stand up to family.
But just because it’s hard doesn’t mean you should go
along with things that make you unhappy.” I realized that, more
than just about anyone—with the exception of Sofie—Imogen
really did understand. Her staunchly upper-class parents had been
horrified when she decided to waste her perfectly respectable
Cambridge degree on being an assistant for a talent agent. But she’d
stood up to them and followed her own heart.

“You’re
right, Im,” I told her. “I think window shopping would be
tons of fun.”

“Oh,
good! I so did not want to go back to work today!”

We
were interrupted by the arrival of our food. As we ate lunch, Imogen
chatted happily about all the celebrity gossip I had missed since
going home. Apparently merging with the bigger office had been quite
the boon for her. There was a host of new clients for her to moon
over, and she’d been given several opportunities to work with
them directly, even if it was only to accompany them to photo shoots
or fetch their lunch during meetings. From the way she described
these new responsibilities, one might think she’d been promoted
to Queen of the Universe.

After
lunch, we hailed a taxi to take us over to Bloomsbury. According to
Imogen, the neighborhood contained the very best bakeries in London.
When I argued that we would never be able to get an appointment on
such short notice, she scoffed. “You really have no concept of
your fiancé’s name recognition, do you?”

Sure
enough, at the first bakery, all Imogen needed to do was to slip her
H and J Agency business card across the counter and introduce me as
Thomas Harper’s fiancée. The owner’s eyes went
slightly wide as she took in my face, probably thinking of all the
potential publicity she could garner from a celebrity wedding. I felt
a little guilty for not giving her the whole story—until she
brought out the cake samples. There were five of assorted flavors,
each with a different kind of ganache or mousse filling. I knew it
would be immature of me to whimper with delight, but it was a
struggle. They were some of the best desserts I’d ever eaten.

“Let’s
talk about design,” Imogen said in her most take-charge voice.
“The bride has only just started looking and really isn’t
sure how she’d like her cake to look.”

“Let
me show you some examples,” the baker said, pulling several
leather-bound portfolios from a side table. She opened one to the
first page before sliding it across the table toward me. “This
is the cake that we did for the Harrison wedding last fall.”

“Ooh,”
Imogen said, sounding excited. “You did the cake for Rebecca
Harrison?”

I
had no idea who Rebecca Harrison was, but from the tone of Imogen’s
voice I could only imagine she was a celebrity. The baker gave Imogen
a slightly suspicious look, and I kicked her under the table. If she
was supposed to be acting like Thomas’s representative, it
probably wasn’t the best idea to be acting so star struck.

“I
mean,” she said, coughing a little, “I know several
people who attended that wedding. People who work in the
industry
.”

It
took everything I had not to laugh at her attempt to sound like an
insider. The baker was definitely giving us both skeptical looks. I
crossed my fingers, hoping that she followed celebrity news enough to
have seen my picture at some point.

“I
think this is a little fancy for Thomas,” I said, feeling silly
for my blatant name dropping—even if he was my fiancé. I
flipped the page to see a very sleek-looking, ivory cake decorated
only with a smattering of crystal baubles at the top. It was elegant
and modern-looking. “Wow, that’s really pretty.”

“The
entire thing is edible,” she said, pride seeming to replace her
skepticism. “The crystals are sugar art.”

“You
can do that with sugar?” I asked. “That’s amazing.”

I
flipped again, this time exclaiming over a huge blue and green
confection covered in delicate sugar birds. Then a boxy, modern cake
decorated in brightly colored fondant polka dots. Then a stack of
purple cakes decorated with frosting and gum paste to look like a
stack of presents. Cake after cake, each more extravagant and
beautiful than the last.

“You
do amazing work,” I gushed, feeling very disappointed that I
wouldn’t be able to use her. I half-wondered if she could be
persuaded to come to Detroit to make the cake for us, before
realizing that flying in a foreign baker would pretty much be the
definition of overdoing it.

“Do
you have any favorites?” Imogen asked as I continued to flip
through the portfolio.

“This
one,” I breathed, stopping on a pale yellow cake covered in an
array of orange, purple, and red sugar flowers, each a perfect,
delicate representation of their real-life counterpart. I couldn’t
believe that they were edible and not the real thing. The color
palate was perfect for our fall wedding. My heart actually seemed to
constrict a little as I realized I wouldn’t be able to buy this
cake.

“That’s
gorgeous,” Imogen said decidedly. “You should definitely
show it to Thomas.”

“Do
you think your fiancé might come in to help you decide?”
the baker asked hopefully.

“He
will,” Imogen said, not giving me a chance to respond. “And
I think he’ll love that cake as much as you do.”

“I’m
sure he will,” I said, pushing the book away. I was about two
seconds away from throwing my credit card at the woman and begging
her to come to Detroit in October.

As
if reading my mind, Imogen plucked the woman’s business card
from a stand in the center of the table. “We’ll be in
touch,” she said. “By the way—are you available to
do destination weddings?”

“Of
course,” the baker said. “We’ve done several.”

Imogen
smiled broadly before taking my elbow and pulling me to a standing
position. I felt sad just to be leaving the picture of the cake.
“Then I’m sure we’ll speak soon. Thank you so much
for your time.”

It
wasn’t until we were outside that I spoke. “Damn it. I
don’t know if this was a good idea. No cake will ever be able
to compete with that one.”

“Then
order it,” she said, holding out her hand to hail a cab.

“I
can’t imagine what she would charge to come all the way to
Detroit just to—”

“Then
don’t imagine it,” Imogen said firmly. “Just close
your eyes and pretend it’s free.”

I
laughed as a cab pulled up to the curb in front of us. “I’ll
be sure to do that.”

There
was a calculating look in her eyes, almost as if she was planning
something, but it was gone by the time I climbed into the cab behind
her, and I wondered if maybe I had imagined it.

“So,”
I said. “What’s next?”

“Flowers,”
she said determinedly. “Definitely flowers.”

I
couldn’t help but feel a flash of excitement. It had been hard
to walk away from that cake, but it had been incredibly fun
discovering it. I had to admit that Imogen had a point when she said
I hadn’t been excited about my wedding. It was hard to be
excited when everything was being chosen for me. But this, this
shopping for exactly what I wanted, even if it was imaginary, was way
more fun than I would have thought.

“Flowers
it is,” I said, turning to look out the window at London
buzzing past. My reflection in the glass was all smiles.

I
told Thomas all about our shopping trip over breakfast the next day.
Imogen and I had ended up meeting up with Meghan for dinner, which
turned into drinks and dancing. I had finally climbed into bed after
midnight, next to a soundly snoring Thomas.

“It
sounds like you had a great time,” he said, smiling at me over
his coffee mug. “I’m glad to hear it. I think this is the
first time I’ve seen you excited about wedding planning.”

“That’s
what Imogen said, too.” I took a sip of my orange juice, trying
not to feel a slight sense of let down. For all the fun I’d had
window shopping, it had been just that—window shopping. By
definition, it was not the real thing. But then I thought of my
conversation with Imogen at lunch the previous day, and my musings
that maybe it would be easier to stick up for my opinions once I’d
actually formed strong ones.

“I
think I have a good idea of some of what I want now,” I told
Thomas.

“So
you’re going to tell your mom and sisters that, right?”
He gave me an encouraging smile.

I
grinned back. “I’m going to try.”

Thomas
leaned back in his chair, rubbing his stomach. “God, I’m
full. That’s the best breakfast I’ve had in ages.”

“We
should totally hire Maggie to come back and cook for us,” I
suggested. We were eating breakfast in the diner he had taken me to
on our very first date. Thomas had worked here when he first came to
London and maintained a close relationship with the staff. We had run
into some paparazzi outside on our way in, and Thomas had the
familiar, uptight posture of someone who was seriously annoyed.
Walking into the diner, it had faded immediately—everyone there
treated him exactly the same way they always had. Maggie, the owner,
had even given him a smack for not stopping in for such a long time.

“You
better not get too big for your britches, young man,” she said
firmly before scurrying off to pour coffee for another table.

“Soon
we’ll be living in London, and we can eat here whenever we
want,” he reminded me.

“Good
point.”

Thomas
looked at his watch. “When’s your meeting?”

I
felt a little flurry of nerves and struggled to push them down.
“Eleven thirty.”

“We
should probably head out soon. I have to be at the producer’s
office by eleven.”