Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
But as I stared at those texts, it was like a fog began to lift.
This was all wrong.
I didn’t want to marry him.
And he didn’t really want to marry me—not the real me, anyway.
I glanced at my phone again, certain that this wasn’t the first time he’d cheated and would not be the last.
There had been several times over the last year that I’d suspected Neil wasn’t entirely faithful—the smell of a strange perfume on his clothes, a flirtatious wink at a pub waitress, a knowing look exchanged among his male co-workers at the office Christmas party.
He always brushed aside my worries or had a decent enough excuse, but doubt lingered at the back of my mind. His father was a notorious cheat—a philanderer, whispered the ladies at tennis—and Neil had been groomed his entire life to step into his father’s polished wing tips.
Like father, like son, was what everyone said about them.
“I don’t want to marry him,” I said out loud. “I don’t want his name or his money or his Lake Shore Drive high-rise or his family connections. I don’t need to be Veronica Vanderhoof—I’ll be plain old Roni Sutton, and I’m fine with that.”
“Are you okay, dear?”
I jumped at the sound of the voice behind me.
It was Irene, the church’s wedding coordinator, who’d entered the room so quietly I hadn’t heard her.
“Yes.” I was surprised at how calm I sounded. “I’m actually okay.”
Irene moved closer to me with tentative steps, hugging her clipboard to her chest. “Are you sure?” She glanced around the empty room. “Where are your friends? I thought you had . . .” She checked her notes. “Three bridesmaids?”
“I do, but they’re not my friends. They’re the groom’s sisters. I think they’re with the family, greeting guests.”
“Oh. I see.” Her eyes moved down the page. “No maid of honor?”
“She had a baby two days ago, so she couldn’t make it.” I felt a pang of longing for Morgan, who’d been so loyal to me.
“And no father of the bride, correct? You’ll be unescorted down the aisle?”
I wasn’t going to walk down the aisle, escorted or otherwise, but Irene didn’t need to know that yet.
“That’s the plan,” I said.
Suddenly I was grateful for the sneakers hidden beneath the ballgown skirt of my newly hemmed dress, rather than the ivory Chanel ballet flats Neil had gifted me last week. It had felt like a monumental act of defiance to wear them, even if they couldn’t be seen—I saw it now as a little sign that not all of my spirit had been snuffed out.
Also, I might have to make a hasty exit.
“Well, try to relax.” Irene smiled without showing any teeth. “Guests are starting to arrive, but you’ve got about thirty more minutes.”
“Actually, could you send Neil in here?”
Irene looked aghast and steepled her fingers above her pearls. “Neil? The groom?”
“Yes, please.”
“But it’s before the wedding! You can’t see each other before the wedding.”
“I know what the tradition is. Just send him in.” Hopefully he didn’t still have his hand in his pants when she found him.
Scandalized, she left the room. I glanced at my phone again, rereading the words he’d sent Valerie, his assistant. She’d worked for him for about six months, a pretty young blonde I’d heard Bootsy refer to behind one hand as a “social climber.”
She must have stayed last night at the Vanderhoof’s sprawling summer home overlooking the bay (they referred to it as a “cottage,” but the place had eight bedrooms, a tennis court, and a name—they called it Rosethorn), although I found it hard to believe Bootsy had issued such an invitation. Maybe Neil had snuck her in.
I’d stayed at a quaint little inn just off Main Street that was walking distance from the salon and spa where Morgan and I had made hair and makeup appointments. After she’d called me sobbing that she wouldn’t be able to come in from New York since she was going into early labor, Bootsy had suggested I keep the reservation since all the bedrooms at Rosethorn would be occupied by family. Neil hadn’t argued.
More missed signs.
As I stuck my phone back into my bag, I remembered why I’d been digging through it in the first place. After studying my classic and understated makeup in the full-length mirror bolted to one wall, I’d decided I looked so unlike myself that I’d started to panic.
Getting married shouldn’t mean losing yourself completely, right? I knew marriage took patience, acceptance, and compromise, but did it have to take beige lipstick?
I’d decided to add a little bit of color to my look—I’d stuck my own makeup case in my bag—and was hunting for the tube of Don’t F*ck With Me, my favorite shade of red, when I noticed the new text on my phone from Neil.
Pulling the head-turning color from the small, zippered bag now, I took out the tube and painted a bright, confident, badass red over the demure nude on my lips. I rubbed them together, puckered, and squared my shoulders.