I let out a relieved laugh. “Deal. You can bake until you drop.”
“And,” she adds, her voice taking on that dangerous edge again, “I want the full story on this Ledger guy. Because if you’re conveniently-marrying him, I need to know more, like if he’s one of those ‘rich-but-skeevy’ types.”
I groan. “Why does it matter if he’s hot?”
“Because you never took a picture of him and I still don’t believe that he had the tastiest abs you’ve ever seen,” she says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “If you’re stuck in a marriage of convenience, at least make it enjoyable to look at him. It’s basic survival.”
I cover my face with my hands, laughing despite the tension knotting in my chest. “He’s hot, okay? Infuriating, but hot.”
“Fine. I’ll bring my best maid of honor dress and a rolling pin. Birchwood Springs, here I come.”
I grin, relief flooding through me. “Thank you, Aid. You’re the best.”
“Damn right I am,” she replies. “Now go. I need to yell at Tommy before he burns the kitchen down.”
She hangs up, and I sit there for a moment, staring out the massive windows. I should feel better now that she’s coming. And I do, mostly. But there’s still a knot in my stomach—one I can’t seem to untangle.
I’m fake-marrying Ledger Timberbridge. A man who already drives me insane. And if he wasn’t so unfairly attractive, this would probably be easier.
But as I glance at the grandfather clock, I can’t help but think about the wedding next weekend. How am I supposed to organize something in such a short time when I don’t know anyone well enough to invite them to a wedding.
ChapterSixteen
Galeana
Monday morning startslike any other—me, pacing my kitchen with a coffee mug that’s gone cold and the overwhelming sense that I’m already behind on a to-do list I haven’t even written. The last time I organized a wedding it took me two years and Mom had helped me with it. Today I don’t even know if my favorite flowers are daisies or if I can get ahold of some roses.
The clock says it’s 9:15, which means I’ve already wasted forty-five minutes of precious “pretending to have my life together” time.
Then the doorbell rings.
I frown, setting my mug on the massive marble island, the sound clinking through the too-large kitchen. I wasn’t expecting anyone, and in Birchwood Springs, surprise visitors usually mean bad news—Ledger—or yet another casserole. I have twenty-three in the freezer.
I pad toward the front door, yank it open, and blink at the two impeccably dressed people standing there like they stepped out of an issue ofTown & Country.
The woman in front flashes a bright smile—friendly but a little too practiced. She’s petite and well-dressed in a cream blazer and modest heels, polished just enough to look put-together without trying too hard. Behind her stands a man in his late forties or early fifties, his sharp blue eyes framed by neatly styled light brown hair streaked with gray. He wears an impeccable tailored suit with the ease of someone accustomed to importance.
“Galeana Monroe?” the woman says, tilting her head in a way that makes her pearl earrings catch the morning sunlight.
“Yes?” I say cautiously, gripping the door just in case I need to slam it shut.
“I’m Teddy St. James-Bradley, owner of TPSJ Life Concierge,” she announces brightly, extending a perfectly manicured hand. “I was hired to help with your wedding next Saturday.”
“My what?”
“Your wedding,” she repeats, like I’m hard of hearing. “I’ve been briefed on all the basics. We’re here to handle the details—venues, decor, catering, all of it—so you don’t have to.”
Before I can form a response, the man behind her clears his throat. “Fitzhenry Everhart,” he says smoothly, holding up the briefcase. “I’m your lawyer. Here to go over the details of your prenuptial agreement.”
I stare at them, my brain grinding to a full stop. Teddy, was it Bradley or St. James? A lawyer with a name that sounds like she was born holding a monogrammed handkerchief?
This has Ledger written all over it. I mean no one else knows I’m getting married but the groom.
“Excuse me one second,” I say, forcing a tight smile. I close the door—not all the way, but enough to let them know they’re not invited inside yet—and grab my phone.
Ledger picks up after the third ring, his voice low and gravelly like I just woke him up. “Morning, future Mrs. Timberbridge. Miss me already? I knew not calling you yesterday would be the thing that will make you more interested in your future husband.”
“Why the fuck is there a concierge ready to organize my wedding and a guy calling himself my lawyer at my door right now?” I demand, my voice rising as I pace the entryway.
