Page 1 of Wedding or Not

CHAPTER 1

If I were living in a nineteenth-century novel, I’d be sold off in marriage to repair the family fortunes.

That would be my fate for sure.

I’m the oldest of six sisters, and I’ve been called pretty all my life. My family owns a large property, and we’ve been struggling financially for years.

Of course I should find a respectable man with a bank account large enough to pay off our debts and bring us back to our former glory.

Sometimes I wish that was an option.

Surely navigating a practical marriage with a somewhat decent man would be easier than waking up every morning terrified that today is the day we’ll lose everything.

And it will all be my fault.

See, here’s the other thing about me. If I were living out a historical novel, I wouldn’t be one of those fiery, clever, spirited heroines who defy their circumstances and find their happiness in the end. I wouldn’t be Elizabeth Bennet.

No.

I’d be Jane.

Not the smart one. Not the talented one and not the adventurous one.

Just the quiet, responsible one who’s secretly anxious about her world falling apart.

I’d be Jane Bennet—without a wealthy, warmhearted Mr. Bingley yearning for her from the sidelines.

If I could marry a man of comfortable circumstances who would treat me okay, I would do it.

It would be better than sitting here in the lobby of a sleek, cool financial firm in DC with a seat between me and Wesley Kennedy, praying the banker we’re meeting will be willing to take a chance on Blossom Park.

To be clear, I didn’t leave the seat between us. Wes did. I sat down first, and instead of sitting beside me as a normal person would, he left one neatly upholstered chair between me and him.

Like we’re buddies at a movie theater, afraid people will think we’re a couple.

He’s focused on email on his phone, oblivious to my existence. He put on a business suit for this meeting, although he hasn’t been wearing them lately. Beneath the suit jacket, he’s wearing one of the sweater-vests Aunt Grace knits for him as a Christmas gift every year. If he were someone else, I’d probably give him a second appreciative glance. He’s got a lean, straight body, good shoulders, thick brown hair, and a slight cleft in his chin.

But all I see is Wes, a guy I’ve known since childhood and have never liked.

All I see is Wes with that disdainful tilt of his lips and judgment in his gray eyes.

“He’s ten minutes late,” I say, turning my phone repeatedly in my hands.

Wes, being him, doesn’t even slant his eyes toward me. “And?”

“And is that a bad sign?”

“Why would it be a bad sign? It’s after three in the afternoon. He’s had a day’s worth of appointments that probably ran late.”

He’s still not looking at me. He’s tapping out an email, making it clear that whatever is on that phone is more important than me.

I roll my eyes, the annoyed expression wasted because its target remains unaware. “I thought you said he was your friend.”

“He’s a professional acquaintance. We’re not besties who share gossip and giggles every night.”

My eyes narrow as exasperation rises in my throat. I’m nervous enough about this meeting. I don’t need him making snide remarks that feel like they’re covertly directed at me.

“Has no one ever advised you to adjust your tone so you don’t perpetually come across as a rude asshole?”