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Her life was spiraling out of her control faster than she could grab on to it. She combated that by sticking her fingers in her ears and pretending there was no wedding planning going on. Hendrix handled it all, finally getting the message after his fourth attempt to include her in the decisions. Except for the flowers she’d already picked out, she really didn’t care.
None of it mattered. They’d be undoing it all in a matter of months. The wedding music would dwindle from everyone’s memory the moment the last note faded. Who cared what the piece was called?
The morning of the wedding dawned clear and beautiful, a rare day in Raleigh when the humidity wasn’t oppressive. Figured. It was a perfect scenario to wear her hair down, but the pearl-encrusted bodice of her dress required her hair to be up. She dragged herself out of bed and got started on enjoying her wedding day—likely the only one she’d ever get. If nothing else, by the end of it, she and Hendrix would be past the weirdness that had sprung up since their date.
Lora picked her up at nine to take her to the spa, where they’d planned to spend the morning pampering themselves, but Roz couldn’t get into the spirit. Hell, what kind of spirit was she supposed to be in on the day of a wedding that was basically an arranged marriage? She’d moved a few things into Hendrix’s mansion in Oakwood yesterday and they planned to live together for a few months, at least until the election, at which point they’d agreed to reevaluate. Everything was on track.
The spa did not relax her. The masseur had ham hands, the girl who did Roz’s bikini wax burned herself—not badly, but she’d had to find someone else to finish the job—and the facial left Roz’s skin feeling raw and slightly dry, so her makeup wouldn’t apply correctly. Gah, she’d been putting on foundation for fifteen-plus years. Why did her face suddenly look like the Grand Canyon in miniature?
Nerves. So much was riding on this marriage. Her reputation. Clown-Around. Helene’s campaign. Her father’s political ambitions. And maybe deep inside, she hoped that saying I do would magically shift things between her and her father. It wasn’t a crime to hope.
But neither was any shifting likely. So far, he’d stayed on script, expressing nonverbal disapproval in the usual ways while tossing out backhanded comments about getting chummy with Helene. It had soured her lunch dates with Hendrix’s mom to the point where she had canceled the last one. It had killed her to lose that one-on-one time with Helene but Hendrix had been so weird about it that Roz figured it was better not to get too attached. Her response was mostly self-preservation at this point.
As she leaned into the mirror to work on her eyeliner, her hand started to shake.
Lora glanced over from her spot next to the bride. “You okay? You’ve been jumpy since this morning.”
Dang it. If Lora had noticed, Hendrix would, too. Maybe she could sneak a glass of white wine from the reception before walking down the aisle. Just to settle things inside. “Brides are allowed to be jumpy.”
Her friend eyed her. “But this isn’t a real wedding. You’ve been so calm and collected this whole time. It’s kind of a shock to see you having this strong of a reaction.”
“It is a real wedding,” she corrected, fielding a little shock of her own that Lora had classified it any other way. “And a real marriage. I’m taking his name. We’ll be sleeping in the same bed. Can’t get much more real than that.”
That started tonight. Holy hell. That was a lot of reality, orgasms notwithstanding. She’d be an honest-to-God wife who could legally sign her name Mrs. Harris. It suddenly felt like a huge gamble with no guarantee of a payoff.
Lora shrugged and tossed her long blond hair over her shoulder, leaning into the mirror to apply her own cosmetics. “But you’re not in love. It’s not like he swept you off your feet with a romantic proposal that you couldn’t resist. I’m kind of surprised you’re going through with it, actually. You didn’t plan one tiny part of the ceremony. I had to force you to pick a dress.”
All of that was true. And sad all at once that such a cold recitation of facts so accurately described her wedding day. She tossed her head. “I never dreamed of my wedding or scrawled my future married name on stray pieces of paper growing up. I’m marrying a man with bedroom skills a gigolo would envy. My life will not suck. And when we get tired of each other, I get a no-fault divorce. It’s a business arrangement. It’s the perfect marriage for me.”
She’d keep telling herself that until she believed it too, and ignore the huge gap in her chest that she wished was filled with something special.
Grinning, Lora waved her mascara wand in Roz’s direction. “When you put it that way... Does he have a friend?”
“Sure. I’ll introduce you to Warren. You’ll like him.” Doubtful. Lora wouldn’t look twice at a man who accessorized with his cell phone 24/7. “Hendrix’s other friend is married.”
Jonas and Viv had come across as one of those couples who were really in love. You could just tell they both firmly believed they’d found their soul mate. Honestly, Roz thought she’d be exactly like that if she ever fell in love, which was why she hoped she never did. Her parents had been mad for each other and watching her father waste away alongside her dying mother had been a huge wake-up call. Love equaled pain. And then when it was gone, she envisioned being alone for the rest of her life, just like her father. Carpenters weren’t good at serial marriage.
The one she’d get with Hendrix Harris was perfect for her.
Hendrix sent a limo to pick up the bride and bridesmaid. Roz felt a little silly at the size of the vehicle when she spread out her white pearl-encrusted skirt on the spacious leather seat that could have held four people. But the fact of the matter was that she didn’t have a lot of friends that she would have asked to be in her wedding party. She had acquaintances. They’d all been invited to the social event of the season, though she didn’t fool herself for a moment that they were coming for any other reason than morbid curiosity.
All at once, the door to the chapel loomed and her feet carried her into the church’s vestibule without much conscious effort on her part. Her father waited for her inside as arranged, but she couldn’t quite shake the feeling of walking through a surreal dream.
“Roz,” her father called as he caught sight of her. “You’re looking well.”
Geez. Exactly what every bride dreams of hearing on her wedding day. “Thanks, Dad.”
He wasn’t effusive with his praise, never had been. But was it too much to ask for a little affection on a day when she was doing something that would benefit him?
Crooking his elbow in her direction, he stood where the coordinator directed him to and then it was Roz’s turn to get in line behind Lora, who was stunning in a pale pink column dress with a long skirt. It would have been more appropriate for an evening wedding, but that was one thing Roz had cared about picking out. She’d gotten the dress that looked good on Lora, not the one societal convention dictated.
She was still Rosalind Carpenter. For about thirty more minutes. Oh, God.
What if this was a huge mistake?
Music swelled from the interior of the chapel that Hendrix had insisted would lend validity to their union. That seemed be the litmus test for pretty much all of his wedding decisions—how legit the thing was. She’d never have pegged him as that much of a traditionalist but she got more than an eyeful of his idea of what a proper wedding looked like as the coordinator flung open th
e doors to the chapel, signaling their entrance.
