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Isla
"Do you have any other word in your vocabulary except, 'No'?" I curl my fingers around my cell phone and resist the urge to fling it at the head of the turdwart who glares at me down his patrician nose. Likely, his crown is so hard it would be my phone that’d crack and I can’t have that happening. Not when there’s less than a week to go till the ‘wedding of the century’. A wedding that will be more unique than any of the weddings that get featured in the top ten most spectacular weddings as compiled by tabloids or, indeed, influencers who are fond of compiling such lists.
And I am the creator of this event—a wedding I have been planning for the last three months. A wedding eagerly awaited by influencers, media personalities, and society darlings. A wedding that is going to put my fledgling wedding planning business on the freakin’ map. I’ve organized high profile weddings before but none of them match the interest generated around this one. It’s not just the money being spent on it but the fact that it involves one of the world’s most notorious bachelors, to the only daughter of a well-known industrialist. After this event, I’ll never have to scrounge around and beg for clients. After this mother-of-all-shindigs, I, Isla Bailey, will be the toast of every single bride-to-be and their mamas. The first port of call for any woman who is about to get hitched and wants her marriage to be a once-in-a-lifetime affair. The kind that will make it to the gossip columns ofHello!andOK!The kind that will be featured in the society pages, fromThe New York TimestoThe Timesand all the various wedding blogs and magazines in between. The kind that will change my life forever. Assuming I can figure out how to manage the piss-poor temperament of the bridegroom for said event.
"Forget I said that. I didn’t mean to lose my temper," I say through gritted teeth.
The dickwaffle stares at me steadily.
Count back from ten, nine, eight—I draw in a deep steady breath—seven, six, five—I roll my shoulders to ease the cluster of pain that clings to my muscles like a weed to velvet. Four, three, two—I shove my anger down, deep down, into the pit of my stomach where a blaze erupts, then recedes. One. Calmness flows through my veins. I am a river of Zen contentment. A floating air bubble. A snowflake that drifts gently back to Earth. I paste a fake smile—which I hope looks genuine to this asshole— on my lips.
"I’m sorry, Mr. Kincaid. Please accept my apologies for my outburst."
Mr. Stick—no, make that Log-stuck-up-his-arse—tips up his chin. "No."
"Excuse me?"
"No. I have no other word in my vocabulary when it comes to any conversation with you."
My jaw drops. No, literally, it hits the floor and I have to pull it back and plug it back into my face like one of those cartoon characters I watched growing up. Okay, maybe not ‘literally,’ but you know what I mean.
"Are you always such a twat? Can’t you at least be polite in conversation?" I huff.
"Do you want me to foot the bill for this clown show or do you want me to pretend I’m at a tea party?"
Clown show? He called all the hard work I’ve put into conceptualizing this ceremony—which is a piece of art, if I do say so myself—a clown show? If it’s a clown show, that's only because he’s a clown. Before I can throw my choice of insults at him and crash this business relationship into a pile of wreckage equal to the Titanic, I clamp my lips together.
He glares at me. I stare back. The silence between us stretches. His nostrils flare. The pulse beats at his temple. Those gray eyes of his turn colorless—pieces of glass that reflect my emotions back at me. And those lashes of his? Jesus Christ, he has such long curly eyelashes. Why is it that the more horrible examples of the male species are always blessed with above-par looks? Why does Mr. Born-with-a-gold-spoon-in-his-mouth have to look so gorgeous?
The clearing of a throat cuts through the space between us. After darting one last death-stare at douche-canoe, I turn to face the woman who’s drawn abreast with the two of us.
"Umm, everything okay? Are you two fighting again?" Lila, my client and the bride-to-be at the ‘wedding of the century’ that I’m hoping to pull off, glances between us. She looks nervous and not just a little filled with apprehension. Truthfully, she has a right to that sentiment because things between me and her husband-to-be have recently deteriorated further. Liam Kincaid and I have never gotten along. We seemed to take an instant dislike to each other from the moment we met.
This has never happened to me before. I am a people person. I love talking to strangers and thrive on putting clients I meet for the first time at ease. And I love making the dreams of brides come true. I love taking care of them, soothing their worries, interpreting their visions, and watching the stars in their eyes when they walk down the aisle to meet their bridegrooms.
It’s one of the reasons I became a wedding planner. The other being, it’s the only profession that seemed to stick with me once I tried my hand at it. And considering this is the biggest project my fledgling wedding planning agency has taken on, it's doubly important for me to make the relationship with my client work. Sure, Lila’s my daily contact, but it’s Liam-twatwarse-Kincaid who pays the bills. So, it’s in my best interests to be polite with him... But try as I might, from the very first conversation we had, he’s rubbed me the wrong way. I’ve never insulted one of my clients to their face—not until today—and that’s regardless of the fact it might jeopardize this life-changing project. And that’s something.
"Isla?" Lila prompts.
"I’m good. We were just, uh, discussing the size of the wedding cake."
"Oh, but I thought we decided to go with the seven-layer one made with chocolate and bananas, with the candy on top."
I wince. So does Liam. In this, I’m with the bastard, though I’ll never let on. By the time the wedding cake is cut, most guests are tired or drunk. The only person who cares about cutting the cake is the bride, really.
Most bridegrooms, by that point in the ceremony, are ready to run screaming from the event, or they’re happy to hunker down with their friends. And the romantic few are ready to whisk their brides away.
Liam, as far as I can tell, doesn’t fall into any of these categories. Actually, he doesn’t fit the role of bridegroom at all. I’ve never come across a man less interested in the ceremony. Most grooms, at least, pretend for the sake of their wives-to-be, and if they’re footing the bill, ask some questions about the upcoming nuptials. Not Liam. Guess that’s what happens when you have so much money you don’t care how your other half-to-be is going to spend it.
"What do you think, Liam? You like chocolate banana cake, don’t you?"
Liam’s eyes glaze over at the question. It’s as if he’s already forgotten Lila’s earlier description.
"She’s talking about the wedding cake," I murmur.
