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“Kendall!” It was bad enough when friends were setting me up, but now my daughter, too?
“Your PA said you’ve been working nonstop again.” As if that’s a good enough reason.
“My PA should mind her own business.”
“Don’t blame her. I asked. Plus, I don’t want to be all the way over in California worrying about you all alone.”
She emphasizesaloneas if it’s a disease. I’ve been alone for almost a decade now and am more than used to it. After all, Kendall was my priority once Kerry passed.
“You don’t have to worry about me. But speaking of wanting the best,” I say, seizing my chance to change the subject. “I’m meeting with the wedding planner and a few vendors this morning.”
“Dad,” she says in that tone I met when she turned fourteen. The one often accompanied by an exaggerated eye roll.
“Any requests? Anything for your special day?” I’m asking as if I don’t already know the answer. Kendall cares about money even less than Kerry did, which worked out because when Kerry and I eloped three weeks after we met, she was a kindergarten teacher making next to nothing and I was flat broke.
Kendall fiddles with the end of her braid. “Besides you and Justin and a justice of the peace? No.”
“You know I promised.” I don’t have to elaborate. Kendall knows as well as I do that seeing our daughter married was one of the things Kerry was most upset about missing out on once the specialist told us the cancer had metastasized and time was running out.
“I know, and that’s why I’m letting you handle the details. Whatever you select will be fine, I promise. As long as you’re there to walk me down the aisle, that’s all I need.”
“I love you, honey.”
“Love you, too, Dad. But I gotta go,” she says, glancing up from the phone. “I’ll be home soon.”
“Have a safe flight,” I say, but she doesn’t hear. The call has already ended.
* * *
“We’ll beable to use your bar,” the wedding planner says, waving a hand at the mahogany wet bar that runs along the west wall of the living room. “One bartender should be enough for an event this size. We could do blood orange mimosas as the signature drink, or maybe cranberry bellinis. Either, or both, would work well with the eleven a.m. Christmas Eve morning timeframe.”
“Both sounds good.”
“Perfect.”
She spins toward the floor to ceiling windows that overlook Central Park. I trail behind and stuff my hands in my pockets. “We’ll remove the snow and bring in heat lamps and high-tops for the patio. That view is something to capitalize on, so I’m thinking garland for the railing, but we can ask Veronica. She’ll no doubt have some suggestions once she sees this space.”
“Veronica?”
“The owner of White Glove Florist,” Tierney Roberts explains, tapping away on a tablet. “Best in the city and simply amazing at transforming spaces. I have no doubt you’ll find her work flawless. She should be here any minute.”
Just then. “Sir, Ms. Roberts, I’m sorry to interrupt, but Ms. Charles has arrived.”
“Thank you,” I murmur to my housekeeper, who steps aside for Ms. Charles.
The tall, willowy florist is obscured by a lush, colorful bouquet as she steps down the two shallow stairs to the sunken living room. But once her heels hit the beige carpet, she lowers the blooms and looks up with fathomless green eyes and a smile as wide as the Hudson.
The force of her presence—of her pure magnetism—socks me in the gut and wrenches with an odd twist, rendering me speechless.
“Veronica, right on time. I’d like you to meet Garrett Hillstone.”
“A pleasure, Mr. Hillstone.”
The gorgeous brunette sets the vase on the coffee table and extends a warm, slim hand that fits perfectly in mine. The soft touch tightens the twist until it turns into a knot.
“Garrett, please.” I clear my throat and swallow the turmoil clouding my thoughts like a dense fog. “And I assure you, Ms. Charles, the pleasure is all mine.”
Her grip is firm and confident. It lingers, as if she too is reluctant to release our contact.
