Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 132097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 660(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 660(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
I hold up my hands.
“You got me. I have a trained monkey who handles my correspondence now. Former lab ape, they gave him a brain implant that lets him rip through emails ten times faster than any human.”
“Such BS.” She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.
“Just being around old books gives me a rash. Paper allergy or something,” I lie.
“Okay, stop!” She laughs harder now, throwing her head back, and I have another brief surge of happiness before I crush it.
I only need this dumb fucking banter to take the edge off.
Nothing more.
Then the doorbell rings, and I start walking, putting as much distance between Pages and me as humanly possible.
“There’s the wedding planner,” I say, relieved as I march forward to let her in.
I think I’m dizzy.
The wedding planner, Mrs. Anne Radish, is a small, owlish woman with glasses that make her eyes look too large for her face and permanently pursed lips too much like a beak.
She has both a tablet filled with pictures and videos, plus print catalogues for us to sift through.
Today, I’ve learned that weddings have more moving pieces than a custom-built house.
I knew they were complicated—everything in the public eye is—but I was coming at it from a business perspective.
Cameras.
Press.
Public image.
Fancy food.
Whatever suits our perception as the newly minted Blackthorn power couple—but forgettable enough to separate in six months without a spectacle.
Only, it turns out there’s so much more to it than that.
So many little details.
Appetizers, drinks, the different entrée options, wine lists and open bars and custom invitation cards.
Seriously, fuck those cards to hell and back.
What they look like, what names they’ll have, whether we want special versions for our parents—
I’m about to head down to the nearest drugstore and burn every card in sight just for spite.
We’re grown adults and this wedding isn’t real.
We don’t need to obsess over the invites.
If Julia Sage wants to fuss over a lackluster design, let her come and cuss me out to my face.
Worst of all, the fairy godmother planner is just getting started. She opens a fresh book thicker than an encyclopedia and carries on.
My eye twitches.
Place settings.
Sample music scores for the ceremony and DJs for the reception.
At least Hattie seems to be enjoying herself.
While I’m melting into my seat, not giving a shit if we have black forest chocolate or Italian lemon cake, or something entirely different like strawberry or coconut, her eyes shine like diamonds.
It’s not that I think she actually wants to marry me.
No, it’s obvious she has more of an eye for this than she initially let on. When the planner asks for our opinions, after asking politely if I have one, I tell Hattie to choose.
Thank God for small favors.
Sometimes, I wish I knew what was going on in her pretty blonde head.
The process takes hours, yet she doesn’t seem to mind. Or maybe she just doesn’t notice it passing when she’s so engrossed in girly wedding day fantasies.
I resist the urge to check my watch again.
Eventually, Mrs. Radish leaves, assuring us she’s got the basics—the fucking basics?—down and she’ll get follow up soon.
“That was fun!” Hattie chirps with a smile that’s way too relaxed after enduring over three hours of style interrogations.
“Fun? Do you stock dictionaries at your bookstore? That’s not the right word.”
She smacks my arm.
“Oh, hush. It’s not every day a girl gets to plan a wedding with an unlimited budget.”
“I thought you wanted to keep it small?”
She has the grace to flush.
“Okay, so… maybe it can be medium-sized. Maybe?” She bats her eyes.
“She suggested two hundred goddamned guests.”
“Only for the reception! That’s the part where we need to put on a show, right?”
Damn her, I nod.
She has a point.
I would be pissed off, except she’s got the most adorable smile at the corner of her mouth.
I can’t find it in me to be annoyed with her enthusiasm.
“Margot will have a field day whenever you throw her a bone,” I say. “Hell, even after you tell her about all the decisions you’ve made.”
Hattie beams me a heavy look, tucking some hair behind her ear.
“Maybe after she gets over you cutting her out of the process,” Hattie says.
I shrug. Margot’s feelings aren’t my problem.
“She’ll plan her own wedding someday. Assuming she finds a man who can handle her spoiled ass.”
“She will,” Hattie says, rolling her eyes. “But what’s next?”
I check my watch again. “Dresses. They should be here any second.”
“What dresses? Who should be?”
“Stylists from Seventh Haven in Manhattan,” I say. “They specialize in wedding dresses.”
Her eyes light up. “Wedding dresses? You mean—”
“Yeah. You can hardly get married without one,” I say dryly. “From what I understand, they’ll bring you some sample dresses to see what styles suit you and then come up with a unique design for the big day.”
She’s still grinning like a kid in a candy store when I let the army of fashionistas in. After greeting me, they go to work, fawning over Hattie, complimenting her hair and coloring and figure.