by Staci Hart
There was no way to miss her.
She wore white again, stark against the glossy black wall she stood before. This time, she’d donned a tailored dress, the sleeves capping her shoulders and the hem brushing the top of her shins. Her profile was elongated, straight out of a fashion illustration from the fifties—hip cocked, chin high, that vivid red hair swept into a bun at the nape of her swan neck. With the phone pressed to her ear, her lips alternated between clipped words and a thin line, a slash of red against creamy skin.
Lila Parker was unhappy. I wondered if she existed in any other state.
Subsequently, I wondered if anyone had ever tried to make her happy.
With the hitch of my leather messenger bag, I picked up my pace just as she met my gaze. She stilled to unnerving stone as I approached. My brows notched—I’d dressed up as she’d asked, or implied. I’d worn a pair of navy slacks, for God’s sake, and ironed my pale blue button-down. I couldn’t be bothered with a tie, and I’d rolled the sleeves, unable to stomach the confines at my wrists. But I’d ironed. And if this wasn’t good enough for her, I didn’t know what was.
If I was to be the representative of Longbourne, I was going to show up for it in full.
Lila blinked, a flash of dark lashes and cool eyes, ending her call before I reached her. She frowned.
“You’re early.”
I gave her a look. “Sorry to disappoint.”
A huff through her nose, the arch of one auburn brow. “Come on. This way.”
She clipped her way into the Skylight building, and I followed. A tendril of hair licked the back of her neck. The impulse to reach out and tuck it into place curled my fingers in anticipation.
I shoved my hand in my pocket to curb the thought.
Lila reached for the brass handle of the massive door, long fingers wrapping around it to pull. I extended a hand to help, but it opened with more ease than a door of that size should have, so instead, I grabbed the edge to hold it open.
“Thank you,” she said brusquely.
As we walked through the entry—a marble, mirrored French affair—I wondered over the suspicions of Lila Parker. What did she expect that left her so wary? She seemed to be waiting for something to go wrong, and I mused as to whether the cause was getting burned badly enough to scar or if she just harbored a compulsion to fix things. Lila was the type to thrive under pressure like a coal turned to diamond. That was where she shone—in bringing order to chaos. The act hardened her, sharpening her to a fine edge.
She’d expected me to be late. I’d wager she expected me to say the wrong thing in front of someone important, screw up my measurements, and-or disappoint her otherwise. I had the suspicion that if she could have done the job herself, she would have.
The thought made me want to do the job to the best of my ability, if for no other reason than to prove her wrong.
Into a gilded elevator we stepped, and the doors closed, sealing us in silence.
“Did you actually bring a pad and pen this time?” she asked, eyeing me.
“Nope.”
Her brows clicked together, her lips opening to speak, but I headed her off.
“Pencil.”
She gave me an unamused look, but the smallest curve at the corners of her lips belied the expression. “Clients are set to meet me here in a few minutes, so try to stay out of the way.”
“Whatever you say, boss.”
Her eyes narrowed. The elevator dinged.
I swept a hand toward the door. “After you.”
She strutted out, nose in the air. “Thank you for putting on an actual shirt,” she said over her shoulder and without an ounce of graciousness.
“I’m not an animal, Lila,” I said with a lazy smile on my face.
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” She cast a teasing smile over her shoulder and pushed open the grand golden doors, revealing rows of white chairs with a dais at the end of the aisle where countless couples had promised their lives to one another. I mourned the muffled sound of her heels on the carpeted row. “A dog maybe, digging for bones?”
“You must be a cat person,” I guessed.
“More of a Betta kind of gal.”
“Not a goldfish?”
“They crap too much.”
I chuckled at the thought of Lila Parker dealing with feces of any species. “And how about you? A poodle maybe. All that white, long legs, snobbish, with a pedigree, for sure.” I scanned her form clinically.
She came to a stop at the dais, turning to face me. “If I’m a poodle, you’re a lab—big, dumb, and with too much mouth for your own good.”
One of my brows rose in challenge, though my lips gave her a cavalier smile.
At the sight, the tension in her shoulders eased. “I’m sorry. You’ll have to forgive me. I didn’t sleep very well last night.”
“It’s all right. I’m a Bennet, remember? I can take it.”
When she rewarded me with a quiet laugh, I realized she didn’t look as together as usual. Something about her eyes, dulled and smudged with shadow. Her hair wasn’t as flawless as was her norm, evidenced by that stray lock of her bun I’d fantasized about and the copper glow of occasional flyaway hairs.
She hadn’t slept, and I wondered why. Wondered who.
Her boss maybe. The mass of high-profile weddings and the pressure that came along with them. Dealing with the Felix sisters alone was a full-time job, I imagined, and she had dozens of other clients to tend to on top of it. And with her boss breathing down her neck to boot? Anyone would crack under that kind of pressure, maybe even Lila Parker.
Or maybe something else had happened. Her boyfriend, perhaps. I’d heard enough from Ivy to know he was a hoity-toity douchebag with a fake smile and too many stories to tell. If he’d hurt her, my first thought was that I hoped she’d strutted out the door. My second thought was what it would feel like to punch him in the nose for being an idiot. My third was that I hoped she was okay.
Lila launched into what she needed me to measure, and I listened dutifully, taking in the space while she spoke. The ceiling soared thirty feet to the domed Victorian atrium that gave Skylight its name, the only solid thing the walls around us. Beyond the glass stretched Midtown, steel and glass cut against the crisp autumn sky. The room was golden and cream, soft and bright, a place that breathed hope and happy endings.
I pulled out my notepad and pencil, which seemed to both please and relax her. She sprang into details, opening up her imagination. The arbor shape, the color scheme, musings on flowers she might want, depending on the palette they chose. Giving me notes on the garland, asking what kind of greenery and berry would be available. The tunnel, which would be built in pieces and placed in the ballroom where the reception would be held.
She was mid twinkle-light monologue when the doors opened, and a couple walked through, tall and rich and smiling.
Lila glanced at me, lips parting to speak, but I said, “Don’t worry. I’ve got it.”
A smile I actually believed, higher on one side with snark. “Good.” Her attention clicked down the aisle. “Charles, Madison. I trust you found us without trouble.”
And then, she was off.
I listened silently, measuring the dais and sketching in my notebook as she recounted the details of the building, the venue, amenities, and photography options. She spoke with utter certainty, with absoluteness, her word law and fact, indisputable—even her opinions. She was impossible to deny, and it didn’t seem the couple wanted to.
I wondered what it’d be like to truly disagree with her. The sparring we played at was strictly for sport. But a true confrontation? I had a feeling she’d come to life with a defensive spark. I both shied from the thought and craved it, like the danger of setting off unmarked fireworks that might or might not be dynamite.
Measuring the aisle brought me closer to them as Madison interrupted Lila.
“I think this space would do nicely, don’t you, Charles?” He started to speak, but sh
e kept talking, his answer immediately dismissed, “A fall wedding next year with the gold of this room would be beautiful with mauve and peach flowers, dark greenery.”
“We might have trouble finding flowers those colors in the fall,” Lila stated. She didn’t say or suggest—the words were a directive.
Madison frowned. “I’m sure we can find something. Greenhouses grow all year, don’t they?”
“They do, but—”
“Peonies,” Madison continued, her eyes sweeping the glass dome above. “I’ve always loved peonies.”
Lila’s face was a steel trap, her smile plasticine. “I thought you wanted creams, champagnes, golds?”
“Well, I did,” Madison admitted without seeming at all apologetic.
“And before that, it was marigold and rose,” Lila continued.
“But now that we’re here, I’m thinking something more bold. Peony bold.”
My measuring tape zipped, snapping into its housing with a pop that echoed in the massive room. “Actually, peonies are out of season in the fall, but cabbage roses bloom to look close enough. Dahlias would make a good option too, if you really want to go that route.”
Madison’s brows quirked, but her smile was a little too enthusiastic. She extended her hand, her eyes dragging down my body. “And who are you?”
I took her offered hand and shook it. “Kash Bennet. I work in the greenhouse that supplies flowers for Ms. Parker’s events.”
“A gardener? Or maybe you’re a florist?” She tittered. “How modern.”
“Mr. Bennet is a gardener at Longbourne,” Lila said, her voice too tight to be considered casual, though it lilted smoothly past her lips. “If you’re interested, I’ll take you down to the greenhouse to see. It’s the largest in Manhattan, right in the middle of Greenwich Village.” She cut a look at me that said to get back to work.
“How charming,” Madison said. “Isn’t that charming, Charles?” Again, he tried to answer, and again, she kept talking. “Maybe you could educate us on what will be in season and the kinds of colors we can expect from your garden. That would be such a treat.”
I cleared my throat, nodding once, stifling a smile. “I’m sure Lila will be able to set something up. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m just finishing up.”
Lila watched me as I walked back up the aisle, and I heard Madison say under her breath behind me, “I bet he knows his way around a hoe, don’t you?”
Lila made a strangled noise that should have been a laugh, but it caught in the trap of her throat, garbled and tight. I couldn’t even find it in me to be offended for myself, only poor Chuck, who’d agreed to be yoked to Madison for life.
We make our own choices and live the consequences, I thought to myself, kneeling at the front row to measure the chairs.
Lila took charge, ushering the couple toward the door, directing them to the reception hall and bar, excusing herself for one minute, promising she’d be right behind them.
The doors closed, and I made it a point not to look up despite the feel of her eyes drilling me to the floor. Slowly, deliberately, I measured and marked, seemingly absorbed in my work and unaffected by the heat rolling off of her.
“If I need your opinion, I’ll ask for it,” she said.
In my periphery, I could see her visage—white curves, arms akimbo, hands hooked on her hips, hair red as the tip of a match.
I looked over as if I hadn’t known she was standing there. “Just seemed they had a simple problem. Thought I was helping.”
“She’s already indecisive, Kash. Don’t confuse her. I’ll never be able to talk her out of cabbage roses now.”
“Why should you?”
“Because I’ll shift everything, form a new plan, build everything around it, and then she’ll change her mind again. She’s suggestive—”
A snort of a laugh escaped me as I stood, through with her looking down at me like she was. “You can say that again. I didn’t realize you’d be pimping me out, Lila.”
“Pimping you out?” she huffed, color smudging her cheeks and eyes tight. “You weren’t supposed to talk to her.”
I shrugged. “Sorry. Guess I forgot I’m just the help.”
Her eyes rolled hard enough for her to get a good look at Fifth Avenue behind her. “Oh, please. Don’t be dramatic.”
I folded my arms across my chest, tilted smile in place. “Look, if it makes your job easier, by all means, pimp me out. And I’m sorry I opened my mouth about the flowers. I really was trying to help get her off the peonies. If she’d insisted, your life mighta been hell trying to deliver.”
The simmering rage behind her eyes eased to a hot steam. “It’s not your fault,” she admitted shortly.
“Wow, that was almost an apology.”
One brow rose with the corner of her lips. “Take what you can get, Kash.” She turned on her heel and strode away.
“Always do, Lila,” I answered, watching her until the golden doors closed behind her.
* * *
LILA
I toured Madison Wendemere and poor Charles Peterson through the venue—the guy couldn’t get a word in. At least he was marrying a Wendemere. With all the money he was about to inherit, he could hide on his yacht or the golf course or the men’s club where she couldn’t nag him.
It had taken me a minute to recover, to flip on my charm and woo Madison after my outburst, which wasn’t so much an outburst as it was a tremor. I just hated for anyone to have seen it. And I hated that Kash had irritated me by butting in even if he was right and had been trying to help me out. Which made me feel like an asshole, thus making me feel wrong.
I hated being wrong too.
But by the time Madison and I said goodbye at the elevator—let’s be honest, sweet Charlie wasn’t saying anything—she pressed her cheek to mine, her eyes fond and pleased. She was sold on the venue, and the deposit check was in my possession.
As I walked back to the chapel, I smoothed my dress, then my hair, then my dress again, pulling open the door with my spine straight as an arrow to face Kash.
He sat on the steps to the dais, dark head angled to the notebook in his lap and face narrow with concentration. Long legs were spread at the knee, ankles hooked, his hand so big as it scribbled, the pencil looked comical.
God, he was massive, a brute made of muscle and sinew. He belonged to the earth he tilled, cut from stone, hair black as a raven, eyes blue as the sea. Beautiful in the rugged, wild way, unpolished and unrefined and unquestionably right just the way he was.
In that tailored shirt and slacks, he looked like an uncut gem in a glass case—confined and incongruent, as if he’d somehow been bridled. Of course, he also looked utterly brilliant, the shirt tight enough to see the rolling cords of muscles comprising his biceps down to the smattering of dark hair on his forearms, fluttering as he drew.
I made it all the way up the aisle to stop in front of him, but still, he didn’t look up. He knew I was there, and he didn’t look up, and for some reason, I wanted to kick him in the shin just to get his attention.
“One sec,” he muttered, hand moving.
I leaned in to peek at the page where he’d sketched the arbor, just as I’d described—a perfect triangle on a frame, touched with greenery and roses. Under it, he’d drawn a couple, the man square-shouldered and the woman wasp-waisted, gazing at each other, hands clasped. The proportion was just as I’d envisioned, the sprays of florals right where I’d have put them, had I drawn it. Which I couldn’t have.
He’d heard every word I’d said, stored it all in his dumb puppy brain, and drew it up with the ease of a long-practiced artist.
“There,” he said, finishing the lacy hem of her veil. “That look about right?”
He held it up, and I found myself smiling—really smiling, not that fabricated stretch of lips I’d been wearing since I walked into my apartment last night.
“It’s perfect,” I answered, my voice softer than I’d intended.
And the
n he was smiling too, an expression to match mine, genuine and earnest. It did something to his eyes, which were a shade of blue so bright and dense and deep, I was surprised I hadn’t noticed before.
“Thank you,” I said. “For coming here and measuring for me.”
“Even though I undermined your clients?”
“Client. Charles isn’t allowed to have opinions.”
“Poor sucker. Gelded already, and he hasn’t even walked down the aisle.”
“Well, we can’t all be lucky in love, now can we?” My tone was cool, bitter.
And he instantly knew. I could see it on his face, which disguised nothing.
“I suppose not,” he mused without pressing. “But I’ve seen enough of love to know if you hold out, it’ll find you whether you want it to or not.”
I chuckled, folding my arms. “In all your worldly experience, that’s your take?”
“You have a different one?”
One shoulder flicked in an impatient shrug, my heart a tight, closed thing. “That everyone’s hiding something, and it’s only a matter of time until the truth is exposed.”
At that, his lips turned down at the corners. Broad forearms fanned across the tops of his knees, dusted with dark hair, threaded with veins like rivers running down to square hands. “You don’t think honesty is possible?”
“People conceal what they don’t want you to see, to control what you know, to manipulate you. Everyone does it. It’s just human nature.”
Dark brows held together with a crease over those striking blue eyes. “Ivy and Dean?”
“They’re different,” I snapped dismissively. “Most of us can’t expect something that honest.”
He stood, so much taller than me from his perch on the step. His brow smoothed, his smile easy, but I saw something behind his eyes, a challenge maybe. A sadness but not pity.
“I like to think we accept the love we think we deserve, like the old adage says. If you meet as equals, there’s nothing to hide. And if you’re so certain everyone’s out to hurt you, you’ll probably end up hurt.”