The Objection
A Read Me Romance Novella
Winter Renshaw
The Objection
WINTER RENSHAW
© 2019
Created with Vellum
Contents
Description
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
About the Author
Description
Description
The night before her million-dollar wedding to steel magnate Dorian Hawthorne III, Olivia Peretti meets a handsome stranger in her hotel bar who quells her cold feet and assures her all will be fine. And all is fine … until the following day—when that same stranger shows up at the ceremony with the sole intention of objecting. And his reason? It’s one that Olivia never could have anticipated.
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Chapter 1
Olivia
“Everyone gets cold feet, right?” I wipe the sweat from the crystal tumbler with a square bar napkin as the hotel bartender shrugs. “It’s totally normal to be drinking alone at eleven o’clock the night before your wedding.”
“You askin’ or tellin’?” He dabs the counter with a blue-striped rag before tossing it over his left shoulder.
I chuff. “Little of both, I guess.”
The bar is surprisingly empty for a Friday night, save for the occasional cluster of strangers dispersed around the room, most of them sipping overpriced Vieux Carres and Old Fashioneds from crystal Baccarat tumblers, their faces aglow in candlelight.
Getting married in the blush-pink rose gardens of the Augustine Pointe resort in The Hamptons wasn’t my first choice, but it was where my fiancé’s parents married, and their parents before them. Dorian convinced me that bucking Hawthorne tradition would be bad luck, and I believed him despite the fact that I’m not the least bit superstitious.
“You ready for another?” the bartender points to my empty glass. I check the time on my phone and mentally calculate that I have to be up in eight hours, but I know if I go back to my room now, I’m going to spend the next couple of hours tossing and turning.
“One more,” I say. I’m sticking around, but only because I’m hardly feeling this one and I’m desperate for something to take the edge off.
I’m pretty sure the rest of the bridal party—groom included—are all fast asleep in their suites. I don’t dare wake any of them. They’re saints who deserve a good night’s sleep after everything they’ve been through this week (and everything they’ve yet to go through).
My in-laws weren’t satisfied with a traditional Saturday celebration.
No, no. That wasn’t good enough for Briggs and Mariel Astor-Hawthorne.
This had to be a weeklong festivity. Dinners. Parties. Rehearsals. All of it leading up to a seven-figure wedding tomorrow and coming to a satisfying conclusion with a catered brunch Sunday morning with select guests watching us open presents and feign over-the-top excitement.
I’ve always hated being in the spotlight, which is why I can’t help but wonder if I’m dreading the next couple of days because I’ll be taking center stage—or if my dread has anything to do with the fact that I’m marrying into one of the wealthiest families in America and the moment my last name switches from Peretti to Hawthorne, my life will never be the same again.
The bartender swaps my empty glass for a full one and pushes it closer.
“Thank you.” I give him a small nod before taking a sip. This one’s stronger. I don’t know his name, but he gets me, and I appreciate him for that.
Two spots over, a man in gray slacks and a cream cashmere sweater fills my periphery. I sneak a glance, praying it’s a stranger and not a wedding guest, and exhale a bit of relief when the striking gentleman’s chiseled features don’t ring familiar. Then again, there are seven hundred people coming to this wedding, five-hundred-and-fifty of them guests of the groom. He very well could be a guest and I wouldn’t even know it.
“Boulevardier,” the stranger orders his drink—which happens to be the exact same drink I’m currently enjoying.
What are the odds?
“Twins,” I say.
He turns to me, dark brows furrowed. Facing him head on, I realize he’s even more gorgeous than I realized—not that I need to be noticing these things—but anyone with half a brain cell would agree with me on this one. With those broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his sweater, that perfectly straight nose and those not-to-thin, not-too-full mouth of his. Not to mention that splay of dark, luscious eyelashes that match his thick, inky black hair.
For a second, I lose track of real life and get lost in his amber-and-green gaze, and then I shake myself out of it. He’s nothing but a distraction—a break from the thoughts and doubts that have been swirling and ruminating in my head all week.
“Pardon?” he asks.
I lift my drink. “Boulevardier.”
The first time I had a Boulevardier, I was sitting in some darkened lounge in lower Manhattan, waiting to meet some guy I swiped right on. The guy showed up with a friend—a wingman—and that wingman happened to take a liking to me, offering his number at the end of the night (with his friend’s blessing). At two o’clock tomorrow afternoon, I’ll be marrying that wingman.
The bartender sets the man’s drink in front of the striking stranger, who hands him a twenty. It’s a random observation, but the drink looks good in his hands, as if it’s a coordinated accessory. The squared-off tumbler. The dark amber cocktail, sharp and classic.
“You in town for the wedding?” I ask, as my second drink warms my veins and gives me liquid confidence to chat up a complete stranger. I hope I’m not bothering him. All I need is a little smalltalk. Something to keep my mind off tomorrow.
He takes a sip, his eyes never leaving mine. “What wedding?”
There’s my answer.
I chuff, reaching for my drink. “Mine.”
His gaze travels to my left ring finger, and his brows lift. That seems to be the most common reaction when people see the ostentatious show piece on my finger. Seven carats because seven is Dorian’s favorite number. Or so he said. It was the first I’d heard of him even having a favorite number, and we’d been together two years at that point.
Maybe that should’ve been my first red flag, though looking back, it seemed so inconsequential at the time.
I slide my left hand under my left thigh.
When the fanfare is over, I’m going to talk Dorian into getting me a simple gold band for everyday wear. For now, he loves the attention he gets from “showing me off” (his words), and he never fails to point out the sparkler on my finger.
Sometimes I think this whole thing is more about him than it is about us.
“When is it?” the stranger asks. “Your wedding.”
I shrug. “Tomorrow.”
He pulls at his cuff, checking the chrome watch that decorates his left hand.
"I know, I know,” I say. “It’s late and tomorrow’s a big day and I should be in bed.”
The man's gaze lands on my knee, which I realize is bouncing.
I must look like a nervous wreck.
Or a hot mess.
Probably both.
“You ever been married?” I ask him, after spotting a naked ring finger.
He takes a sip, longer this time. “Once.”
“Did you have cold feet the night before?”
He t
akes another sip. “Nope."
“Are you still—”
“—nope,” he cuts me off.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He chuffs, shaking his head. “Trust me, it's a good thing.”
“I’m Olivia, by the way,” I say.
“Gabriel.”
“Can I ask you something, Gabriel? Something personal?”
“Shoot.”
A single bar stool lingers between us, empty.
“Do you mind?” I ask, pointing.
“All yours.”
I settle in closer to him and draw my half-finished drink nearer. “If you could do it all over again, would you still marry her?”
The corner of his mouth snarls for the tiniest second and then he clears his throat. “No.”
“What ended your marriage?”
“You said something. Singular.”
I shrug. “I meant something in the generic sense. Like I’m going to ask you a question and then it’s going to expand into a discussion. A personal discussion.”
“Afraid I didn’t agree to those terms.” He takes a sip. “Communication is key. In marriage and in life.”
“Thank you for sharing your profound wisdom with me, but you still haven’t answered my question.”
“And I don’t plan to.” He exhales before his gaze travels to the back of the bar. The mahogany and glass shelves upon shelves featuring the finest of spirits.
He appears lost in thought, and I’m almost hesitant to interrupt his moment because he’s clearly having one, but I’m deathly curious. And my inhibitions are low.
“Can I tell you something?” I ask. “Something deeply personal?”
He peers down his nose. “As long as you won’t regret it later.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re a complete stranger. There’s nothing you could possibly do with what I’m about to tell you.”
He pivots in his seat, aligning himself with me and gifting me his full attention.
“All right,” he says, eyes half-squinting.
I draw in a long, cool breath before letting it go.
“When I think of my future … for the craziest reason … I can never picture my fiancé in it,” I say. “I try and I try. And I try some more. But it’s like my mind refuses.”
“Do you love him?”
“Of course I do,” I answer without hesitation.
“Do you want to spend the rest of your life with him?” he asks.
I hesitate this time, though I don’t mean to and I don’t know why. “Of course.”
“If that’s not the weakest ‘of course’ I’ve ever heard...”
My response comes in the form of thoughts next. All the things I’m afraid to say because saying them out loud makes them real.
“Sometimes I feel like we’re two completely different species,” I say. “I grew up in a working class family outside Pittsburgh and he grew up with a household staff of twenty and summered on the family island. The first time I had dinner with his parents, I didn’t know which bread plate was mine and I used the wrong fork, and then I spilled my red wine on the antique linen tablecloth, which his mother was quick to inform me was a family heirloom.”
“His mom sounds like a piece of work,” he says, sniffing. “But I’m sure he found all of that endearing.”
I realize I’m tearing a poor drink napkin to shreds and I stop. “Actually, no. When we left that night, he offered to buy me etiquette classes.”
“That’s … a jerk move.” His dark brows lift and he shakes his head. “Sorry.”
“I think he meant well.”
“You think he meant well?”
I cup my hands around my tumbler and stare ahead, thinking of all the other times Dorian “meant well.”
Replacing my entire Target-Gap-J. Crew-style wardrobe with designer pieces.
Convincing me to swap out my perfectly good Honda Accord for a BMW 3-series, which he was more than happy to pay for.
The man upgraded more things than I can begin to remember. Little things, like the kind of watches I wore to the brand of moisturizers I used.
I can’t remember the last time I vacationed in Myrtle Beach with my friends—any time I had vacation days to burn, he hijacked my plans and whisked me off to exotic and exclusive locations I’d have never been able to afford on my dental hygienist salary.
At the time, I thought I was living in a fairy tale. Only I wasn’t the princess who needed saving. I was Jane-nobody and he was this charming and dapper gentleman who wooed me with his dimpled smile, stimulating conversation, and the promise of showing me the world.
It was exciting. And fresh. And an escape from my Groundhog Day existence at the time.
I got swept up.
I fell in love.
And then I said yes when he asked me to marry him.
All that time, he wanted me.
But he wanted his version of me.
I’m not sure how I didn’t realize it until now—at zero hour.
“Oh my God,” I say. “I can’t marry him.”
“Then don’t.”
“But I have to.”
He looks around. “I don’t see anyone holding a gun to your head, do you?”
“You don’t understand. Our engagement announcement was in the New York Times. We’ve been interviewed by Hamptons magazine. Us Weekly would have a field day with this. Six months ago they deemed me the American Meghan Markle, and the rest of the tabloids followed suit and now all these people who’d never heard of me in their life are hungry for the littlest bit of gossip they can use to tear me apart on their blogs and newsfeeds and … don’t even get me started on my family. My honest, hard-working family who saved every penny and used their precious vacation time so they could drive eight hours, stay in some overpriced hotel, and watch me get married. I couldn't do that to them.”
“All right. Then marry him.” Gabriel takes a drink before digging into his wallet and retrieving a small pewter case filled with ivory business cards. He slides one to me.
Gabriel Alexander, Esq.
Family Law
42 Clairmont Street
Bedford, New York
(914) 555-9927
“You’re a divorce lawyer,” I say.
“Amongst other things.”
“You think I’m making a mistake.”
He shrugs. “I think the fact that you’re sitting in a bar the night before your wedding, drinking alone and seriously questioning whether or not you should do this, is indicative of more than a case of cold feet.”
“Yeah.” I rest my elbows against the bar, sighing. Can't argue with that.
“Make a list,” he says, “of all the things you love about him.”
Standing, he reaches over the bar and grabs a stack of napkins and a ball point pen, handing them over.
“It’s a technique that counselors do when people are having marital problems. They make them focus on what they like about each other rather than what they don’t like. Shifts your mind a bit, forces you to focus on the positives.”
I click the pen and press it against the white napkin. Drawing a number one, I write the first thing: he’s thoughtful. And then another: he’s family-oriented. And another: he’s intelligent. And then: he makes me laugh. I jot down three more reasons before my mind whirs to a stop and I get stuck.
Sliding the napkin toward him, I ask, “Is this enough to sustain a marriage?”
He reads over my list. “Are you describing your fiancé or a Golden Retriever? Playful? Funny? Intelligent?”
Again, the man has a point.
My phone buzzes in my pocket before I have a chance to respond, and I slide it out, only to find that my fiancé is requesting to FaceTime with me.
I accept the call.
“Hey,” I say.
“Where are you?” he asks, squinting like he’s trying to see past me. “I went to your room to tell you goodnight and you didn’t answer. Got worried for a second.”
He
laughs, dimples flashing.
I bite my lip. “I needed a drink.”
“You needed a drink? Babe, are you okay?” he asks. “You know if there’s anything you want to talk about, any doubts or fears, you can tell me. Tomorrow’s going to be one of the biggest days of our lives.”
One of the …
That’s the other thing—Dorian wants children. Five of them. And he wants them yesterday.
Me on the other hand? I’d be fine with one … ten years from now.
We compromised on two, maybe three and waiting five years.
“Talk to me,” he says, his ocean gaze sympathetic. It’s moments like these I’m reminded of how amazing he is. Despite growing up accustomed to the finer things and having access to everything this world has to offer, he’s a kind, compassionate soul who always puts others before himself.
I’d always loved that about him—that he didn’t just defy stereotypes, he blew them out of the water.
“Come upstairs. I’ll lie down with you for a bit,” he says, his voice gentle. “We can talk about whatever it is that’s bothering you, and I won’t leave until you’re asleep.”
My heart warms for a moment, fullness filling my chest.
I was worried for nothing.
Overanalyzing for the sake of overanalyzing.
This man—Dorian Hawthorne—is going to be an amazing husband.
“I’ll be up in five,” I say before ending the call.
I glance over at the handsome divorce attorney and slide his card back. “Thanks for letting me vent. It was nice meeting you, Gabriel.”
“Good luck tomorrow, Olivia.”
His eyes linger on mine a moment longer, and then he turns his attention to the bartender, flagging him down and ordering another Boulevardier, and I return to my suite, where my fiancé is leaning against my door, beaming ear to ear when he sees me.
The Objection: A Read Me Romance Novella Page 1