The Objection: A Read Me Romance Novella

by Renshaw, Winter

  It’s in that moment, all those silly little doubts fade away.

  Chapter 2

  Gabriel

  I’m on my third Boulevardier when the sound of some woman giggling in the corner behind me catches my attention. It’s been over an hour since the gorgeous blonde invaded my personal space—and personal life.

  Though she’s long gone, I can still smell traces of her perfume. Sugar and citrus, sweet and bubbly. Fitting, I suppose.

  I wish her luck. I do. But if she walks down that aisle tomorrow, she’s making the biggest mistake of her life. The asshole who gets to marry that woman might have all the money in the world, but he’s the one who’s marrying up, not her.

  Obviously I hardly know Olivia, but in the short amount of time we spent together, I grew a bit fond of her company, and that’s saying a lot because I haven’t felt that way about anyone since before …

  With wide, dark eyes, a fan of thick lashes, and a bubbly, if not too personable air about her, I found myself intrigued.

  In a way, she reminded me of my old self. So full of life and wonderment. Ready to tackle her future head on and quiet the doubts that creep up on all of us at some point or another.

  But her fiancé FaceTimed her.

  And then she was gone.

  Good luck, Olivia. And I mean that. A woman like her deserves true happiness and a man who loves her more than he could ever possibly love anything else in this world.

  The giggling behind me grows louder before it dies down to a whisper, and when I turn to see what all the fuss is about, I spot a couple stumbling into the bar, arms wrapped around each other.

  The bar is mostly empty, save for a middle-aged couple and the real-life porno people going at it in the corner, when in walks a man with a confident stride, his hand stroking his strong jaw as he scans the room like he’s looking for someone. There’s a familiar look to him that I can’t quite place, but I’m not about to sit here staring at him.

  He takes a seat beside me and orders two drinks: one Manhattan and one Chardonnay, and then he checks his watch. He smells of old money and a fresh shower.

  This guy’s definitely planning to get laid tonight.

  The Chardonnay goes untouched for another minute, then another, and the man forces a hard breath through his nostrils before firing off a quick text.

  “Women, am I right?” the man says.

  I glance over to realize he’s talking to me.

  “Twelve minutes,” he says, shaking his head. His phone buzzes and the screen lights with a new message. “Fannntastic. Ten more minutes because I have all day, Elizabeth.”

  He chuffs before turning to me again.

  “Sorry.” The guy waves his hand and he’s facing me now.

  Good God.

  It’s … Olivia’s fiancé.

  I recognize him now from their little FaceTime session earlier this evening. And I distinctly remember him saying he’d lie with her until she fell asleep … and now here he is at the bar, meeting up with some girl named Elizabeth.

  Everything around me flashes red, and my fist clenches around my drink. It’s almost gone, but I’m going to stretch it long enough to figure out what this asshat is trying to pull exactly.

  Drawing in a calming breath, I decide this calls for a little motivational interviewing. As an attorney, I’m skilled in the art of asking all the right questions.

  “So, you in town for business?” I ask, knowing damn well the answer is no.

  “Nah. Getting married tomorrow.” He raps his knuckles on the polished bar top and then checks his phone.

  “No kidding? I think I met your bride-to-be earlier.”

  I watch the color drain from his face.

  “Blonde? Chatty? Smells like lemonade?” I only add that last bit to fuck with him. “Thought she went back to her room to meet up with you?”

  The man is speechless for a second before shrugging and shooting me one of those “bro” type looks despite the fact that he is very much a New England old-moneyed blue blood and very much not my “bro.”

  “Don’t judge me, all right?” he asks with a laugh. I could punch him in his smug face, but I won’t do that to Olivia. “Just wanted one last little rendezvous before the big day.”

  “Ah, so it’s totally cool then.” My words are infused with sarcasm.

  He swallows a breath, his head cocked. He’s readying a response when in walks a leggy brunette, striding across the bar in heels so loud they drown out the ambient music and a dress so tight it lifts her fake tits to an unnatural height.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says to the man, taking the seat beside him.

  She’s pretty, but in a cheap way. Too much makeup. Too much perfume. Too much desperation oozing out of her every pore.

  Apparently this guy’s tastes are as diverse as they come. Small town American sweetheart. Imitation Barbie. Two very different ends of a single spectrum.

  Leaning closer, she lifts her hand to his cheek and kisses him on the mouth. Long. Wet. Unapologetic.

  Classless.

  She leans away and his fingertips graze the top of her thigh, trailing closer and closer to her hips.

  “You know I hate when you keep me waiting,” he says, indicating this is definitely not his first time with her.

  “Sorry, babe, but I had to dry my hair and the hotel dryer sucks,” she says, scrunching her fingers through dark waves that cascade down her shoulders. I’m not an expert in women’s hairstyles, but it would appear she did a bit more than blow dry it. If I had to guess, I’d say she curled it and sprayed it and put in a lot of goddamn effort to impress a man who probably doesn’t give two shits about her at the end of the day.

  “You realize it’s almost one in the morning and we have to be in a fucking wedding tomorrow, right?” he asks, speaking as if it’s someone else’s wedding. And I suppose it is. The man sitting here with his hands all over this woman is not the same man who’s going to be exchanging vows with Olivia tomorrow. That man, the man she thinks she’s marrying, is nothing more than a farce.

  An act.

  Clearly this is a man who’s used to getting everything he’s ever wanted and knows exactly how to go about getting it.

  But what I don’t understand is if he could have any woman in the world, why her? Why the sweet-natured, humble soul who trusts he has her best interests at heart?

  This man, this douche, reminds me of a client I had last year. The guy was a forty-something former trust-fund baby who was divorcing his first wife, a woman he’d been with since high school.

  Twenty something years and at the end of it, he had the nerve to leave her for a much younger woman and refer to his ex as a fucking starter wife. Not only that, but he claimed he knew from the moment they said “I do” that it wasn’t going to be a forever thing.

  “Let’s get back to my room before anyone sees,” he says, rising from his chair and sliding her off hers. His hands rest at her hips and he buries his face in her neck.

  I bet he gets off on the thrill of getting caught, though obviously that’s yet to happen because I highly doubt Olivia would be marrying him tomorrow if she knew she was marrying this.

  “I haven’t finished my wine yet,” she protests in one of those sticky-sweet baby voices that sound horrid on grown adults.

  I slam back the rest of my drink.

  I can’t stick around for another minute of this bullshit.

  But before I leave, I snap a casual photo of the two assholes with my phone, ensuring it’s on silent so it goes unnoticed. I know from experience that people don’t always want to believe something until they see it with their own eyes. I also know from experience that hearsay is just that. And that a picture is often what wins or loses a case. Evidence. That’s all this is. I might not even need it or use it, but I’d rather have it than not.

  Heading back to my room, I climb into bed a few minutes later and flip on the TV for some background noise because my thoughts are loud as hell.

&nbs
p; He doesn’t deserve her.

  And while I’m not normally in the habit of injecting myself into other people’s business unless they’re paying me by the hour … I’d make an exception for Olivia because five years ago, I’d have given anything for someone to have warned me before I made a fool of myself.

  Calling off a wedding is humiliating in a special kind of way, but it pales in comparison to marrying the love of your life, smiling through thousands of wedding pictures, and starting a beautiful life together—only to find out everyone but you knew she was a lying, cheating whore.

  I have to warn her.

  I don’t have her number. I don’t know her first name—or his for that matter, but I’ll figure something out.

  Chapter 3

  Olivia

  “Olivia? Olivia, did you hear what I just said?” my mother pulls me from a little morning reverie. “Your sister is bringing your dress up now. We’re getting ready in your suite if that’s okay.”

  “Of course.” I insert myself back into the present moment, trying to forget the dream I had last night.

  I was walking down the aisle, dressed in white, flowers galore, a string quartet playing Canon in D … and when I got to the end, it wasn’t Dorian standing there—it was Gabriel, the divorce attorney I met in the bar last night.

  It’s the strangest thing, but in that dream I was happy. No, not happy. Ecstatic. Everything about that scene felt right and natural and flooded my body with warmth and fullness.

  It felt so real, even after I woke up.

  Still does.

  But I need to snap out of it because I’m marrying Dorian and that dream meant absolutely nothing, as most dreams do.

  A knock at the door is answered by my mother. My sister, Amelia, walks in carrying my dress in two hands. It’s bigger than she is. Originally I’d picked a more modest number, something with less chiffon and tulle and more ivory lace and a classic silhouette, but my future mother-in-law insisted it would look ridiculous.

  “It’d be like wearing denim to the Met Gala,” she’d said as she lifted a teacup to her lips, pinky finger extended.

  Another knock follows and my mother rushes to answer it.

  “Elizabeth, Morgan,” she says to my other bridesmaids. “Don’t we all look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning!”

  Elizabeth is all smiles for me, but it’s the strangest thing—she’s got bags under her eyes and looks like she’s two seconds from rolling back into bed. Her dark hair is piled into a messy bun on top of her head and she rubs her eyes before collapsing into a chair.

  If I recall, she was one of the first ones to retire to her room after the rehearsal dinner last night. She said she was exhausted from the week’s festivities and wanted to call it a night early.

  Best friends since second grade, I know her better than anyone else, which is why I know she’s been struggling ever since I got engaged. She was always the one obsessed with planning her future wedding and going the whole marriage and babies route, and I always had the take-it-or-leave-it mindset. Last year she told me there was some guy she was into at work, but he refused to commit. She admitted that despite knowing he was unavailable, she could never say no to him.

  She’s never been lucky in love, but I know someday she’ll find the perfect guy and he’ll have been worth the wait.

  The phone rings and my mother rushes to answer it. When she’s finished, she turns to me. “Room service is delivering a gift.”

  I know it’s tradition for the bride and groom to get each other a gift the day of their wedding, but what do you get the man who has everything?

  Silver monogrammed cufflinks with our wedding date inscribed on them, that’s what.

  He’ll think of this day every time he wears them.

  A text comes through on my phone, and I realize I haven’t heard from Dorian all morning. I’m sure he’s busy with his groomsmen and appeasing his mother’s demands since she singlehandedly orchestrated this entire event and every minute of it has to go as planned.

  But the message is from the makeup artist, telling me she’s running five minutes behind. I tell her it’s no problem and set the phone down. A few minutes later, room service delivers a little blue box with a white ribbon along with a note on his cardstock letterhead.

  My dearest Olivia,

  From the moment you walked into my life, you showed me exactly the kind of man I wanted to be: the kind of man worthy of spending his forever with you.

  From here to eternity. Can’t wait to grow old together.

  Yours forever—

  Dorian

  I tug the white ribbon and lift the lid of the box. A shiny gold locket greets me, along with my new monogram engraved on the front.

  It’s beautiful. A classic and timeless piece for the ages.

  And it’d be perfect …

  … if I weren’t allergic to gold.

  A fact I’ve pointed out a myriad of times over the years until he finally stopped giving me jewelry altogether. I try not to take it personally that he forgot—or take it as a sign.

  “Let me see!” my mother rushes to my side, gasping as if I’m showing her the Hope Diamond. She’s always been one for theatrics. “Simply gorgeous. But you can't wear that. You’re allergic.”

  “Hair and makeup is here,” one of my bridesmaids announces from the other side of the suite. A team of men and women enter with their train cases and counter-height chairs and duffel bags and begin scanning the room for the best makeshift studio.

  Here we go …

  The rest of the morning is a blur, one consisting of highlighting and contouring and hairspray and perfume, diamond earrings and room service fruit plates and cucumber sandwiches.

  Before I realize it, it’s almost a quarter to two and we’re due to head down to the rose garden.

  By the time we get there and I see my father in his tux with tears in his eyes, everything gets real. My stomach knots. My palms sweat. Elizabeth hands me my bouquet.

  “You ready, Bean?” my dad asks, calling me by my childhood nickname.

  I nod, my throat too tight for me to speak.

  I have absolutely no idea if these are good nerves or bad nerves but the music is playing, the bridal party is marching down the aisle two-by-two, and this is happening.

  I can only hope that when I get to the altar and look into my beloved’s eyes, all this tension, all this doubt will fade away.

  Last night, I lay in his arms and told him I was scared that we weren’t making the right decision. He assured me he was mine forever. No one else’s. And that it would always be that way. He promised he’d love me until his last, dying breath.

  I closed my eyes and dreamed of Gabriel.

  Our guests rise as my father leads me down a white silk aisle covered in pastel pink rose petals.

  Through the pale haze of my veil, I look to my future husband, our gazes intersecting, and in that moment, I think of his sweet words, the way he took me in his arms and softened my worries, shouldered my concerns. Dorian smiles, dimples and all, and the knots in my stomach begin to untangle.

  “Dearly beloved,” our officiant, the Hawthornes’ beloved and longtime minister, begins, “we are gathered here today and in the presence of God to witness the joining in Holy Matrimony of Dorian Clark Hawthorne the Third and Olivia Ann Peretti. Marriage is an honorable state, instituted by God since the first man and woman walked this earth. Therefore, it is not to be entered into lightly, but reverently. Who gives this woman to this man?”

  My arm is still linked in my father’s, and I look to him, finding him holding a subdued smile. His blue eyes are glassy, and he’s doing his best to keep it together. I squeeze his arm and he pats my hand.

  “Her mother and I do,” my father answers.

  From my periphery, I spot Dorian’s mother dabbing the corners of her eye with a linen handkerchief. I’d be willing to bet those aren’t happy tears, but she makes them appear that way nevertheless.

  My fath
er lifts my veil and kisses my cheek before placing my hand in Dorian’s and returning to his seat next to Mom.

  “Into this holy estate, these two persons present come now to be joined," the officiant continues. “If anyone can show just cause as to why these two should not be married, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

  My stomach clenches for a second. I thought we’d agreed to leave that part of the ceremony out. In my opinion, it’s a bit old-fashioned as well as unnecessary.

  No one objects at weddings.

  This isn’t the movies.

  A moment later, the minister’s eyes lift over his wire-rimmed glasses toward the sea of guests—and then I hear the gasps.

  Turning toward the crowd of friends and family, I can’t believe what I’m witnessing.

  Someone is objecting at our wedding ...

  … and that someone is Gabriel.

  Dorian releases my hand and takes a step, like he’s going to confront the man in front of all these people. Then he stops, knowing his parents would heavily frown upon his making a scene in the middle of his wedding, but honestly, the scene started when Gabriel stood.

  I reach for Dorian’s arm, pulling him back to the altar, though my focus is entirely on the man in the cashmere sweater and dark khakis with the striking golden gaze and inky dark hair.

  Our guests begin to whisper and comment amongst themselves, and I don’t need to glance at my future mother-in-law to know she’s in the early stages of a conniption fit.

  Locking eyes with Gabriel, I mouth the words, “What are you doing?”

  “Stopping you from making the biggest mistake of your life,” he says, loud enough so even the people in the back row can hear him. “You can’t marry him.”

  Humiliation stains my cheeks a shade of pink as all eyes travel between the two of us.

  “Olivia, do you know this man?” Dorian whispers, leaning close.

  I turn to him. “I met him last night. At the bar. We talked but ...”

  I’m so confused.