by Lily Everett
Zane gave her his best naughty wink. “You read the Times piece.”
There, that was definitely a blush. But she didn’t back down, and Zane had to admit, he liked her for it. Felicity “Fun Police” Carlson was turning out to be more interesting than he’d originally thought.
“Yes. I read. I research. I do my homework. It’s what makes me good at my job.” Crossing her legs with a silken swish, she arched a brow.
Okay. Zane was man enough to admit that his original thought about her had to do with the sinful length of her legs and the way she filled out that conservative suit. Riding a hot surge of lust, Zane leaned over the arm of his seat. “And let me guess. You’re the best at what you do.”
He liked the burn of determination in the depths of her brandy-colored eyes. Curiosity stirred in his chest. What drove a woman like Felicity Carlson? “Not yet. But I will be. And this wedding will propel me onto a whole new level.”
“I knew it! You’re just drumming up business for yourself.”
She twisted to face him, pretty face alight. “Of course I want more business! I love my job. And the more I impress this guest list of New York’s most powerful people, the better chance I have at being able to keep doing the job I love, for years to come.”
“And then what? You can take over the world and be crowned Empress of All Wedding Planners?”
Some of the fire died out of her gaze and she sat back. “Mock me if you like. I’m sure my goals do seem small and petty compared with the number of lives and careers and people you control every day at your company. But they’re my goals, and I intend to do whatever it takes to achieve them.”
Regret was a fist pressing into Zane’s sternum. He didn’t like it. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to mock you. It’s my automatic response whenever anyone gets going on how important their jobs are. I mean, outside of surgeons and emergency responders, how many truly important jobs are there? Take my entertainment company, for instance. I’ve made a lot of money at it, but I’d be the first to admit that no one lives or dies based on what I do all day long. It doesn’t matter.”
“Then why do you do it?” Felicity tilted her head to one side, as if she were puzzling through a conversation with someone speaking an entirely unfamiliar language. “I mean, I fell into wedding planning almost by accident, because I’d squandered all my other options—but now I love it. I truly can’t imagine doing anything else. The look on a bride’s face when she finds her perfect dress, the way the groom will try not to show how overwhelmed he is when he sees her walking down the aisle to him—I live for those moments. My work behind the scenes makes them happen smoothly. No, nobody lives or dies based on what I do, but I get to be a part of these couples’ most important day. I get to make their dreams come true.”
There was a look on her face, almost defiant, as if she expected him to make fun of her. But Zane couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything but stare at her as every word she spoke resonated through his entire body.
It was the second time she’d referenced mistakes in her past, hard lessons she’d learned. The realization struck a chord of recognition deep in his heart.
“Yeah,” he said quietly, fisting his hands on his thighs. “I get that. And I can respect that.”
The moment stretched between them, taut and thick with memories and hopes and unspoken words. Felicity broke it by glancing out the window. “So, where are we going? You never answered my question before.”
He hadn’t answered any of her questions, and he’d do his best not to. Zane never lied—life was too short to keep track of a complicated web of deceit—but he wasn’t sure he could face telling the truth to Felicity. She was already burrowing under his skin, digging beneath bone and muscle to the living, vulnerable heart of him.
“Consider this a lesson in having fun,” he said, glad the microphone masked the hoarseness of his voice. “Enjoy the flight.”
Readying her camera, Felicity turned to gaze out her window, presumably searching for potential locations with single-minded focus. Zane breathed and tried his best to mimic the helicopter, hovering just above the island—never getting too close, never touching down, never getting caught.
Chapter Three
Planning the reception with Zane over the next two weeks proceeded, in many ways, exactly as Felicity had foreseen. They agreed on basically nothing.
She wanted a romantic beach reception; he wanted to rent a ginormous yacht. She wanted a classy jazz trio; he wanted to fly in one of his label’s hottest rock bands. She wanted a dance floor for the guests; he wanted to bring in tumblers and acrobats. She wanted soft candlelight; he wanted a disco ball. Through it all, he’d managed to avoid ever stepping foot on the beach Felicity had earmarked as the perfect setting for a party.
And yet, in spite of their many frequent … okay, constant disagreements, something had shifted between them that afternoon on the helicopter.
“It’s almost as if, before, I wasn’t quite a real person to him,” Felicity said, helping Greta Hackley do up the row of tiny seed pearl buttons on the back of her ivory duchesse satin bodice and the even smaller ones at the wrists of her hand-sewn lace sleeves.
“But now he’s gotten to know you a little,” Greta agreed. “So he can’t treat you like one of his nameless, interchangeable model-slash-socialite dates.”
“We aren’t dating!” Felicity met Greta’s wide eyes in the mirror and saw her own cheeks and neck flush. “I mean, you know that. Obviously. I just felt like it needed to be said, since we’re doing a lot of touring around this extremely romantic, picturesque island together, looking for the perfect place for your reception, and he’s actually coming here to pick me up in a little while and oh my gosh, I’m going to stop talking now.”
They were keeping the wedding dress under wraps in Greta’s small apartment over the hardware store her family owned, so that Miles wouldn’t see it and incur bad luck before the wedding day. But Zane had argued that it didn’t matter if he saw the dress, so he should be allowed to come along. Felicity had managed to distract him with a list of caterers to contact to find out who was available for a prestigious, high-profile wedding on short notice. But he’d be over here before she knew it, ready and raring to go on another adventure around the island. All part of his quest to teach her how to have fun. She couldn’t quite suppress a tiny smile at the thought.
“Please don’t stop talking on my account! It seems like it’s just about to get interesting.” Greta winked in the mirror, reminding Felicity of the moment when Zane had winked at her on the helicopter.
Everything reminded her of Zane. This was not good.
“No,” Felicity said firmly, buttoning the top button with steady fingers. “I’m here for your final fitting, not to discuss the reception. It’ll be perfect. You don’t need to worry about it.”
“I’m not worried about it.” Greta gave her a comfortable smile in the mirror, one work-roughened hand drifting down the fall of airy fabric draping her slim hips. “I mean, when I was a little girl I used to dream about a beach wedding, but the yacht club is almost as good. And I don’t care what happens at the reception, honestly. At that point, I’ll already be the happiest woman on the planet—I’ll be married to the man I love. And nothing that happens or doesn’t happen at some party will change that. For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, right?”
The familiar words tied an aching knot of emotion around Felicity’s vocal cords. She’d been around a lot of brides, some more gushy and head over heels than others. But she’d never planned the wedding of any couple as clearly made for each other as Greta and Miles. These two would go the distance, Felicity was sure—although, from the spasm of sadness that crossed Greta’s face, maybe the bride needed a little reminder.
Her hands stilling on Greta’s lace-clad shoulders, Felicity smiled at the lovely bride in the mirror. “You and Miles are going to have a wonderful life together. Because you’re not getting married to tick off a box on your
list of life goals, or to have the excuse to throw a fabulous party. You actually want to spend your lives leaning on each other and supporting each other through whatever comes. Couples like that are rarer than you might think, but I know them when I see them. My parents are like you and Miles.”
Lips trembling, Greta tried to return the smile but couldn’t quite pull it off. She murmured, “In sickness and in health. Except most people who make that vow don’t have a lifetime of sickness behind them, and the certainty of more in their future.”
Felicity froze, recognition stinging through her like the crack of a whip. “You…”
“Kidney disease,” Greta confirmed briefly, reaching for the box of tissues on the old-fashioned vanity. “I had a transplant when I was a teenager, but that won’t keep me healthy forever. Miles swears he knows what he’s getting into, but how could he?”
Everything about this conversation hit way too close to home. Scrambling for the composure and the sympathetic wisdom she’d been called on to offer many a bride or groom with cold feet, Felicity said, “No one knows exactly what they’re getting into when they get married.”
“I love him so much.” Greta glared at herself in the mirror, dabbing at the corner of one eye and making a face that said she didn’t like to cry. “And I know he loves me. But sometimes I worry that if I really loved him, I wouldn’t let him tie himself to a woman who might turn into an invalid without warning.”
“That’s not your choice to make,” Felicity pointed out. “It’s his. He knows your history, he knows your prognosis—and, not to be crass about it, but he has the means to send you to the best specialists in the world, if you should ever need it.”
“Exactly. Miles is an incredible man, brilliant, a hard worker who cares about the people who work for him … but he was born with money. On some level, I’m sure he believes that he can buy his way out of any problem. Including kidney failure.”
“Money may not be able to solve every medical problem,” Felicity argued, driven by the memories and guilt Greta’s situation had dug up. “But it certainly helps.”
Greta went quiet for a long moment while Felicity busied herself twitching the fabric of the dress, checking the seams and the stitches holding the buttons. Anything to avoid the dawning realization on Greta’s face.
“You sound as if you know something about living with a chronic condition,” Greta finally said, breaking the silence tentatively.
This was not something Felicity wanted to talk about. Ever. It opened the door to too many other bad things, things she’d worked hard to put behind her and forget. But as she stood behind Greta Hackley, square-shouldered yet fragile in her ivory wedding gown, Felicity couldn’t ignore her silent plea.
“Not me. My mother.” Needing to sit, Felicity retreated from the mirror and perched on the hope chest at the foot of Greta’s bed. Pulling one foot up and resting her chin on her raised knee, Felicity blew out a shaky breath.
Greta had swiveled the padded vanity stool to face her, and now she said, “We don’t have to talk about it if it makes you uncomfortable. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“You weren’t. It’s fine.” Felicity summoned up a smile, aware that it probably wasn’t her most convincing effort. “If hearing a bit of my parents’ story can help you feel more confident about marrying Miles, I’m happy to share it.”
Happy was stretching it, maybe. But Felicity wanted to mean it. And sometimes that was good enough.
“Was your mother … I mean, is your mother—” Greta broke off awkwardly, unsure of what tense to use, and Felicity rushed to reassure her.
“No, no. She’s still alive. Her condition is permanent, though. There’s no cure for MS.” Felicity heard her voice slip into the rote repetition of the many pamphlets and websites she’d studied when her mother was first diagnosed. “My mom’s course of Multiple Sclerosis is the better kind, relapsing and remitting. It’s possible to control some of the symptoms and to live close to a normal life span.”
“Close to normal,” Greta repeated softly, empathy brimming over in her bright eyes. “That’s not quite the same as normal, is it?”
“Not quite,” Felicity croaked. Clearing her throat, she forced herself to stay on point. “My mother was fine, a lot of the time. She got tired more quickly than other moms, and there were certain things she couldn’t do. As I got older, and so did she, walking became more difficult. She started using a cane, then a walker, and finally a wheelchair. We had to move to a house that was all on one floor, so she could get around.”
Felicity paused, struggling with how much to reveal. She didn’t want this to turn into some kind of sob story, or to overwhelm Greta with negative images of the way her life could go, but … “I don’t want to lie to you, Greta. It wasn’t always easy, and we all made sacrifices, especially my father.”
He’d given up a career he loved, teaching college math, to take a job with more flexible hours that would let him work from home on her mother’s bad days. Money was always tight, and Felicity had worked for every penny she’d spent on clothes and a used car, when she wasn’t helping out around the house.
Greta’s face had crumpled a bit, like the tissue she still clutched in one hand. “That’s exactly what I don’t want for Miles.”
“I’m saying this badly.” Felicity wrapped her arms around her raised knee and squeezed. Meeting Greta’s anguished gaze head on, she said, “I asked my father once if he ever thought about how different his life would have been if he’d married someone else. We’d been up all night after an emergency trip to the hospital because Mom slipped and fell. She turned out to be fine, but we were all exhausted. I don’t know what I expected him to say—something about being a tenured professor, maybe, or going out dancing because my parents used to love to dance, before Mom got sick—but I didn’t expect him to laugh. He laughed for a solid five minutes, until he was almost crying. When he caught his breath, he wiped his eyes and—I’ll never forget this. He said, ‘Oh, honey. No. Why would I want to contemplate something so awful? Your mother is the one for me. The one and only. And I’d rather sit up all night in a hard plastic hospital chair at her side than dance a single dance with someone else.’”
Felicity’s voice broke, her breath tearing hard at her chest, and when she looked up, Greta was crying openly. But she was smiling through her tears, and that gave Felicity the strength to smile back.
Ivory silk and chiffon whispered as Greta stood up and crossed the small bedroom to envelop Felicity in a crushing hug. “Thank you,” Greta whispered, her tone thick with emotion. “I needed to hear that so much, and I know it was hard for you to talk about.”
“But worth it, if it helps you believe that it’s not up to you to decide what will make Miles happiest,” Felicity said, pushing to her feet and holding her trembling bride at arms’ length. “He’s already made his choice—and he chose you, even if that means hospital beds someday, instead of dancing all night. We should all be so lucky to find someone who feels that way about us. Hold onto that, and hold onto him. Leave the rest to me—I’ll make sure the day you commit your lives to each other is absolutely perfect.”
Greta hugged her again, and Felicity returned the squeeze and repeated her vow silently.
Making this the wedding of the year wasn’t simply about money and ambition—it was about helping this couple, who could almost be a younger, wealthier version of her parents, start their lives together the way they deserved. It was about making their dreams come true.
And maybe this time, if she was very lucky, some of the magic of their happiness would rub off on Felicity and let her start to dream again, too.
* * *
Backing away quietly, Zane leaned against the wall of the hallway beside Greta’s bedroom door. He shouldn’t have listened in, especially once it was clear how deeply personal that conversation was, but he couldn’t help himself.
Done in by his need to know everything there was to know about Felicity Carlson. Who was unreas
onably intriguing and unfairly tempting, for a woman who’d given up on fun.
But after what he’d overheard, knowing what she must have gone through when she was younger, maybe he could begin to understand her. The only trouble was … well, the same thing that always gave him trouble. He wanted more.
And he wanted to hear it directly from Felicity. He wanted her to want to tell him whatever was left. Everything she hadn’t said to Greta—because she’d been holding back. After only a few weeks together, Zane could tell when Felicity wasn’t going all in. He wanted to know the parts of the story she’d left out.
So he’d ask. In a roundabout way, and already knowing the right buttons to push. Stomping on the tickle of guilt at the idea of using the knowledge he’d gained while eavesdropping, Zane rapped his knuckles lightly on the doorframe.
He’d made himself a promise a long time ago to never pass up an opportunity, to always go big or go home, and it had served him well. He’d go for it with Felicity and see what happened. Worst-case scenario, she’d shut him down and he’d lose all the progress he’d made in getting her to loosen up over days of motor biking and helicoptering.
Hmm. Actually, that worst-case scenario was unacceptable. He’d have to figure out a way around it.
“One minute,” Greta called from inside the bedroom. There was the sound of a couple of noses being blown, and when Felicity pushed open the door to gesture him inside, her amber eyes were red-rimmed and her cheeks were blotchy.
Zane stared at her for the space of a heartbeat, trying to comprehend how he still found her so incredibly beautiful even with a pink nose and puffy eyelids.
Desperate to distract himself before he dragged Felicity in for a deep taste of those ripe, kissable lips, Zane glanced over to find Greta watching them with a smile dimpling her cheek. He pretended to stagger back, hand over his heart.
“Greta Hackley! Look at you. You’re far too gorgeous to waste yourself on a stuffy old man like Miles Harrington. Let’s hop on the helicopter and run away together.”