by H. M. Ward
Contents
Forward
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
The Wedding Contract
The Contract 1
A Ferro Family Novel
H.M. Ward
www.SexyAwesomeBooks.com
H.M. Ward Press
FOREWORD
By
Michael Ward
Weddings are rife with stories. Before Holly became H.M. Ward, author extraordinaire, the two of us owned a photography studio that focused on weddings. And, somehow, that led to our buying a bridal shop at some point. (It made perfect sense at the time.) For years, we lived and breathed weddings.
Weddings are crazy – and the crazy is contagious. But, the stories! The stories almost make it all worthwhile. Sometimes they’re sweet. There were the high school sweethearts that drifted apart, made some wrong turns, and battled through the years, only to rediscover each other in their golden years and tie the knot with their grandkids in the wedding party. And then there were the laughable, crazy stories that no one would believe if they hadn’t revolved around a wedding.
I’ve never had anyone doubt a crazy wedding story, because everyone knows that anything is possible at a wedding. When you take two families that are practically strangers to one another, put them together for a day that revolves around the childhood dreams of a girl, the hopes every parent has for their children, and a bill that looks like it could be a mortgage, people can get kinda nuts. And that kind of nuttiness makes for great stories – writing one that’s entirely fiction would almost seem like cheating.
So, as you read The Wedding Contract, know that Holly did her research on this one! I always see a little bit of Holly and me in her stories. Avery’s “spray-start” car? I took Holly out on a lot of dates in that car (I know, I really knew how to woo a girl.) But, The Wedding Contract? The boob flashing bridesmaid never paid me any attention… Holly had all the luck.
The Wedding Contract
CHAPTER 1
I can hear Amy’s voice through the front wall of the little shop, talking to a potential client about photography for their wedding. I’m in the back, putting away props from this morning’s shoot. After stowing the box on a shelf in the back, I walk across the open space, and duck out through the curtain that covers the doorway to the front.
“Well, congratulations, and thank you for considering Bella Chicks Studio. Best of luck to you both.” Amy smiles as she sets the phone back into the cradle. Her light brown hair is pin straight and tied back into a style that looks perfect on her. When I try it, my curls just look tangled.
Folding my arms over my chest, I breathe in slowly. It’s stupid to think that this was his doing. Amy hasn’t even told me yet, but the skin on my arms prickles like a big fat omen. I know it was him. It’s always him. “So, I take it the Gettys hired someone else?”
Amy smiles at me. It’s the facial expression that begs, ‘Don’t kill the messenger!’ I’m not mad at Amy; I’m upset about the situation. We can’t keep losing clients like this. She nods slowly. “Yeah, they went with Bella Clicks.”
My lips smash together and I try not to yell. I try so hard not to overreact, but this is the third client that Nick Ferro has stolen from me this month. The bastard has been making my eye twitch for weeks. It seems like every time I figure out how to get a step ahead of him, he one-ups me, and then does it better and cheaper. God, I hate him.
The worst part is, if things continue like this, I can’t afford to stay in my little shop. Babylon Village is cute, but the rent is a bitch. And I know Mr. Copycat doesn’t have that issue because his daddy owns the damn shopping center. Why didn’t I get a non-compete clause in my lease contract?
Amy can tell that my blood is boiling. “Uh, Sky. You haven’t blinked in like, five minutes. Don’t go all Medusa on me.” Amy is a mythology buff and works Greek gods into anything and everything. Half the time I don’t even know what she’s talking about.
The ringing in my ears should be my cue to go scream in the back room like a normal small business owner. Instead, I knot my tightly folded arms and shove through the glass front door. My feet pound the parking lot, hard and fast, leaving Amy and her don’t-do-its behind.
This has to stop. I was doing fine until Nick showed up. God knows there are enough people trying to make a living in New York, but none of them, aside from this ass-hat, camped out on my doorstep stealing my clients.
I never do stuff like this. I never chew anyone out. I always smile and look for the bright side of things. Screw that. I’ll be out of business if I don’t fight back, so I shove into his store, my fists up and fangs bared.
“Get out of here, you sorry excuse for a man!” I’m standing in his perfect lobby, which is just as posh as mine, but instead of rich red accents, his are blue. He has his consultation table in the same spot as mine, with huge pictures of brides in Time Square and by Saint Pat’s Cathedral, just like I do. I notice the new floral arrangements with peacock feathers, and I’m ready to explode. When did he copy those?
My eyes drift over to the little table he has set up with albums on it. Last month, I met a new vendor that provides these beautiful albums for my boudoir clients. The albums have sequins, supple leather, and feel perfect under your fingertips. I see one glinting from behind a wedding album on his table. Wide-eyed, I step toward it and lift the little book with shaking hands.
Nick appears from the back and shakes his head slowly. “Sky Thompson, what can I do for you?” Nick has dark, perfectly tousled hair that falls over his forehead, right above gem-colored blue eyes. Today, he’s wearing a designer white button-down shirt with jeans. There’s a chunky watch on his wrist that cost more than my net worth. He’s beautiful, cocky, and rich. His voice is like a siren’s song, and he completely and totally sucks rabid monkeys—a spoiled brat to the core.
Anger surges through me, as I look up at him. “What’d you do to land the Getty wedding? Offer to pose with her in the boudoir pictures?” Oh my god. Nick has the audacity to smile while I’m ranting. He tries to hide it, but I can see the amusement in his eyes. I shove a finger into his chest and continue raving. “Because there’s no way you could get that client on your own, you pampered ass!”
Nick looks like he’s biting the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing. I’m right in front of him and seriously consider kicking his shins. Every muscle in my body is strung so tight that I’m ready to explode. I’m practically vibrating—until I see Beverly Getty emerge from the back room, followed by her daughter and husband. Awh, suck.
I deflate as I see the livid look on Beverly’s face. She told me that she’d be sending a check today, but she’s in Nick’s studio instead. I don’t get it, and from the look on her face, she doesn’t plan to elaborate. “What did you say about my daughter? Or was your crass comment directed at me,
Miss Thompson?”
What the fuckery? Seriously, I never blow off steam! I never tell anyone that they suck and the one time I do, it bites me on the ass. My lips tug into a nervous smile and I have that weird feeling where I don’t know what to do with my hands. I grab my pointer finger and try to patch things up, like I didn’t just eat my foot. No, I swallowed my whole damn leg and half my ass. There’s no way to make this right. “Mrs. Getty, I didn’t mean to imply—”
“You didn’t imply anything, dear. And if you must know, we found Nick to be much more easygoing. A wedding is stressful enough and I didn’t want anything else to make my Tiffany anxious. I see I chose well and I’ll make sure that everyone knows how you really behave.”
Nick glances between us before putting a hand on Beverly’s shoulder. “Sky wouldn’t have ruined your daughter’s wedding. She’s a very capable photographer. The truth is, she only gets twitchy like this when she forgets her meds. It could happen to anyone.” Beverly Getty gives me a second look, like she can now see my obvious mental defect.
“Go back and grab a chai tea from the Keurig. I’ll get those new albums I mentioned.” He looks up at me and grins. “On your way, Sky. Or would you prefer I call Amy to fetch you?” He says it so sweetly, as if he’s helping me.
Not meaning to, I clutch my hands tightly and growl before I turn on my heel and storm out. As the door closes behind me, I hear Nick saying to the Gettys, “Don’t worry, she’s not dangerous.”
CHAPTER 2
Amy is standing in the doorway when I get back. My eyes are stinging and I want to cry. I go straight into the back and she trails behind me like a faithful puppy. “Sky, what happened? It can’t be that bad!”
“I called Tiffany Getty a slut and suggested that the only reason they signed with Nick was to touch his naked chest!” I’m sniffling hard, trying not to cry—not before I find the tissue box. I head over to the prop shelves and start digging around. A crate of plastic apples topples off the shelf, onto the floor, spilling apples in every direction.
“Well, that’s not that bad.” She has a quizzical tone to her voice that tells me she doesn’t understand.
“The Gettys were there! All three of them walked out from the back of his shop. Her dad looked like he wanted to slit my throat and toss me into the canal.”
Amy averts her eyes. “Oh, well, yeah. That’s kinda bad.”
I find the little tissue box and sink to the floor. “That’s not the worst part. Nick told them that I’m usually fine—that I only get like this when I forget my meds. So I went from being a bitch to being crazy!” Holding the tissue over my face, I take a deep breath. I need to calm down, but I can’t.
“Oh, honey. It’s okay. It’s all going to be okay.” She kneels next to me and rubs my shoulder.
“How can you say that? He’s ruined me. My business is falling apart because of him. The guy is a parasite and you’re telling me that it’s all okay?” I’m not usually like this. I don’t fall to pieces over little things, but it’s so far past little that I can’t take it anymore. I went from having a thriving shop to sneak-sleeping in the store. I have no apartment, no money, and thanks to Nick, I lost the Getty wedding.
“Of course it’s okay. Everyone knew you were crazy already.” She smiles and leans in, giving me a hug.
“Gee, thanks.”
“Seriously, Sky. Cut yourself some slack. You won’t close with every client. Some of them will choose someone else. You can’t beat yourself up when one gets away.” She only says that because she doesn’t know how bad it is. I’ve been hiding it from her. Amy has enough stuff to worry about, I haven’t wanted to add more to her pile.
But it’s going to become very obvious, very soon. I clutch my face and don’t look up. My gaze is fixated on the floor. “Go look at the calendar. My close-rate got cut in half after the ass-hat moved in. Clients walk out of here with my packet in hand, and I swear to God that he looks it over, offers them the same coverage for less money, and then gives them an extra album. I don’t even have a chance.”
Amy continues to encourage me. “Sky, you’re better than him. You’re the one who comes up with the newest ideas.”
“But, Amy, a week later, he has them, too!”
“Do you remember that Trash-the-Dress session in the city? It was so much fun. And you have another client thinking about booking a similar session. Don’t let him get you down. There will always be people trying to get a piece of what you have, Sky, because you’re the best. They want to be you.”
Her words calm me down enough to look up. She smiles and hands me one of the fancy mirrors we use in pin-up shoots. “It looks like a dog licked your face.”
My mascara is running down my cheeks and a big smear of eye shadow looks like dirt on my temple. The corner of my mouth twitches.
“Sky,” Amy begins, “you have a new idea, don’t you?”
“Yeah.” I stare into the glass, my imagination running wild. The picture hasn’t fully formed in my mind yet, but I can see the client in the water, make-up darkened and smeared. Something unusual and tragic. It’s like nothing I’ve ever shot before and very un-bride-like, but amazing all the same.
Amy waves a hand in front of my face to catch my attention. “Hello? Are you going to try it this weekend with Sophie?”
“If she lets me.” My eyes flick up over the top of the mirror. “It would be so cool, and Shelter Island is the perfect place to do it.” I bite my bottom lip, thinking about the logistics, and hand the mirror back to Amy to be put away.
“I wish I was coming with you. Five days out there sounds awesome—especially at this time of year. I bet it’s beautiful.” Amy stands and brushes herself off. She usually comes with me to carry gear and help out, but this wedding is small and I’m doing it at cost as a favor to a childhood friend. The only money I’ll make is from print sales after the wedding.
I say her new name out loud. “Sophie Stevens. I can’t believe she’s getting married.”
“Yeah, but Stevens is a lot easier to say, am I right?”
“Yeah, Poloiscitiano doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue.”
Amy resumes her duties at the front desk, preparing paperwork. “Go home, Sky. Pack and take an earlier ferry out. Sit on the beach until Sophie gets there. God knows you could use a break. Just be sure to make fun of her new husband for me. ‘Steven Stevens’ is too funny.” It’s a name that sounds like it belongs to a cartoon dog carrying a briefcase.
“Are you sure? There’s so much work to do and I feel bad—”
“You always feel bad and you never stop working. You’re always here. Go, I’m fine. I can blast sixties music and walk around barefoot.” She winks at me, teasing. Amy would dress like a flower child every day of the year. She taps a stack of papers on her desk and staples the corner. “Seriously, go. Have fun. Relax for a few days. Drink champagne and sleep with a stranger. You know, typical wedding stuff.”
I laugh. “Typical for you, maybe.”
Amy tips her head to the side, like she feels sorry for me. “You’re twenty-two, Sky. You bust your ass every day and never stop to see what you’re missing.”
“Because I’m not missing a thing.” I grab my purse from the desk drawer and push it shut. “Are you sure you’re good here if I take off?” I never leave work early. If I haul ass, I can make the two o’clock ferry and get there with enough time to spend a few hours walking the beach or looking in the little shops.
Amy smirks, “Only if you promise to nail the best man for me.” She waggles her eyebrows and clicks her tongue at me.
“Yeah. I’ll do that,” I say sarcastically, grabbing a shipping label and a marker from the desk drawer. Quickly, I scrawl, AMY WAS HERE across the envelope. “There ya go. I’ll leave it on his forehead.”
She laughs. “Bitch.”
“No, crazy. I thought we established that.”
As I push out the door, Amy yells, “Bring me some cake!”
“Will do!”
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br /> CHAPTER 3
By the time I get to the North Ferry at Orient Point, it’s the middle of the afternoon. I change out of the suit I wear at the studio and trade it for a pair of faded jeans with a hole in the knee and a stretchy black tee shirt. I sit on the hood of my crappy old car, Big Red, and pull my dark hair into a ponytail. The wind is whipping it around, making it difficult to see. The truth is, I love the smell of the salt water and I love Shelter Island even more. Sophie’s family maintains a summer home there, and since her parents were friends with my parents, we came out here with Sophie a lot. Sophie and I have been best friends since we were little. I don’t really want to work her wedding, but she insisted that I do it.
Taking a deep breath, I look around. There are a few cars parked next to me, but since it’s not summer anymore, the boat isn’t full. Big Red is a rust-colored Bonneville that’s older than I am. It sat in my grandpa’s garage until he died last year. It’s too big for the compact, modern parking spaces and was constructed back when gas was cheap and cars were huge. Grandpa used to complain about it being too small, which seems funny now. Both tires straddle the parking space. I used to have a motorcycle, but I had to sell it to make ends meet last month. Now it’s just me and Big Red.
When we make it to the island, I follow the trail of cars off the boat and hit the road. I want to get checked in and make it to the other side of the island before Sophie arrives. I find the little inn that everyone is staying at and manage to parallel park. Who’s awesome? Me! Maybe today won’t suck after all. Horrible morning means a pleasant evening. I think I read that on a fortune cookie once.
Grabbing my purse, I head inside and go to the check-in counter. A woman with bright red hair and a black blazer is standing there with a phony smile on her clashing red lips.
“Welcome to the Chaucer Inn,” she says. “How may I help you?”