by Lauren Layne
Her sad eyes looked over at him, and his heart twisted at the turmoil swirling in the blue depths. Seth’s fingers clenched into a fist, and his breathing grew ragged with anger. Brooke kept going. “The FBI took him away in handcuffs at the altar. Because that’s how I thought my wedding would go. I always thought Ponzi schemes and money laundering and identity fraud were phrases dreamed up by Hollywood screenwriters. But I heard all of those and about a dozen more that day. My wedding day.”
“Ah, Brooke,” he breathed out, feeling completely at a loss about what to do or what to say. He’d read the story online, of course, but hearing it all from Brooke’s perspective, the woman whose life this asshole had shattered, made it so much more heart-wrenching and real.
“I thought he’d get put away and be in jail for a long, long time, you know? And I thought that as long as he was in jail, I wouldn’t have to think about it. Or him. I wouldn’t have to deal with it, you know?”
Seth nodded, although in truth, he wasn’t sure he entirely did know. Avoidance wasn’t really in his makeup. He was more of a take-control-of-every-detail-and-then-tighten-the-reins type.
Not that it had served him particularly well over the years.
But Brooke’s method hadn’t served her well, either. He was no shrink, but he was pretty sure he was witnessing the culmination of months’ worth of trying to pretend like a seriously shitty event hadn’t gone down.
And yet, Seth was impressed, too.
Impressed that this woman who had had her heart and dream publicly smashed to smithereens had still managed to keep her overall bright and sunny outlook on life. Brooke still managed to put her heart and soul into planning weddings because she refused to give up on the happily ever after.
“Well, he’s not going to jail. He pled out, and now I’m . . . I’m worried he’ll contact me,” Brooke whispered.
Seth stiffened. He hadn’t considered that. Hell, he hadn’t let himself consider that. But it made sense. A man didn’t lose a woman like Brooke Baldwin and not try to get her back. Even if he was a white-collar criminal.
“How do you feel about that?” he asked, trying to keep the tension out of his voice.
She sighed. “I . . . I don’t know. That’s terrible, huh?”
“Maybe not,” he said, reaching for her hand and rubbing a thumb over the soft skin of her inner wrist. “It’s a complicated situation.”
“You must think I’m an idiot,” she mumbled, looking down at her hands. “For not seeing it. For not knowing who and what he was.”
“Hey now,” Seth said quietly, turning her face toward him and meeting her still-puffy eyes. “Don’t do that. Clay Battaglia was damn good at what he did. He fooled plenty of people, many of whom I consider friends.”
Seth knew people to whom Clay had been a colleague, a comrade, even a mentor. People had trusted him, and the sting of betrayal had caused a ripple.
But it was more than a ripple to Brooke.
It was a damned earthquake.
Seth disdained the man for giving business a bad name, but he hated him for what he’d done to the woman in front of him.
And even as he leaned forward to capture her lips in a comforting kiss, Seth couldn’t stop his brain from churning with ways to ensure Clay could never hurt her again.
Brooke kissed him back, and the slight edge of desperation in the way she clung to him broke his heart, even as he was relieved that he was the one that she’d come to.
They pulled back minutes later, slightly breathless.
Brooke very gently set her fingers against his cheek. “Thank you. For being here when I broke.”
“You didn’t break,” Seth said. “You just cracked a little.”
Brooke smiled weakly. “I was just so sure I was okay, you know? I don’t know which is more foolish, the fact that I didn’t see Clay for what he was, or the fact that I didn’t think it would impact me.”
Seth turned his head slightly, kissing her fingers. “Just a little paper cut. This isn’t going to leave lasting scars.”
I’ll make sure of it.
“I don’t want to see him,” she said, more to herself than to him. “Maybe that’s still me avoiding, but I just . . . I don’t know what he can say other than sorry, and weird as this sounds, I don’t think sorry is what I need from him. I need for him to leave me alone.”
“Well, the good news is that he’s still a couple time zones over,” Seth said. “And from what you’re saying, I’m sure his plea bargain involves probation, plus hours of whatever testimony he must have agreed to hand over to the feds to avoid jail time.”
She rubbed tiredly at her forehead. “I suppose. The whole thing just makes me feel tired.”
The need to care for her was fierce. “Let me take you home. To my hotel,” he clarified.
Please say yes.
Brooke dropped her hand back to her lap, giving him a small, tired smile. “I’d really like that.”
Seth smiled in victory before standing and holding out a hand to her.
The moment when her palm touched his felt like . . . everything.
Hours later, Brooke had taken a bubble bath, eaten a mountain of homemade macaroni and cheese, made by Seth himself, courtesy of Manhattan grocery delivery and some guidance from the Food Network, and consumed just enough wine to have dropped into sleep the second her head hit the pillow.
Seth smiled as he tugged the blankets up mostly over her head, knowing by now that she preferred to be nestled as deeply as possible under the covers.
He had every intention of going to clean up the kitchen before booting up his laptop and figuring out just how much he’d missed in his unexpected time off this afternoon.
Instead, he found himself sitting on the edge of the bed, hands clasped between his legs as he stared blankly at the closet door and took in the shock of the day.
Brooke’s con-man ex had managed to wiggle his way out of prison time.
Seth swore softly, his head falling forward.
For all his reassurances to Brooke that Clay would be held up on the West Coast, the truth was, Seth couldn’t count on any of that.
And even if Clay was stuck in California, the man had access to the Internet and phones. Even if he couldn’t see Brooke, he could make contact.
A man who’d betrayed her trust in the most blatant, violating way possible could hurt her again with minimal effort.
Damn it. It wasn’t right.
Seth couldn’t stop Clay from calling her, or texting her. It’s not as though he could monitor Brooke’s phone, and even if he could, he wouldn’t.
He was controlling, not psycho.
Brooke made a sleepy sound, and Seth turned his head slightly, watching as she shifted under the covers, pulling more tightly into a ball.
Seth’s chest tightened. There was no way he could sit back and do nothing. No way he would let someone else he cared about be blindsided by fate.
For long minutes, Seth sat at her bedside, thinking.
Planning.
Seth couldn’t control Clay Battaglia’s actions.
However, he could monitor them.
The question was . . . should he?
Seth closed his eyes, wishing that he could call Grant. His friend would likely have some zero-bullshit advice. But other than curt exchanges about work, the two men hadn’t spoken since their argument a week earlier. Even if Grant picked up his call, Seth had a good idea what his friend would say. Don’t do it, man.
Brooke stirred again, rolling closer to him. Her knees hit his hip, and her face emerged from under the covers, apparently wanting to see who was blocking her space.
She gave him a sleepy smile. “Hi.”
He smiled back.
“You know watching women sleep fits into the creepy category, right?”
“I thought it was fair game as long as I didn’t have a camera.”
She giggled, a happy sound that was at odds with her ragged sobbing from earlier.
Thos
e giggles were everything, and he knew then.
Knew that he would do anything to keep her from crying again.
He waited until her breathing had resumed the slow regularity of sleep before he quietly went back into the kitchen.
But instead of tackling the dishes, Seth unplugged his cell phone from his charger, taking it into the small den off the living room and closing the door behind him.
And made the call.
Tommy Franklin picked up on the first ring. “Mr. Tyler, how can I help you?”
“Franklin. How are you?” Seth forced himself to keep his voice steady and cool, as though this were a normal business arrangement. He didn’t bother with small talk.
“Fine. Although, if you’re checking on my progress, I already told you I’ll reach out when I have something concrete.”
“I’m calling about something else, actually.”
“Ah.”
Seth took a deep breath, gave himself a chance to back out. Then he remembered Brooke’s tears.
“I’m wondering if you do business on the West Coast,” Seth said gruffly. “Or if you have any colleagues you recommend.”
“Absolutely. What do you have in mind?”
Last chance to back out . . .
Seth rubbed his forehead, bowed his head. And pressed forward.
“I need you to check out someone for me. Have you heard of Clay Battaglia?”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
IN HER SEVERAL YEARS of experience, Brooke had learned that there were two types of wedding planners.
Those that you hired for their vision—the firecrackers who gave you their opinions, like it or not, but in the end were worth it, because their vision was probably better than yours anyway.
Then there were the wedding planners you hired to implement your vision—the ones who listened to what you wanted and found a way to make it work.
Brooke was the latter. She was a people pleaser, and nothing made her happier than when she could make a bride’s dream come true, securing that perfect venue or quaint little church, or even that moment when you could matchmake her with her ideal dress.
But that said, Brooke wasn’t above having private little celebrations when her vision and the bride’s vision aligned.
Such was the case in Maya Tyler’s wedding.
Even if Brooke and Seth weren’t doing . . . well, whatever it was that they were doing, Maya and Neil’s wedding would go down in the books as one of Brooke’s favorites.
Maya had chosen Hamilton House for her reception. They’d just put the deposit for the gorgeous space Brooke had shown Seth just a couple weeks earlier, and Brooke wasn’t sure who was more excited, her or Maya.
Even Seth seemed more or less on board. Brooke wouldn’t go so far as to say he was excited about the wedding, but he’d quieted his objections.
So far they’d even managed to compartmentalize her work from their personal life. As previously agreed, Brooke ensured he signed off on any big expenses, but beyond those weekly check-ins, they rarely talked about the wedding.
It wasn’t ideal. The woman in Brooke was more than a little curious about how he was dealing with his sister marrying a man he didn’t approve of, but the wedding planner in her knew that boundaries were important.
Her other in-progress weddings made for occasional pillow talk, but never Maya’s.
Speaking of Maya . . . Brooke checked her watch. The other woman was fifteen minutes late. Which wasn’t totally unusual. Maya was late more often than not, although she typically texted.
Still, it gave Brooke an extra few minutes alone with her favorite spot. Maya was meeting her here today to discuss layout. Brooke already knew what she’d do. A skinny stage set up along the far wall for a live band. A dance floor in front of that, big enough to feel festive, but not so big that it was intimidating. She’d put the bar in the opposite corner, along the windows, so that when people waited for their champagne or martini, they’d have a view of the Brooklyn Bridge.
Maya and Neil had settled on an early December wedding, and though Maya was still debating on color scheme, Brooke had her fingers crossed for a gold-and-white holiday theme. Twinkle lights everywhere, flocked trees with glittery gold ornaments, delicate flutes of sparkling champagne with delicate gold wine charms with the couple’s initials, or perhaps even a little touch of edible gold glitter . . .
Brooke’s daydreams were interrupted by the slam of the door, and she turned, expecting to see Maya and Neil, and instead seeing . . . Maya and Grant?
“Hi, guys,” she said, carefully hiding her surprise.
It wasn’t the first time Grant had tagged along. Whatever tension had been between Grant and Maya at the announcement of her engagement seemed to have faded. Or at least Grant managed to put on a serious happy face, because he’d been nothing but smiles and jokes when they went cake tasting, or flower browsing, or sampling meatballs from a dozen different caterers. It seemed Maya had replaced Seth with Grant as the male voice of reason in the group, what with Neil being so absent from the planning. She kept insisting that it was worthwhile to have a male perspective along with them for input, but Brooke suspected the woman simply enjoyed Grant’s company.
So Brooke wasn’t shocked to see Grant. But Maya had specifically said Neil would be here today—that he’d regretted having to travel so much and wanted to be actively involved in more of the planning. Oh well. If Brooke were totally honest, she felt more comfortable around Grant than Neil.
She smiled as she crossed the cavernous space toward the two friends, although her smile froze just a touch when she got close enough to see their expressions.
Something wasn’t right.
Maya was smiling, but it was too wide, and her eyes had a slightly wild look about them. And her ponytail looked like it had been hastily styled rather than gathered and teased into its usual classy perfection.
Grant gave Brooke a dark look before bending his long body to give her a brief peck in greeting. “Hi, Brookey,” he said quietly. It was his usual greeting, but it lacked his normally warm, jocular tone. There was no sign of the playful Grant she’d grown so accustomed to. He looked every bit as brittle as Maya.
“What’s wrong?” Brooke asked, not bothering to pretend that everything was okay when it so clearly wasn’t.
Brooke wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Maya’s smile seemed to grow even wider. Even more false. “I have news!”
Out of the corner of her eye, Brooke saw Grant’s jaw clench as though he was gritting his teeth. Whatever Maya’s news was, he didn’t like it.
“Oh yeah?” Brooke asked, using her best soothe-the-bride voice.
What she wouldn’t give for a piece of furniture right now to plop said bride onto, because Maya looked ready to snap in half.
“We changed the wedding date!” Maya said, her voice too loud. The announcement echoed throughout the room, and though Brooke registered surprise, there was also relief—because based on their facial expressions, she’d thought it was much worse.
“Well, that’s no problem,” she said, reaching out to touch Maya’s hand. “People move dates all the time. Did you guys decide December’s just too hectic after all? Because we could just as easily transition to a late-autumn wedding, or even January if you wanted to stick with the winter theme.”
Grant’s tongue pushed out his cheek as he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. Maya just continued to stare blankly at her, and Brooke’s surprise turned to panic.
“What am I missing?”
This time Maya’s eyes darted away as Grant met Brooke’s gaze. “March. They want to move the wedding up to March,” he said plainly, his voice sounding oddly flat and devoid of emotion.
“March!” Brooke burst out, before she could think better of it. “As in . . . next month?”
Maya nodded, and her horrible forced smile finally collapsed. “Neil and I . . . talked. Everything was just taking so long, and he thought—we thought—do we really want to wait that l
ong to be married?”
Brooke’s mind was spinning. This was not good. Not that she hadn’t worked under these kinds of conditions before. Changing the date was uncommon, but not unheard of. Unplanned pregnancies and ailing parents could often change the timeline. Sometimes it was a couple deciding that they didn’t want the fuss, or a change in financial situation calling for a simpler-than-planned wedding.
But instinct told her that something else was at work here.
Plus that meant the wedding was a month away.
That was too fast. Granted, speed could be achieved with money, and the Tylers weren’t hurting for it, but . . .
Uh-oh.
Seth was holding the purse strings. And although he’d seemed more or less resigned to the wedding, something told her he wasn’t going to deal well with this new timeline.
She itched to ask Maya if she’d told her brother, but right now wasn’t about Seth and his issues with Neil. Right now was about Maya and the fact that the woman looked moments away from tears.
“We can make a March wedding work,” Brooke said soothingly, rubbing a hand over Maya’s arm. “But, sweetie, you know I have to ask . . . are you sure this is what you want?”
Maya’s hand shook just a little as she lifted it to brush a wisp of hair away from her temple. “Neil said that if I loved him, it shouldn’t be about the wedding, but about the marriage.”
Brooke thought she heard Grant growl, and silently, she echoed his sentiments. While true that some couples fell prey to the trap, becoming so wrapped up in the wedding that they lost sight of the relationship, Maya was far from being a wedding-obsessed diva. She cared, yes, but she had her head on straight. She seemed to be in it for the right reason.
Because she wanted to marry Neil.
And yet it was Grant who was here.
Hmm.
“Where is Neil?” Brooke asked gently.
“Traveling,” Maya said. “I think Dallas. Or Houston. Maybe Atlanta. I can’t—he’s been busy.”
Grant moved closer, setting a hand on Maya’s back. Maya didn’t glance up, or even smile, but Brooke thought she saw some of the tension leave the other woman’s body.