To Have And To Hold: The Wedding Belles Book 1

by Lauren Layne

  Whoever had designed it had wisely understood that you didn’t need walls in between rooms when you could use space, and that seating area flowed into a dining room, which was bordered by a new kitchen, clearly under construction, and . . .

  It was somebody’s home, Brooke realized.

  The space was as beautiful as Brooke remembered it—more so, now that it had a purpose—but it was no longer set up to be a versatile wedding reception site. Someone was intending to live here.

  “Oh man,” she said, realizing there’d been a super awkward, horrible mistake. Brooke pulled out her phone to text Alexis about what seemed to be a major misunderstanding.

  Thank God whatever richer-than-God person who had bought the property hadn’t moved in yet. Crazy awkward to walk into someone’s home uninvited.

  Brooke heard a loud clang, as though someone had dropped a tool, and her head snapped up and looked in the direction of the wall that led to what must be the bedrooms of the house.

  Crap. Definitely not alone. A construction worker, maybe?

  Brook turned, slowly creeping toward the elevator, her gait made slow and clunky in an effort not to let her heels click on the floor as she made her escape.

  Then she heard the sound of a door opening and closing and heavy footsteps as someone entered the main space where she was currently tiptoeing around like an overdressed cat burglar.

  Keeping her fingers crossed that it really was a worker and not the owner of the house, Brooke turned on her heel, fully prepared to be at her most charming and apologetic for the confusion.

  The apology froze on her lips. Heck, all rational thought froze in her brain.

  Seth was here.

  Seth was here.

  Standing in the not-quite-finished kitchen, wearing . . .

  Jeans.

  And a T-shirt . . . and work boots?

  Brooke blinked, half-terrified that her mind had gone and given up the ghost and quit on her. Seth Tyler might wear jeans, sometimes, but only when paired with a cashmere sweater or tailored dress shirt. Definitely not a basic white T-shirt that clung just a little bit snugly to the sculpted muscles of his upper body.

  “Is that dirt on your face?” Brooke blurted out.

  Yeah. Okay. Not exactly what she’d always imagined saying upon seeing him again, but really, he was wearing work boots. And there was a hammer in his hand.

  Her ovaries would be fainting if they weren’t so confused by what was happening right now.

  He lifted a self-conscious hand to his cheek before dropping it with a shrug. “The shelves I’m installing must have had some dust on them.”

  “The—” Brooke cleared her throat. “The shelves you’re installing?”

  Her voice was far too high, and he gave her a crooked smile and tilted his head in the direction of the other room. “Want to see?”

  Brooke had about a billion questions for him, none of them about shelves, but since the important questions seemed far too complicated to possibly make it from her brain to her mouth, she went with the simpler option. “Okay.”

  He stood still as she walked toward him, and for a brief moment, she thought his eyes might be appearing slightly hungry as they looked her over, but then all expression disappeared between the impassive mask. It was like they were going back to that first day at the Belles, when he’d been cool and unapproachable and impossible to read.

  But no, that wasn’t quite right.

  He wasn’t that man at all. He was different. Not just because of the jeans and the boots and that seriously sexy hammer. He was different. Seth the person had changed. She just wasn’t sure how.

  Or why.

  For a foolish moment, she thought he might extend a hand to her and lead her to these mysterious shelves, but instead he turned away and walked ahead of her, leaving her to follow him.

  She swallowed her disappointment and trailed after him, finding a long hallway on the other side of the wall. It had wisely been kept from being too narrow; instead, the second half of the floor had been divided into a T-shaped hallway to allow in natural light, with a handful of doors leading into separate rooms.

  Brooke curiously glanced into a couple of them as they walked by, but not much had been done. A card table had been set up in one with a laptop, as though it was serving as a temporary office.

  Another held building supplies, another was empty, and one was a bathroom.

  Finally, they made it to the last door, and Seth turned back, gesturing for her to enter first.

  She gave him a wary look before she stepped into the room.

  “Oh,” she breathed.

  It was a bedroom.

  A gorgeous, enormous master bedroom.

  At the center was a king platform bed with dark gray bedding and puffy white pillows. There were two chaise lounges along the windows with a view of the city. She pivoted, taking in the newly constructed walk-in closet that was bigger than her current bedroom twice over. Through an open door she could make out a marble bathroom with a walk-in shower and separate tub.

  Wordlessly she turned toward Seth, waiting for an explanation.

  He gestured with his chin toward a pile of wood in the far corner that she’d missed. “Most everything here was delivered and built for me, but I wanted to do something myself. I thought, ‘How hard can a bookshelf be?’ Hard, it turns out. Although I’m inclined to blame the directions.”

  “Seth,” she said, halting his uncharacteristic babbling. “What’s going on?”

  “I bought it,” he said, as though those three little words were a normal thing to say about property in downtown Manhattan.

  “The building?” she asked.

  He shrugged.

  “Good Lord,” she said, running a hand over her hair. “You bought the building?”

  “Well, I tried to buy just one floor, but this way was just . . . easier.”

  She let out an incredulous laugh. “Of course it was. You’re Seth Tyler.”

  He said nothing.

  “There’s no bride coming by tonight, is there? You and Alexis set this up.”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  Well, at least he wasn’t lying to her. That was something.

  Seth blew out a breath, tapping the hammer lightly against his thigh in agitation. “There are five bedrooms. Three and a half baths. A study. You already saw the beginnings of the main living area, but I’m also planning to put a piano in. Did you know I play? And since I own the whole damn building, I’m thinking of installing some sort of doggy area on the rooftop so I don’t have to go as far to let him or her out when the weather sucks.”

  “A dog?” Brooke interrupted his strange monologue. “What dog?”

  “I don’t know. The one I’m going to get,” he said, his words tumbling over one another in his obvious excitement. “And I’m dividing one of the lower floors into apartment units, and I’m giving one to Dex to make it easier for both of us when I need to get uptown for work. And there’s no room service, but that’s not going to be a problem, because I’ve hired this crazy French dude to teach me some cooking basics. And I told Maya she could decorate, but only if she runs everything by me, because I want this place to be mine. To feel like me. I’m not exactly sure what that looks like yet, but I’m working on it. A little every day.”

  His words were getting closer and closer together, coming out in a bit of a nervous rush, and Brooke’s eyes started to burn at the corners as she felt tears threaten.

  “Don’t cry,” he whispered. “I die when you cry.”

  “I don’t understand what’s going on here,” she said.

  “Yes you do,” he said quickly. “You know exactly what’s going on here.” He tossed the hammer to the side, and she winced as it clattered to the gorgeous hardwood floor. He moved closer; his fingers wrapped around her stiff upper arms, drawing her forward.

  “I know this is a risk,” he said quietly. “Setting this up like this, doing this all behind your back, tricking you into coming h
ere. I know you’re thinking that I’m controlling everything, and I’ll admit that I am. I’ve controlled every single detail of this right down to this ugly T-shirt in hopes that it would help make me seem more approachable. Although, that was actually Grant’s idea.”

  “Grant’s in on this?” she asked, trying to keep up.

  “He likes to think so,” Seth said with a wry smile. “Anyway, I know I’m being controlling. I know that it’s a problem of mine, and it will probably always be a problem of mine, but I’m working on it. I swear that I am. If you want to walk away right now, I’ll let you, but I had to try. You see that, right? I had to try to be more, because you make me want to be more. More than a scared little boy who tried too desperately to direct all of the pieces and people of his life because he was terrified of losing them.”

  Brooke’s eyes closed as her emotions wavered between happiness and confusion. “This is a hell of a speech, Tyler.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said in a rush. “I’m so sorry about the thing with Maya, the thing with Clay. It was all badly done. So badly done, and I’d give anything to take it back, and since I can’t . . . I need to tell you why. I tried to tell you that day, but . . .”

  He took a deep breath. “I did it because I love you. And that’s not an excuse, but it is the truth. I know it’s soon, I know it’s crazy, but my feelings for you are the most real thing I’ve ever known.”

  Her emotions weren’t wavering anymore. They tipped firmly in the direction of ecstatic, overjoyed, elated, and she opened her eyes.

  “You decided not to live in a hotel anymore.”

  His mouth drooped a little in disappointment at her words, but she had to do this her way.

  “I want a place of my own,” he said. “A home.”

  “And you’re, like, the richest man in New York, which means you can pick literally any place,” she said slowly.

  He shrugged. “Sure.”

  “But you chose this place.”

  “Obviously, Brooke,” he said, with just the slightest edge of impatience that made her grin, because it was so wonderfully, beautifully Seth.

  “You chose it because you knew I loved it.”

  “Yes,” he said quietly.

  Brooke lifted her eyebrows.

  “I’m not asking you to move in, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said, releasing her arms and shoving his hands into his back pockets. “Not today, anyway.”

  “Then what are you asking?” she said, taking a step closer, loving the way his cool blue eyes warmed when she got near.

  “Anything,” he said, his voice slightly desperate. “I’ll take whatever you’re giving. A drink. Dinner. A walk. Maybe a movie. Joint custody of the dog. Keys to the same home—this home. A wedding. Babies. Things like that.”

  Brooke laughed as she lifted her hands to his shoulders and pressed her body into his. “Easy there, big guy. I’m still trying to adjust to the fact that you’re wearing jeans and carrying a hammer around.”

  His arms gingerly went around her, resting lightly against her back as though he thought she might run at any time and was prepared to let her go even though he didn’t want to. “The shirt and hammer did it for you, huh? Grant will be pleased.”

  “Yeah, I’m definitely not thinking about Grant right now,” she said, her eyes dropping purposely to his mouth.

  “No?”

  She shook her head and slowly pulled his head down to hers, pouring her entire heart into the kiss. His arms tightened around her, no longer tentative as their mouths met again and again in the sweet elation of rediscovery.

  “I’d thought you’d forgotten about me,” she said softly, pulling back slightly and running her fingers along the silken hair around his ears.

  He shook his head. “Never. Not for one second. I just went underground for a bit to up my game.”

  “You did good,” she said, brushing her lips against his and inviting another kiss.

  Instead of taking her up on the invitation, he leaned back slightly, eyes narrowed. “Did you miss me?”

  “I did,” she said slowly. “But I think it was good to have a little distance. To figure things out and find myself in the aftermath of everything, you know?”

  His eyes clouded, and she rushed to reassure him. “You know what I figured out?”

  Seth said nothing.

  Her hand slid down to his lips, her fingertips tracing his firm, unsmiling mouth. “I figured out that I don’t want a relationship that’s easy the way it was when I was with Clay, before it all went to hell.”

  “No?” His voice was rough.

  “No,” she whispered. “I want a relationship that might be hard sometimes but is worth it. And you, Seth Tyler, are most definitely worth it.”

  His slow smile was just about the best thing she’d ever seen in her life, and his former wariness gave way to cocky seduction.

  “Is that so?”

  “I’m pretty sure,” she teased. “There are some things I’ll need to consider, first.”

  “Like?”

  “Like how ugly that bookshelf is if and when you ever finish it.”

  “What else?” he growled, maneuvering her back toward the bed.

  “Like exactly how long we’re supposed to wait before you let me move in with you.”

  “Five minutes. Next?”

  Brooke smiled. “Just one more thing . . . I’ll need to consider how much I love you.”

  He froze in the process of sliding a hand under her shirt and searched her eyes. “Yeah? How much are you thinking?”

  “All the way, Mr. Tyler. I’m thinking I love you all the way.”

  Seth pushed her back onto the bed with a wicked, happy grin. “Prove it.”

  And Brooke did. She definitely did.

  Turn the page for an exclusive sneak peek of

  BOOK TWO IN THE WEDDING BELLES SERIES

  Coming soon

  Chapter One

  FOR AS LONG AS Heather Fowler could remember, living in Manhattan had been The Dream.

  The one she’d talked about as a precocious eight-year-old when her mom’s best friend, turned chatty by one too many glasses of the Franzia she chugged like water, asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up.

  At eight, Heather hadn’t been exactly sure about the what in her future, but she absolutely knew the where.

  New York City.

  Manhattan, specifically.

  The obsession had started with Friends reruns, and had only grown as she’d moved on to her mother’s Sex and the City DVD collection, which she’d watched covertly while her mother had worked double shifts at the diner.

  People in New York were vibrant, sparkling. They were doing something. Important things. Fun things.

  She wanted to be one of them.

  By the time Heather was in high school, The Dream was still going strong.

  While the overachievers had dreams of going to Mars, and the smaller-thinking ones had aspirations of getting to the mall, for Heather it had always and only been NYC.

  Her mother had never pretended to understand Heather’s dream. Joan Fowler had lived her entire life in Merryville, Michigan, with only two addresses: her lower-middle-class parents’ split-level and the trailer she’d rented when, at four months pregnant, her parents had kicked her out.

  And while Heather had wanted something more for her mother—and something more for herself—than hand-me-down clothes and a two-bedroom trailer that smelled constantly like peroxide (courtesy of her mother’s hairdressing side job), Joan had always seemed content.

  But to Heather’s mother’s credit, Joan had never been anything less than encouraging.

  If you want New York, you do New York. Simple as that.

  And so Heather had.

  Though it hadn’t been simple. There had been detours. College at Michigan State. A tiny apartment in Brooklyn Heights with four roommates that, while technically located in New York City, wasn’t quite the urbane sophistication she’d picture
d.

  But Heather’s resolve had never wavered. In one of her college internships, a mentor had told Heather to dress for the job she wanted, not the one she had.

  Heather did that, but she’d also broadened the idiom: Live the life you want, not the one you have.

  In this case, that meant saving up enough to cover rent that was more expensive than she could comfortably afford. Yet. More than she could afford yet. Because Heather was close to a promotion from assistant wedding planner to actual wedding planner. She could feel it.

  The apartment was going to help her get there.

  An apartment in zip code 10128, just to the east of Central Park.

  She’d done it. She’d achieved the dream, or at least part of it.

  And it was . . .

  Terrible.

  It was two a.m., and she wasn’t even close to anything resembling asleep. Heather’s eyes snapped open after yet another failed sleep attempt. Her nostrils flared in an unsuccessful bid for patience before she turned and banged her palm against the wall over her Ikea headboard.

  She’d purposely left the walls of her bedroom white because she’d read it was soothing. The curtains were also white, as were the area rug at the foot of the bed, the flowers on her table, and the lamp shades.

  White is soothing, white is soothing, white is soothing . . .

  She waited. And waited. There was a pause and Heather held her breath.

  Then: Bum ba-dum bum bum bum . . .

  White wasn’t soothing enough for this shit.

  Heather fought the urge to scream. Was the music actually getting louder? Was that even possible?

  Apparently. Because whoever lived on the other side of her bedroom wall either couldn’t hear her banging or straight-up didn’t care.

  Heather closed her eyes and tried to tell herself that it was soothing. Tried to pretend that the mediocre pounding of the drums and the squeal of some sort of guitar was a lullaby.

  Her eyes snapped open again. Nope.