The Bride (The Boss)

by Barnette, Abigail

  CONTENTS

  copyright page

  copyright page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Coming Soon

  The Hook-Up

  The Hook-Up

  About the author

  About the author

  THE BRIDE

  Abigail Barnette

  Copyright 2014 Abigail Barnette

  All rights reserved.

  Thank you so much to Deelylah Mullin and Jessica Bimberg for talking me off ledges, finding all my comma splices, telling me to add more sex, and basically doing everything the perfect editing team should do.

  And thank you, thank you, thank you to all of you who love Neil and Sophie as much as I do. I just write them, but you make them live.

  CHAPTER ONE

  There’s no good way to break it to your mother that her twenty-five-year-old daughter is dating a forty-nine-year-old billionaire. So I’d never really gotten around to it. By the time we flew to my hometown of Calumet, Michigan, I knew I was in trouble.

  On the car ride from the Marquette airport, where Neil’s private plane had landed, I mentally rehearsed how I would explain to my mother that I was dating Neil Elwood, publishing magnate and tenth richest man in Great Britain.

  Oh, she was going to be so pissed at me.

  “Sophie? You’re awfully quiet,” Neil said, his eyes never leaving the snow-covered road for a second. He’d rented a car from the airport, a Malibu that, according to him, “drives like a broken shopping trolley.” He hadn’t been in a great mood since we’d landed.

  “I’m letting you concentrate on winter driving.” It was a pretty good excuse; Mom said the Keweenaw had already gotten a hundred inches of snow in December alone. Highway forty-one was a hard-packed avenue of white, with a sheen of ice on top. Tall plow banks narrowed the road on either side,,and deceptively cheerful flurries fell in the gray early morning light.

  Neil raised an eyebrow at the road ahead of us. “Darling, I learned to drive in Iceland. I’m sure I can handle this.”

  “We get a higher average snowfall than Iceland,” I pointed out. But it wasn’t like I could hide the truth forever, and I really had to stop my whole head-in-the-sand routine. “Okay. Confession.”

  “On the way to meet your family for the first time. Lovely.” He inhaled, audibly frustrated. “Do they at least know I’m coming?”

  “They know you’re coming. My mom just doesn’t know…some stuff.” Better to do it like a Band-Aid. “Maybe I haven’t been entirely honest with her about your money. Or…your age.”

  “Sophie!” he barked, tearing his eyes from the dingy snow on the road to frown at me.

  “I didn’t lie!” And I hadn’t. “I just haven’t corrected my mom when she said ‘this kid you’re dating.’”

  “This is bloody fantastic,” he cursed, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he locked his gaze on the road again. “As if I weren’t already nervous?”

  “At least I told you before we got there.” Not that I was making it any better by asking for credit for that. We were already in the car. I could have easily just let this whole thing blow up in our faces upon arrival, and Neil probably suspected I had planned to do just that.

  “Sophie, we have been dating for a year! Christ, we’re buying a house together. You didn’t think that eventually your mother would find out?”

  I tilted my head and studied his profile. Since the chemotherapy he’d had the year before, his hair had come back in grayer. He’d started growing a beard, a precisely clipped shadow of silver that I absolutely detested, but tolerated because it seemed to make him happy not to have to shave as often. Even before the chemo, our age difference would have been obvious. But now that he was rocking this hot dad look, it was going to come as a bigger shock to my mother. She was only forty-two.

  “You know, you’re very handsome when you’re annoyed with me,” I observed.

  His mood didn’t lighten. “I’m always handsome, Sophie. Stop changing the subject. Why didn’t you tell your mother the truth about me?”

  I shifted a little in the passenger seat. “I meant to. I really did. But then I let way too much time pass, and it got harder and harder to work it in to conversation. It never seemed like the right time.”

  “And a house full of your extended relatives is the perfect venue for initiating that conversation, is it?” he fumed. “What is this? Are you…embarrassed of me?”

  That made me laugh, despite the fact he was roaring angry. “No! Seriously, that’s not it. That’s stupid. But my mom is to me as you are to Emma. How would you feel if she moved to a different country with an older man she’d met only two months before?”

  “It depends on if that man is Horrible Michael or not,” he grumbled. He hated his daughter’s fiancé for no reason I could see, beyond that fact that he was going to marry Emma. In Neil’s opinion, no one deserved Emma. He would have to cop to understanding my mother’s point of view, or concede that Michael wasn’t all bad.

  The latter was never going to happen, so he said, “It’s completely understandable that you didn’t know how to explain our relationship to your family. I must admit to having a bit of an advantage here; as a wealthy, middle-aged man, I’m expected to have affairs with beautiful women half my age. It says nothing negative about my character. Those beautiful young women bear the brunt of the scorn, for being vapid, shallow gold diggers.”

  “Now that I know you understand where I’m coming from, I feel even worse for not telling you.” I laid my hand on his knee. “I’m really sorry. Does it help at all that I never lied?”

  “Your mother is expecting a twenty-four-year-old to walk through that door,” he reminded me grimly.

  “My mother wasn’t going to like you, no matter what. At least this way she has a reason that isn’t openly pathetic.”

  “I don’t think it’s openly pathetic to dislike Michael’s loud chewing. Or his overly American accent,” Neil muttered.

  “Somebody’s projecting,” I sing-songed. “I never once said that you were openly pathetic. You adopted that title on your own.”

  The corner of Neil’s mouth twitched, but he squashed his smile before it could fully form. I lifted the hand he rested on the gearshift and kissed his fingertips through his leather gloves.

  He pulled his hand back with a resigned sigh. “It’s only that I thought you were getting better at confronting difficult situations. We’ve been talking about the great progress you’re making—”

  “Yes, progress. I’m not one hundred percent perfect.” I heard the defensiveness in my own voice and mentally started counting to ten. “I’m sorry, I just… Could you not bring up therapy? I’d rather argue.”

  “Sorry, that was below the belt, wasn’t it?” He looked over, then back to the road.

  “I’m working on it.” I had to. It had been a rocky year for both of us, with Neil’s cancer treatment and my sudden plunge into the world of medical caregiver. He’d spent a scary time in the ICU, nearly dying from a kidney infection that had struck while his immune system was down for the count; I’d been in full-time survival mode, both for him and myself. Then, for the month
s that followed, I’d never quite shaken that mindset. If anything annoyed me, I’d think, “But at least Neil is okay,” and feel incredibly guilty for being upset, especially if he’d been the cause of the annoyance. It had made for a very contentious few months of me pretending everything was fine until I exploded. Neil had constantly walked on eggshells to keep from upsetting me, until we both decided that seeing a counselor together was in our best interests.

  Couple’s therapy should be bottled and sold at every available retail outlet.

  “Look, this… it has nothing to do with you,” I assured him. “This was completely shitty of me, and I’m sorry. But I promise, I’m not doing this anymore. This is just the last one of my avoidance issues coming to a nasty head. And it’s not fair to you.”

  He looked over to me, his expression softening. “Apology accepted. But really, Sophie, this puts me in a terribly awkward position.”

  “I know.” Boy, did I know. And he couldn’t begin to imagine the half of it. Neil had grown up in an extremely wealthy family, jetting from their homes in England and Iceland to fabulous holiday locales. The Elwood brood had been sophisticated from birth, it seemed. My family had an uncle who painted his beer gut to look like a watermelon when he walked with the rest of his VFW buddies in the Fourth of July parade. Neil was about to get the culture shock of his life, no matter how laid back and easygoing he thought he was.

  “If it makes you feel any better, at least you’re getting the biggest, most extended of the extended family gatherings out of the way first. After Christmas, any other interaction with my family will be a piece of cake.” I added, trying to put his mind at ease, “Besides. I’m sure everyone is going to be totally cool with you.”

  * * * *

  We were overrun the moment we stepped through the door.

  “Becky!” someone—my cousin Steve, I think—shouted into the dining room. “Yer daughter and her fella got in.”

  “Merry Christmas!” my aunt Marie shouted, wrapping her arms around me. Her hair was a graying blonde cloud of perfectly sculpted curls that got into my eyes and mouth as she hugged me.

  Beside me, Neil Elwood, internationally known billionaire, swayed slightly on his feet. I really hoped he wasn’t going to pass out, because he was carrying two bottles of very expensive champagne in the sleek black shopping bag in his hand.

  My aunt Marie stepped back and did a double-take as she looked Neil over. Her eyes went wide, and she bit her lips to try and disguise her mischievous smile. “Oh, your mom is going to shit.”

  The back porch of my grandmother’s house was easily the most down-home place in the Midwest, decked out in laminated wood paneling and thick plastic rugs to protect the carpet in the high traffic areas. Christmas saw the room turned into a glorious buffet with my aunts and great aunts scurrying to bring hot dishes to the already laden-down folding table. A truly hideous light up clock of the Last Supper hung on the wall over the sliding glass entryway into the main part of the house.

  I took Neil’s hand. “Come on. Let’s go see Mom and get this over with.”

  When we stepped into the tiny, crowded kitchen, my mom was bent over a steaming sink, having just strained some boiled potatoes. She looked fabulous, as always, in wide-legged black trousers and a fitted, leopard-print cardigan. Her blonde hair—as fake as her nails and just as difficult to maintain—was perfectly straightened and held back from her face with a clip.

  “I’m home!” I declared as she shook the last drops out of the huge stockpot.

  She turned to face us, the corners of her eyes crinkling with happiness when she saw me. Then her gaze darted to Neil, and her smile did that telltale, split-second cessation of outward mobility, caused by an unpleasant shock she didn’t want to admit to. I’d gotten so used to it over the years. The I’m-freaking-out-internally freeze.

  She hugged me, harder than absolutely necessary, and effused, “Honey, I’m so glad you made it! I was worried the airport would close down because of the storm yesterday.”

  “It didn’t.” After stating the obvious, there was nowhere to go but introductions. “Mom, this is Neil. Neil, this is my mom, Rebecca.”

  She put out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Neil. Sophie has had only good things to say about you.”

  Turning to me with raised eyebrows, she said, “Not that she’s said a lot.”

  “Yes, she mentioned that in the car on the way over.” He gave her what was possibly the most charming smile I’ve ever seen on him. Oh, baby. You’re wasting your energy. She already hates you.

  My grandmother was at the stove. She looked over the shoulder of her red, bedazzled Christmas sweater. “Well, don’t hug me, for heaven’s sake. I only haven’t seen you for a year.”

  “Merry Christmas, Grandma,” I said as I went to her with open arms.

  I heard my mom ask, “So, Neil. What do you do?”

  “I own two multimedia conglomerates, one in the US and England and the other based out of Reykjavik.”

  “Oh. How nice for you.” My mom was going to die of a heart attack on the kitchen floor.

  “Is there a lot of money in that?” my grandmother asked him, with all the tact small-town Michigan matriarchs generally displayed.

  Neil’s eyebrows lifted, and he blinked three times, rapidly, before managing to answer, “I do all right.”

  “It’s a wonder anybody’s doing all right these days, with those damn Republicans—”

  “Ma!” my mother hushed her. “Nobody wants to talk about politics at Christmas.”

  “I, uh, I brought a little something to contribute to the festivities,” Neil said, reaching into the shopping bag to pull out one of the bottles of 1996 Dom Pérignon.

  He’d brought the Dom Pérignon because I’d suggested he not go overboard. My mother was going to eat him alive.

  She took the bottle and turned it in her hands with a little nod. “This was very thoughtful of you.”

  “We’ve got beer, too, Neil, in the cooler outside the door. Just don’t let all the heat out,” my grandmother called, her head in the oven as she peeled the tinfoil off the ham.

  “I’ll chill this,” Mom said, taking the other bottle from Neil.

  Grandma deposited a heavy bowl into my hands, and I gasped, juggling it quickly so as not to slosh gravy onto my coat. “Take that out to the table.”

  I cast an apologetic glance at Neil as I moved past him, into the crowded dining room and out to the porch. As I went, I heard my grandma shoo him out of the kitchen.

  It wasn’t a long journey with the bowl, but by the time I got back to Neil, he’d been cornered by my great-uncle Doug, who had an open beer in his hand despite the fact it was eleven a.m. on Christmas morning.

  “You heard a dem gingerbread Oreos?” he asked Neil, taking a swig from his bottle.

  Neil blinked and stammered, “N-no. That sounds horrible.”

  “No, they’re a real ting,” Doug insisted, gesturing with his beer. “They were on the Channel Six news.”

  “I’m sorry, did you say noose?” Neil spotted me, and his relief was visible. I should have warned him about the thick Yooper accent that ran in my family.

  “Hey, Sophie!” Uncle Doug put out his arm for a half-hug. He was my grandmother’s youngest brother, sixty-five, and he’d recently retired from his job as a DNR officer. “Did ya hear about dem gingerbread Oreos?”

  “That sounds gross.” I stood beside Neil and reached up to put a hand on his shoulder. It was as hard as a blacksmith’s anvil with tension. I hoped he’d brought his headache pills with him.

  “They got ‘em down in Marquette,” Doug went on. “They don’t got ‘em at the Pat’s here, but I told Debbie’s sister, ‘you better save me some of dem gingerbread Oreos.’”

  My aunt Debbie yelled from the living room that there was something wrong with their cell phone, and Doug excused himself. As he walked away, Neil muttered to me, “I feel like I’m listening to an alien language.”

  “
Oh, you just wait until I’ve been up here a couple of days. No matter how hard I’ve tried to shake it, the accent always comes back.”

  Neil’s eyes widened as he considered the implications of that statement. “I think I do need one of those beers, after all.”

  My grandmother emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “Everybody shut up, we’re gonna pray!”

  Since my cousin Jimmy was going into the seminary, he did the honors. As everyone crossed themselves—including me, solely on reflex—Neil bowed his head respectfully. That’s one of the things I really love about Neil; he’s mindful of small stuff, and that lets him fit in anywhere, even when he doesn’t fit in at all.

  We’d been sticking to a mostly vegan diet since Neil had picked it up during the big, fun year of cancer. But there was absolutely nothing that could be classified as vegan at my family’s cheese-smothered Christmas dinner, so we took the opportunity to gorge ourselves shamefully on fatty baked ham and thick, gooey casseroles. I had a feeling this meal would be the dietary point of no return for both of us.

  There has never been a dinner table invented that could hold an entire extended family of Catholics. There were just too damn many Scaifes, so most of us ate standing up, or sitting on couches or folding chairs, since there were only six seats around the dining room table.

  Neil and I stood in the little corner next to the back bedroom, our plates balanced on our hands, our bottles of Leinenkugel perched on the windowsill between ancient styrofoam snowmen.

  “I need you to still love me,” I managed around a mouthful of scorching hot mashed potatoes, “when you are witness to the gastrointestinal nightmare that will be this food’s legacy.”

  “We shall never speak of this night. What happens in Michigan stays in Michigan. Hopefully including your accent.” He lifted another bite of ham to his mouth. “And we must never tell Emma about the orgy of animal products we’re ingesting.”

  “Who’s Emma?” my mom called from the dining room table. The woman had the hearing of a buck in November.