A Beaumont Christmas Wedding

by Sarah M. Anderson

  Then she made the mistake of looking at him. God, it wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t.

  Matthew Beaumont was, physically, the perfect man to have a Christmas romance with. He had to be about six foot one, broad chested, and that chin? Those eyes? Even his deep red hair made him look distinctive. Striking.

  Gorgeous.

  Too darned bad he was an ass.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, determined to be polite if it killed her. She would not throw a diva fit and prove him right. Even if there would be a certain amount of satisfaction in slamming the door in his face.

  He gave her a grin that walked the fine line between awkward and cute. He might be even better-looking than his brother, but he appeared to possess none of the charm. “Look, Ms. Maddox—”

  “Whitney.”

  “Oh. Okay. Whitney. We got off on the wrong foot and—”

  She winced.

  He paused. “I got off on the wrong foot. And I want to apologize to you.” His voice was strong, exuding confidence. It made everything about him that much sexier.

  She blinked at him. “What?”

  “I jumped to conclusions when I realized who you were and I apologize for that.” He waited for her to say something but she had nothing.

  Was he serious? He looked serious. He wasn’t biting back laughter or— She glanced down at his hands. They were tucked into the pockets of his gray wool trousers. No, he wasn’t about to snap an awful photo of her to post online, either.

  He pulled his hands from his pockets and held them at waist level, open palms up, as if he knew what she was thinking. “It’s just that this wedding is incredibly important for rebuilding the public image of the Beaumont family and it’s my job to make sure everyone stays on message.”

  “The...public image?” She leaned against the door, staring up at him. Maybe he wasn’t a real man—far too handsome to be one. And he was certainly talking like a space alien. “I thought this was about Jo and Phillip getting married.”

  “That, too,” he hurried to agree. This time, his smile was a little more charming, like something a politician might pull out when he needed to win an argument. “I just— Look. I just want to make sure that we don’t make headlines for the wrong reason.”

  Embarrassment flamed down the back of her neck. She looked away. He was trying to be nice by saying we but they both knew that he meant her.

  “I know you don’t believe this, but I have absolutely no desire to make headlines. At all. Ever. If no one else recognized me for the rest of my life, that’d be super.”

  There was a moment of silence that was in danger of becoming painful. “Whitney...”

  The way he said her name—soft and tender and almost reverent—dragged her eyes up to his. The look in his eyes hit her like a bolt out of, well, the blue. He had the most amazing eyes...

  For that sparkling moment, it almost felt as if...as if he was going to say something that could be construed as romantic. Something that didn’t make her feel as though the weight of this entire event were being carried on her shoulders.

  She wanted to hear something that made her feel like Whitney Maddox—that being Whitney Maddox was a good thing. A great thing. And she wanted to hear that something come out of Matthew’s mouth, in that voice that could melt away the chilly winter air. Desire seemed to fill the space between them.

  She leaned toward him. She couldn’t help it. At the same time, his mouth opened as one of his hands moved. Then, just as soon as the motion had started, it stopped. His mouth closed and he appeared to shake himself. “I’ll meet you at the dress fitting tomorrow. To make sure everything’s—”

  “On message?”

  He notched up an eyebrow. She couldn’t tell if she’d offended him or amused him. Or both. “Perfect,” he corrected. “I just want it to be perfect.”

  “Right.” There would be no sweet words. If there was one thing she wasn’t, it was perfect. “Will it just be you?”

  He gave her a look that was surprisingly wounded. She couldn’t help but grin at him, which earned her a smile that looked more...real, somehow. As though what had just passed between them was almost...flirting.

  “No. The wedding planner will be joining us—and the seamstress and her assistants, of course.”

  “Of course.” She leaned against the door. Were they flirting? Or was he charming her because that was what all Beaumonts did?

  God, he was so handsome. He exuded raw power. She had no doubt that whatever he said went.

  A man like him would be hard to resist.

  “Tomorrow, then,” she said.

  “I look forward to it.” He gave her a tight smile before he turned away. Just as she was shutting the door, he turned back. “Whitney,” he said again in that same deep, confident and—she hoped—sincere voice. “It truly is a pleasure to meet you.”

  Then he was gone.

  She shut the door.

  Heavens. It was going to be a very interesting two weeks.

  * * *

  “So,” Whitney began as they passed streetlights decorated like candy canes. The drive had, thus far, been quiet. “Who’s on the guest list again?”

  “The Beaumonts,” Jo said with a sigh. “Hardwick Beaumont’s four ex-wives—”

  “Four?”

  Jo nodded as she tapped on the steering wheel. “All nine of Phillip’s siblings and half siblings will be there, although only the four he actually grew up with are in the wedding—Chadwick, Matthew, Frances and Byron.”

  Whitney whistled. “That’s a lot of kids.” Part of why she’d loved doing the show was that, for the first time, she’d felt as though she’d had a family, one with brothers and sisters and parents who cared about her. Even if it were all just pretend, it was still better than being the only child Jade Maddox focused on with a laserlike intensity.

  But ten kids? Dang.

  “And that doesn’t count the illegitimate ones,” Jo said in a conspiratorial tone. “Phillip says they know of three, but there could be more. The youngest is...nineteen, I think.”

  As much as she hated gossip... “Seriously? Did that man not know about condoms?”

  “Didn’t care,” Jo said. “Between you and me, Hardwick Beaumont was an old-fashioned misogynist. Women were solely there for his entertainment. Anything else that happened was their problem, not his.”

  “Sounds like a real jerk.”

  “I understand he was a hell of a businessman, but...yeah. On the whole, his kids aren’t that bad. Chadwick’s a tough nut to crack, but his wife, Serena, balances him out really well. Phillip’s... Well, Phillip’s Phillip.” She grinned one of those private grins that made Whitney blush. “Matthew can come on a bit strong but really, he’s a good guy. He’s just wound a bit tight. Very concerned with the family’s image. It’s like...he wants everything to be perfect.”

  “I noticed.” Whitney knew she was talking about the coming-on-strong part, but her brain immediately veered back to when she’d stumbled into his arms. His strong arms.

  And then there was the conversation they’d had—the private one. The one that could have been flirting. And the way he’d said her name...

  “We’re really sorry about last night,” Jo repeated for about the fifteenth time.

  “No worries,” Whitney hurried to say. “He apologized.”

  “Matthew is...very good at what he does. He just needs to lighten up a little bit. Have some fun.”

  She wondered at that. Would fun be a part of this? The dinner had said no. But the conversation after? She had no idea. If only she weren’t so woefully out of practice at flirting.

  “I can still drop out,” she said. “If that’ll make it simpler.”

  Jo laughed—not an awkward sound, but one that was truly humorous. “You’re kidd
ing, right? Did I mention the ex-wives? You know who else is going to be here?”

  “No...”

  “The crown prince of Belgravitas.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” God, she hoped Jo was kidding. She didn’t want to make a fool of herself in front of honest-to-God royalty.

  “Nope. His wife, the princess Susanna, used to date Phillip.”

  “Get out.”

  “I’m serious. Drake—the rapper—will be there, as well. He and Phillip are friends. Jay Z and Beyoncé had a scheduling conflict, but—”

  “Seriously?” It wasn’t as though she didn’t know that Phillip Beaumont was a famous guy—all those commercials, all those stories about parties he hosted at music festivals—but this was crazy.

  “If you drop out,” Jo went on, “who on earth am I going to get to replace you? Out of the two hundred people who’ll be at the wedding and the six hundred who’ll be at the reception, you know how many I invited? My parents, my grandma Lina, my uncle Larry and aunt Penny, and my parents’ neighbors. Eleven people. That’s it. That’s all I have. And you.”

  Whitney didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want to do this, not after last night. But Jo was one of her few friends. Someone who didn’t care about Whitney Wildz or Growing Up Wildz or even that horrible Christmas album she’d put out, Whitney Wildz Sings Christmas, Yo.

  She didn’t want to disappoint her friend.

  “Honestly,” Jo said, “there’s going to be so many egos on display that I doubt people will even realize who you are. Don’t take that the wrong way.”

  “I won’t,” Whitney said with a smile. She could do this. She could pull off normal for a few weeks. She couldn’t compete with that guest list. She was just the maid of honor. Who would notice her, anyway? Besides Matthew, that was...

  “And you’re right. It won’t be like that last fund-raiser.”

  “Exactly,” Jo said, sounding encouraging. “You were the headliner there—of course people were watching you. Matthew only acted like he did because he’s a perfectionist. I truly believe you’ll be fine.” She pulled into a parking lot. “It’ll be fine.”

  “All right,” Whitney agreed. She didn’t quite believe the sentiment but she couldn’t disappoint Jo. “It will be fine.”

  “Good.”

  They got out. Whitney stared at the facade of the Bridal Collection. This was it. Once she was in the dress, there was no backing out.

  Oh, who was she kidding? There was no backing out anyway. Jo was right. They were the kind of people who didn’t have huge social circles or celebrities on speed dial. They were horse people. She and Jo got along only because they both loved animals and they both had changed their ways.

  “You’re really having a wedding with Grammy winners and crown princes?”

  “Yup,” Jo said, shaking her head. “Honestly, though, it’s not the over-the-top wedding that matters. It’s the marriage. Besides,” she added as they went inside, “David Guetta is going to be doing the music for the reception. How cool is that?”

  “Pretty cool,” Whitney agreed. She didn’t recognize the name, but then, why would she? She wasn’t famous anymore.

  Maybe Jo was right. No one would care about her. She’d managed to stay out of the headlines for almost three years, after all—that was a lifetime in today’s 24/7 news cycle. In that time, there’d been other former teen stars who’d grabbed much bigger headlines for much more scandalous reasons.

  They walked into the boutique to find Matthew pacing between rows of frothy white dresses and decorations that were probably supposed to be Christmas trees but really looked more as though someone had dipped pipe cleaners in glitter. The whole place was so bright it made her eyes hurt.

  Matthew—wearing dark gray trousers and a button-up shirt with a red tie under his deep green sweater—was so out of place that she couldn’t not look at him. She wouldn’t have thought it possible, but he looked even better today than he had the other night. As she appreciated all the goodness that was Matthew Beaumont, he looked up from his phone.

  Their eyes met, and her breath caught in her throat. The warmth in his eyes, the curve to his lips, the arch in his eyebrow—heat flooded Whitney’s cheeks. Was he happy to see her? Or was she misreading the signals?

  Then he glanced at Jo. “Ladies,” he said in that confident tone of his. It should have seemed wholly out of place in the midst of this many wedding gowns, but on him? “I was just about to call. Jo, they’re waiting for you.”

  “Where’s the wedding planner?” Whitney asked. If the planner wasn’t here, then she and Jo weren’t late. Late was being the last one in.

  “Getting Jo’s dress ready.”

  Dang. Whitney tried to give her friend a smile that was more confident than she actually felt. Jo threaded her way back through racks of dresses and disappeared into a room.

  Then Whitney and Matthew were alone. Were they still almost flirting? Or were they back to where they’d been at dinner? If only she hadn’t fallen into him. If only he hadn’t recognized her. If only...

  “Is there someone else who can help me try my dress on?”

  “Jo’s dress requires several people to get her into it,” he said. Then he bowed and pointed the way. “Your things are in here.”

  “Thanks.” She held her head high as she walked past him.

  “You’re welcome.” His voice trickled over her skin like a cool stream of water on a too-hot day.

  She stepped into a dressing room—thankfully, one with a door. Once she had that door shut, she sagged against it. That voice, that face were even better today than they’d been last night. Last night, he’d been trying to cover his surprise and anger. Today? Today he just looked happy to see her.

  She looked at the room she’d essentially locked herself in. It was big enough for a small love seat and a padded ottoman. A raised dais stood in front of a three-way mirror.

  And there, next to the mirrors, hung a dress. It was a beautiful dove-gray silk gown—floor length, of course. Sleeveless, with sheer gathered silk forming one strap on the left side. The hemline was flared so that it would flow when she walked down the aisle, no doubt.

  It was stunning. Even back when she’d walked the red carpet, she’d never worn a dress as sophisticated as this. When she was still working on Growing Up Wildz, she’d had to dress modestly—no strapless, no deep necklines. And when she’d broken free of all the restrictions that had hemmed her in for years, well, “classic” hadn’t been on her to-do list. She’d gone for shock value. Short skirts. Shorter skirts. Black. Torn shirts that flashed her chest. Offensive slogans. Safety pins holding things together. Anything she could come up with to show that she wasn’t a squeaky-clean kid anymore.

  And it’d worked. Maybe too well.

  She ran her hands over the silk. It was cool, smooth. If a dress could feel beautiful, this did. A flicker of excitement started to build. Once, before it’d been a chore, she’d liked to play dress-up. Maybe this would be fun. She hoped.

  Several pairs of shoes dyed to match were lined up next to the dress—some with four-inch heels. Whitney swallowed hard. There’d be no way she could walk down the aisle in those beauties and not fall flat on her face.

  Might as well get this over with. She stripped off her parka and sweater, then the boots and jeans. She caught a glimpse of herself in the three-way mirror—hard not to with those angles. Ugh. The socks had to go. And...

  Her bra had straps. The dress did not.

  She shucked the socks and, before she could think better about it, the bra. Then she hurried into the dress, trying not to pull on the zipper as the silk slipped over her head with a shushing sound.

  The fabric puddled at her feet as she tried to get the zipper pulled up, but her arms wouldn’t bend in that direction. “I need help,” she called
out, praying that an employee or a seamstress or anyone besides Matthew Beaumont was out there.

  “Is it safe to come in?” Matthew asked from the other side of the door.

  Oh, no. Whitney made another grab at the zipper, but nothing happened except her elbow popped. Ow. She checked her appearance. Her breasts were covered. It was just the zipper....

  “Yes.”

  The door opened and Matthew walked in. To his credit, he didn’t enter as if he owned the place. He came in with his eyes cast down before he took a cautious glance around. When he spotted her mostly covered, the strangest smile tried to crack his face. “Ah, there you are.”

  “Here I am,” she agreed, wondering where else on earth he thought she could have gotten off to in the ten minutes she’d been in here. “I can’t get the zipper up all the way.”

  She really didn’t know what to expect at this point. The majority of her interactions with Matthew ranged from outright rude to surly. But then, just when she was about to write him off as a jerk and nothing more, he’d do something that set her head spinning again.

  Like right now. He walked up to her and held out his hand, as if he were asking her to dance.

  Even in the cramped dressing room, he was impossibly handsome. But he’d already muddled her thoughts—mean one moment, sincere the next. She didn’t want to let anything physical between them confuse her even further.

  When she didn’t put her hand in his, he said, “Just to step up on the dais,” as if he could read her thoughts.

  She took his hand. It was warm and strong, just as his arms had been. He guided her up the small step and then to the middle. “Ah, shoes,” he said. Then he let her go.

  “No—just the zipper,” she told him, but he was already back by the shoes, looking at them.

  Lord. She knew what was about to happen. She was all of five-four on a good day. He would pick the four-inch heels in an attempt to get her closer to Jo’s height. And then she’d either have to swallow her pride and tell him she couldn’t walk in them or risk tripping down the aisle on the big day.