Picture Perfect Marriage

by Marquita Valentine

  Picture Perfect Marriage

  Copyright © 2018 by Marquita Valentine

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without express permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover Design: Hang Le

  Editing: Cynthia Shepp Editing

  Proofreading: Read by Rose

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  www.marquitavalentine.com

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Picture Perfect Marriage

  Prologue | Quinn

  Chapter 1 | Quinn

  Chapter 2 | Tate

  Chapter 3 | Quinn

  Chapter 4 | Quinn

  Chapter 5 | Tate

  Chapter 6 | Quinn

  Chapter 7 | Tate

  Chapter 8 | Quinn

  Chapter 9 | Tate

  Chapter 10 | Quinn

  Chapter 11 | Tate

  Chapter 12 | Quinn

  Chapter 13 | Tate

  Chapter 14 | Quinn

  Chapter 15 | Tate

  Chapter 16 | Quinn

  Chapter 17 | Tate

  Chapter 18 | Quinn

  Chapter 19 | Tate

  Chapter 20 | Quinn

  Chapter 21 | Quinn

  Chapter 22 | Tate

  Chapter 23 | Quinn

  Chapter 24 | Tate

  Epilogue | Quinn

  Chapter 1

  More Books by Marquita Valentine

  About the Author

  www.marquitavalentine.com | Facebook

  Picture Perfect Marriage

  Growing up, Hollywood Superstar Tate Prescott was just my older brother's best friend, but over the years he became my first love... and when we eloped, my biggest secret.

  After my little brother drowned at sea and I became wrapped up in the guilt of knowing that his death was my fault, I shut down... and Tate left when I needed him the most.

  Four months have passed since then, and now Tate's back, demanding that I give him thirty days to make our relationship work. He wants a second chance to prove to me that he can win back my heart.

  I still want him. I still love him. But can I forgive him for abandoning me?

  Prologue

  Quinn

  “We’re closed,” I call out as the door to my salon chimes, but no one answers. “Hello? I’m happy to help you another day, but we’re all out of stylists.”

  Instead of a client trying to get in at the last second, my little brother appears in my doorway, one of his arms extended just beyond it. I know who’s on the other end, holding his hand, but I don’t say anything.

  His bright blue eyes are earnest as he asks, “Would you do me a favor, Quinn?”

  “Depends on the favor,” I tease. The thing is, I’ll do anything for Laird. I’m such a sucker for my baby brother, and he brings out the mostly dormant mothering instinct in me.

  Smiling, he turns. “C’mon. It’s okay.”

  “I don’t want to bother her,” I hear my brother’s girlfriend say. “It’s just hair.”

  It’s never just hair. Hair is the outward manifestation of what’s going on our lives. “You’re seriously not bothering me, Ophelia.” I get out of the chair, then turn my straightener and curling iron back on. It shouldn’t take long for them to get smoking hot again.

  Hand in hand, Laird and Ophelia walk into my semi-private booth. She’s biting on her bottom lip, her nearly black hair a hot mess of waves, curls, and frizz that definitely needs conditioning and maybe even a cut.

  I’m not going to suggest a thing until I hear more about the favor. Heck, it could be for a ride to the movies for all I know.

  “Would you help Ophelia with her—with whatever she wants?” Laird asks.

  The boy is so good, so careful with how he phrases things around her. In any other circumstances, I’d tell him to shove it because my feet are achy and hot and there’s a bottle of wine with my name on it waiting at home for me. But this is my brother... and I’m sort of a sucker for people who don’t quite fit the mold of normal. I mean, I’m Exhibit A. “What are you thinking, Ophelialicious? Laird needs a complete makeover, or just a bit of guyliner?”

  Ophelia grins as a soft snort leaves her mouth. “I need help with my hair. I tried to curl it, but... things didn’t go as planned.”

  Laird’s mouth flattens. “Mrs. Randolph tripped the breakers, put a lock on the electrical box, then threw Ophelia out of the house. She walked to ours.”

  My blood starts to boil. Ophelia’s mother is a piece of work, the kind that should be locked up in an attic and never displayed because of the ugliness inside and out.

  Ophelia turns bright red, her gaze dropping to the floor. “Laird.”

  He turns to her. “I’m not sorry for telling the truth. You put up with too much. It’s my job to protect you.”

  A sweet yet intense look passes between them, conveying so much emotion that my heart aches. I shouldn’t be surprised. Laird has loved Ophelia for as long as I can remember, and would do anything for her.

  As for her, she’s an eighteen-year-old girl with a lot of family drama, so she fits in perfectly with the Kings. Still, she’s vulnerable, and even someone as caring as my little brother can end up hurting her if he’s not careful.

  Or not serious.

  She touches his cheek, her movements fluid and graceful, like she’s dancing in water. “I can handle my momma.”

  He covers her hand with his, moving it to his heart. “I know, but you need a break, and I need to grovel some more for being an asshole to you earlier.”

  Seriously, where in the world did Laird learn this? It can’t be natural. He’s only sixteen. I’d say Knight, but my twin hasn’t been home since the day he was granted leave from basic training, and that was three years ago. I miss him something fierce and hate his decision to leave Castle Beach, but I understand it was something he had to do.

  I pray that one day he’ll return home. For good.

  “You weren’t an asshole,” Ophelia insists.

  He arches a brow.

  “But you were a jerk.”

  “Which means...?” he prompts.

  At this point, I want to gag, but I only shake my head.

  Ophelia’s lips twitch, but her eyes, her soulful eyes, are full of love. “That you should have to perform magnanimous gestures in order to get back in my good graces.”

  “Exactly.” He kisses her on the forehead. “Always hold me to that.”

  “I promise.” Ophelia turns to me, asking, “Do you mind if I use the bathroom first?”

  At this point, I don’t care if she wants to do cartwheels while I curl her hair. Anything to make them stop being so... adorable.

  “Put this on when you’re done, then meet me at the wash station.” When I toss her a black robe, she neatly catches it.

  “I’ll be back.”

  As soon as she leaves, Laird scuffs one of his Sperry’s against the grey and black concrete floor. “She can’t pay you.”

  “I know she can’t pay me. “ I flip my hair over my shoulder. “It’s no biggie.”

  He pulls out his wallet. “I’ll pay you.”

  “How is this a favor if I’m getting paid?” Yeah, I like money as much as the next person, but for something like this, I d
on’t want to be paid.

  His face flushes. “She needs something to wear tonight, too.”

  My mouth drops, but I quickly recover. “Laird. Why didn’t you come to me sooner? Do you really think I can pull a prom dress out of thin air?”

  “I didn’t know, okay?” He runs a hand through his sun-bleached hair. It’s thick and slightly curly at the ends, and never quite free of the salt left behind by the ocean. “It wasn’t until we were eating donuts at Bette’s this morning, and she saw a couple of girls picking up their dresses from the place directly across from it, that she got this look on her face. I asked her what was wrong, she refused to say, and it all went downhill from there.”

  “Do tell.”

  The bridge of his nose flushes. “I might have yelled at her a couple of times.”

  “Men...” I huff. “You think you know everything, but—”

  “Quinn. She needs a different dress, but not because I personally want her in a different one. She could show up in a burlap sack and I wouldn’t care.”

  Oh no. “Don’t tell me it’s the dress she’s wearing right now.” It’s not the worst dress ever, but it’s faded and the hem is frayed. I’m fairly sure it belonged to her mother at the same age, thirty-some years ago.

  Okay, so it’s the worst dress ever and should be up-cycled in such a way that no one could tell it used to be hideous.

  Miserable, he nods. “I think she looks beautiful, but it’s not like what the other girls are wearing, and I know they’ll be shitty to her. She just needs one night, Quinn. One night that she’s not just the prettiest girl only to me, you know? One night that she fits right in with everyone else, or even better, outshines them all.”

  My heart breaks for Ophelia. “I think Momma kept all my old prom dresses—”

  He snickers. “No offense, but uh, you and Ophelia aren’t the same shape.”

  Meaning, I’m a six-foot tall beanpole with barely b-cups while Ophelia is not. “Shit,” I mutter. “There’s no time hem my dresses.”

  “Or make the other parts fit either.” With a slight smirk, he makes a motion over his chest.

  Tilting my head to one side, I glare. “I used to think you were sweet.”

  “I’m being practical. Factual.”

  Crossing my arms, I tip up my chin to look down on him. He has two inches on me, but I’m still his older and wiser sister. “When it comes to prom, factual and practical are not words that should be in anyone’s vocabulary.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Are we going to argue semantics, or will you help me find a dress for her?”

  I grab my phone from the counter, proceeding to text Roxi about my dilemma. She’s about Ophelia’s size, and she has a huge heart for helping others. “I’ll let you know what I can do. Either way, I’m committed to hair at this point.”

  Roxi’s text makes my phone vibrate.

  Dude—makeover? Count me in. Be there in 15 minutes with options.

  Smiling big, I wiggle my brows. “Looks like we’re in business.”

  Laird smiles, and my breath catches in my chest. He looks so much like Daddy in this moment that tears fill my throat. It seems like in the three years since our dad took his own life that I wouldn’t feel like crying at the drop of a hat, at the oddest moments, no less. Yet, here I am, about to do just that.

  “You’re the best, Q.”

  “Not yet, but I will be. Stay here.” I shove him into the chair and move to the wash station, where Ophelia is waiting. “Ready, lady?”

  Her pale green eyes are glittery, as if she’s been crying. “Can you really make me pretty?”

  “Please. You’re already beautiful.” I stroke her thick hair and turn on the water, waiting for it to get warm. “Laird—”

  “I want everyone to think he made a good choice by dating me.” She closes her eyes, tears falling from the corners. “I want to be as perfect as Laird.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  Her eyes pop open. “What?”

  “A little advice from me to you—no man is perfect, not even my little brother.”

  She frowns.

  “He’s pretty damn close, though.” I wink, and her frown gives way to a smile. “Don’t worry about a thing, baby duck. I’m going to make you the belle of the ball.”

  Ophelia tugs a few bracelets off her wrist and holds them up to me. They’re delicate, made of sea glass and silver, and the pale green matches the color of her eyes. “I don’t have enough money to pay, but if you wouldn’t mind working a trade? You can sell them if you want.”

  “Did you make these?”

  She shakes her head. “They were a gift.”

  From Laird, I bet. “I can’t take your gift.”

  “Please. I can’t live on handouts.” She firms her chin, the small dimple in it appearing. “Laird pays for everything, but not this.”

  Recognizing a little bit of myself in Ophelia, I slip the bracelets on, smiling at the way they lightly jingle as I move. “At least tell me who gave them to you. In case I want more, or want to sell them in the salon.”

  She licks her lips, her light gaze vulnerable. “My daddy.”

  Malcolm Randolph died in a freak surfing accident when Ophelia was only four years old. My eyes fill with tears, but I blink them away. “Oh, honey.”

  “Laird’s worth it,” she says firmly.

  He better be. “I’m glad my little brother has inspired such confidence.”

  Chapter 1

  Quinn

  Seven years later

  There should be a supernatural law mandating that the sun cannot, under any circumstances, shine on memorial services or funerals. The sky should be dark, threatening rain, and birds shouldn’t be singing. Thunder should boom, and flashes of lightning are the only glimpse of color.

  As my family sits on the front pew of our church, listening as the preacher talks about my little brother in the past tense, I squeeze Ophelia’s hand. Her palm is cold and damp from wiping her tearstained face.

  Ophelia doesn’t believe Laird is dead, swept away by the ocean he loved. She refuses to give in to what the rest of us have. Her husband, my brother, is no longer simply lost at sea. He’s been swallowed whole.

  A shudder wracks my body, my jaw clenched so hard to stop from crying it will be sore later. Maybe even for days.

  Sorrow claws at my insides. It beats on my heart until I want to scream, but I keep my lips pressed together.

  Tight. So very tight.

  If I open them, everything I feel inside will come pouring out.

  A weight comes to rest on my shoulder as the memorial service comes to an end. I lean on Deacon, thinking he’s the one who’s comforting me, but then I realize there is no way he could be touching me at the same time. It’s not humanly possible.

  Stricken, I glance over my shoulder and find my... um... Tate Prescott there, his chiseled jaw covered with what has to be days’ old scruff. His dark eyes seem to mirror mine, but they offer comfort, much like his hand.

  I shrug it away, both literally and emotionally. I don’t need his comfort or support.

  For a second, his eyes flash, but not with anger.

  Regret.

  Yeah, well, it’s too late for that, buddy.

  As we stand and move as one toward the entrance, my mother takes Ophelia by the arm. I let go of her hand, and Ophelia throws herself into Momma’s arms.

  Another shudder wracks me and I plunge into the crowd of people, needing to get away, needing air. Squinting, I shield my eyes from the stupidly bright sun.

  “Quinn,” Tate says quietly from behind.

  “Did you follow me?” I ask, keenly aware of his presence and the fact everyone was required to go out the same way they came in.

  “Yes.”

  At least he’s honest. “Stop it.”

  He grabs my hand, and it’s all I can do not to slap him. “We need to talk. When can you get away?”

  I turn to fully face him, hating how much I love the feel
of his skin against mine. It’s not just attraction; it’s certainty, assurance, and the knowledge that this man is always intentional and never careless with his words or his touch. “Tonight. At six.”

  “Meet me at my hotel. I’m staying at the—”

  “I know where you’re staying.”

  “Room 518. I’ll have a key for you at the desk,” he says. “You won’t have to wait for me to answer.”

  I stare into his brown eyes, so dark and serious. “I stopped waiting for you months ago.” When I shake my arm, he releases me, and I rush to the curb where the family limo is waiting.

  ***

  Six o’clock comes too fast for my liking, but I do need to have a chat with Tate. I snatch the manila envelope from the driver’s side of my car, then make quick work of acquiring the key he left for me at the front desk.

  I press the up button and wait for the elevator doors to open, then step inside. As the doors close, I get a glimpse of my too-bright hair and red-rimmed eyes in the shiny metal. I look like a sad clown instead of a fashion forward hair stylist in my stupid off-white top and striped navy and white pants. Laird never liked head-to-toe black, so I refused to wear it. He was sunshine days and Bahamas pastels mixed in with Caribbean seas. Bright golds and aquamarines. The pale green of Ophelia’s eyes.

  Heck, for senior prom, his suit was navy with a bright purple shirt and orange Vans for shoes. In a lot of ways, my little brother and I had the same love for colors. He was fearless.

  The elevator stops and so does my heart. As the doors open, I take a deep breath and step out, quickly making my way to Tate’s room. This “talk” we are due for needs to be short and sweet.

  With one shaky hand, I insert the key and turn the handle, pushing open the hotel room door with my hip.

  Tate stands in front of the window, still in his suit, his back to me. His hands are in his pocket.

  I clear my throat as the door closes with a bang behind me.

  “Hello, wife.” Tate pivots and moves closer, the window framing him to look larger than life.

  I flinch, then tip up my chin. “I haven’t been your wife in months.”

  “Through no fault of my own,” he says, rising to his feet from the chair by the window. “In any case, I’m here to put an end to,” he waves a finger back and forth, “all the bullshit. No more games.”