“Yup. Exhibit A why I should wait in the car.”
“C’mon.” She gives my arm a little tug. “This’ll be fun. If our dads want to throw us a dream wedding—”
“Your dad.”
Her expression softens. “Your dad’s just as excited for this wedding as mine is.”
But yours is excited for the right reasons.
“My point is, if our families want to throw us a dream wedding, let’s take them up on it. Be honest.” She looks around the lobby again. “Is there anywhere dreamier than Blue Mountain Farm?”
“No,” I say, and I mean it.
This fucking place is a dream. It’s soaring ceilings and fieldstone fireplaces and cushy, expertly arranged furniture. It’s a five-star mountain fantasy, complete with the South’s best bar, some of the most delicious food on the planet, and gorgeous grounds.
It’s everything Kingsley Distilling could be.
Looking down at Reese, I tell myself it’s everything we will be. All because of her.
I reach down and give her hand a squeeze. “It’s lovely. And if this is where you want to have our wedding, let’s do it.”
She beams. “Thank you.”
“Don’t y’all paint a pretty picture!” A gust of cold air accompanies Chris Noble, Reese’s dad, inside the lobby. We shake hands, and he gives his daughter a hug.
Not for the first time, I feel a pang watching them together. Reese lost her mom a while back to cancer. It’s one of the many reasons she and her dad are so tight.
“You look beautiful,” Chris says to her.
“Thanks again for coming,” Reese replies. “And thanks for making all this possible in the first place. This wedding is going to be fabulous!”
“My pleasure, sweetie. I’ve dreamed of the moment you’d find someone as excellent as you are.” He blinks. “I honestly can’t believe it’s here.”
Reese is very much aware of her privilege. “I’m a member of the lucky sperm club,” she’ll say. But sometimes, I wonder if she realizes just how lucky she is to have a happy, supportive, successful parent like Chris.
Hell, I’d kill to have a father who’s functional.
“Really, Chris, thank you,” I say. “You’re too generous, as always.”
I mean that. As an engagement gift, he transferred a portion of his stake in Kingsley Distilling to Reese—a sign that he believes in her, and believes in us as a couple.
He pats me on the back. “I want y’all to be happy. Shall we?” He motions to the front desk.
My pulse does that skipping thing again. My legs feel like lead as Reese and I follow him through the lobby.
So much about this is weird. But two things really stick out.
First, my ex . . . whatever Milly was—she’s going to be planning my wedding.
Second, I don’t know where her office is. I never once visited it in all the time we were together. Or not together.
Milly never invited me up here. Whatever we were—whatever we did—we kept it a secret.
When Reese told me she wanted not only to have our wedding at Blue Mountain Farm but that she also wanted to hire Milly to plan it, I nearly lost my goddamn mind. Not because I still have feelings for Milly. I haven’t seen her at all since I walked out, thanks largely to the fact I don’t do deliveries anymore, as we hired a new distribution team to bring our whiskey to spots like Blue Mountain Farm. It’s just—my family and I have a complicated history with this place and the family that owns it, the Beauregards.
Truth be told, the Montagues and Capulets have nothing on the Kingsleys and Beauregards. Our families have feuded for centuries in these parts, fighting over land and money and opportunity. People have died, lives have been destroyed, and years of potential progress were wiped out by ignorance and greed.
Granted, things aren’t as bad as they once were. We’ve actually been selling our whiskey to the resort for years now, mostly for the fancy parties they host up here. But the bad blood lingers, and I don’t want to think about what would happen if our families found out about Milly and me. Especially after the way I treated her.
We haven’t spoken since I walked out on her two years ago.
But as much as I hate the idea of seeing Milly again, I get why Reese wants to hire her. Milly Beauregard is the best of the best. Her extravagant weddings have been published in big-time magazines, and she’s planned seven-figure nuptials for everyone from John Bevin and Celeste Loo (R&B superstar and supermodel) to billionaire techies and social media moguls.
I knew I’d run into Milly again at some point. Asheville is a small place. But I never in a million years imagined I’d sit down in her office to talk about planning my wedding to someone else.
“You said it was just a fling,” Reese had said when we were hashing out planner ideas. “I mean, yeah, maybe it’s a little awkward, but who cares? I can’t imagine you’ll be seeing her much. If you don’t want to come to our meetings after the first one, you don’t have to.”
Exactly why I agreed to meet with Milly in the first place. This particular meeting may be excruciating, but hopefully the pain ends here. I pass the baton to Reese and Chris, and Milly takes care of the rest. The wedding happens, and then Reese and I get to jet off on our honeymoon. She wants Hawaii, but I’m hoping to convince her Scotland is the better bet.
Is it weird that Milly even agreed to plan our wedding? She knows I’m the one getting married; my name is on all the paperwork, and she still booked us for a primo weekend in April when another couple unexpectedly canceled.
To be fair, I get why she’d do it. Like her brothers, she’s all business, all the time, and taking on a wedding of this size and scope is very, very good for business. Milly doesn’t charge a flat fee; she takes a percentage of the wedding’s overall cost. Considering Chris gave us an eye-wateringly high budget for this shindig, Milly would get a nice chunk of change.
And is it weird Reese doesn’t seem to care that Milly and I have a past? Or does that show she’s an evolved adult who knows what she wants and isn’t going to let a long-ago hookup stand in her way? One of the things I love most about my fiancée is how she isn’t afraid to go after what she’s set her eye on. Me included—Reese was the one who proposed, although I insisted she be the one to wear a ring.
I’m grateful to have such a standup partner by my side.
Yet my heart pounds as a bellhop leads us through a door beside the front desk marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. We enter another world. This one is equally stylish, still mountaintop-chic but a little slicker. We walk past a glass box, where a man with his feet propped up on his desk laughs into a phone. An open door on our left reveals the low, warm whirr of a copy machine.
That’s when I smell it. Perfume.
It’s this sexy shit. Vanilla and a little smoke and fuck—
“Knock, knock,” Chris says, tapping on the open door just ahead to my left.
“Mr. Noble! Welcome. I’m so glad y’all are here. Please come in.”
My stomach plummets. The familiar voice is high, fitting for such a little thing.
Little do they know that little thing has balls of fucking steel.
Reese turns to me with a smile. “It’s her!” she whispers before dropping my arm to join Chris at the door.