Milly, ever the professional, barely meets my eyes as she says a polite, “Thank you. So, April tenth. It’s really the perfect time of year—”
“Don’t say you picked a date without me.”
I whip around at the sound of the familiar voice, my eyes nearly popping out of my head when I see my dad standing in the doorway. He looks better than he deserves: long-legged and broad shouldered, he’s got a full head of red hair tinged with gray and a shit-eating grin made unbearably, laughably blinding thanks to the veneers he got when that first check from the Nobles went through. He’s redneck Robert Redford in a pristine, George W-at-the-Texas-ranch getup, complete with snakeskin cowboy boots and suede vest.
Fuck. Him.
As if this day wasn’t enough of a train wreck. Now I have to babysit this jackass. I learned the hard way how much he can destroy when left unattended.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, sauntering over to give Reese a peck on her cheek. “Don’t you look beautiful.”
Reese’s lips twitch. “Always such a flirt.”
It’s all I can do not to vomit in my mouth.
“Wilson!” Chris says with a smile. He and Reese don’t know Dad like I do, so they kiss his ass like everyone else at the distillery. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“’Course I wanna be part of joining the South’s two greatest families together.” Dad puts one hand on the back of my chair, the other on the back of Reese’s. “The Nobles and the Kingsleys, partners in business and in life. How dang lucky are we?”
Wincing at the very pointed, very intentional insult, I glance at Milly. She’s schooled her expression into one of polite blankness, but there’s a tightness around her eyes that gives her distaste away.
Milly’s never had the particular pleasure of meeting my dad—until recently, he would only stray from his side of the mountain to go to the casino up in Cherokee—but she’s heard enough about him from both me and her brothers to know what a scumbag he is.
She keeps her eyes on him as he helps himself to the chair beside me, sitting with an exaggerated sigh. I catch a whiff of his cologne: he smells like what he thinks rich men smell like, a witch’s brew of Old Spice and Aqua de Gio.
“Milly Beauregard.” Dad glances at the room around us and lets out a low whistle. “Y’all got quite the operation up here, don’t ya? Fancy.”
My teeth clench, and so does my stomach.
This right here.
This is why things are the way they are. This is why things ended too.
And judging by the way my hands are curled into fists underneath the table, I’m still spitting mad about it.
Chapter Two
Milly
I have no business trying to unpack what’s going on between Nate and his dad.
I have no business at all feeling bad for Nate, who’s sitting across from me with his clean-shaven jaw clenched, not saying a word as we move through our new client checklist.
He’s a man who hired me, nothing more. One who just happened to break my heart.
A man who’s just as fucking handsome as he was the day he ghosted me, even though he chopped off all that hair I loved.
I should hate him. I want to hate him. But I also want to be professional. This is a seven-figure wedding we’re talking about. I’d be an idiot to let a past fling interfere with that kind of payday and the opportunities that come with it.
And yeah. That expression Nate’s wearing? Sad eyes, drooping mouth? He looks like a puppy that’s just been kicked. Thea set glasses of water at each seat before the meeting began, and Nate grabs his, taking a thirsty pull.
Sympathy hits me right where it shouldn’t.
“I’m a huge anglophile,” Reese says. “I’m really inspired by the aesthetic of English country weddings. The pretty flower crowns and soft palette and everything. Unfussy and classic.”
Reese. Ugh.
I want to hate her too. But she’s smart, interesting, and accomplished. I did my homework; she was born on third base, her dad being one of the South’s wealthiest venture capitalists, but she’s done a hell of a job following in his footsteps. She’s shaken up their portfolio and made savvy investments in women-led companies that are often passed over for funding.
She’s also got great taste.
“I love it,” I say, scribbling furiously in my notebook in an effort to stay focused. Kate Moss 2018—chicest British wedding ever in my opinion. “We can keep a nice clean palette—say, ivories, whites, lots of greenery—with pops of apricot as a nod to spring.”
“Yes!” Reese claps her hands. “Oh, my God, that’s perfect! I can see the chuppah all decked out in lush florals.”
“It will be gorgeous.” I thread my pen through my fingers and hold up my hands, keeping my eyes trained on Reese’s. “The beautiful thing about British weddings is that they’re effortlessly romantic. I’m thinking we do taper candles on all the tables and lots of low but lush arrangements. Roses, lilies, peonies . . .”
“I think baby’s breath could be cool,” Thea adds. “Big bunches of it to really make an impact.”
I gasp, waving my hands. “I see huge bunches of it up on the tent poles. On the chairs too—the ones lining the aisles. Totally unfussy but still classic.” I nod to Reese, who’s smiling so hard she looks like she’s about to burst. “And maybe we keep your bouquet simple too. Like Kate Middleton’s. Or the one Rose Leslie carried when she married Jon Snow. Here—”
I lean over the table to reach for my laptop. But Nate, being Nate, sees my fingers falling an inch or two short of my goal and jumps into action, grabbing the computer in the paw of his hand and holding it out to me.
I don’t want to look at him, but oh, God, I do, I really do, and when our gazes meet, I feel a jolt. Those brown eyes. The crow’s feet, deeper than I remember. That glimpse of admiration in his expression.
Your mind, he said once. It’s the sexiest fucking thing about you.
I grab the laptop with a muffled thanks and whip it open.
Brushing my fingertips over the mouse pad, I pull up Google.
I hesitate, fingers poised over the keys.
“Rose Leslie bouquet,” Thea gently reminds me.
I blink, and bang out Rsooiejs Lesssle.
My fingers are shaking. I feel the heat of Nate’s gaze on me.
I’m shaking.
How did this happen again? Me agreeing to plan Nate Kingsley’s fucking wedding? I must’ve had rocks in my head.
Slow down. Deep breath. I’ve run a hundred meetings like this one. I love it. And I am fucking amazing at my job. I just need to deploy my usual arsenal of wedding weaponry: attention to detail, strong vendor relationships, and bold creativity. It’s a trifecta that charms even the most famous and jaded of clients, and I have no doubt it will charm Reese and Nate too. Because Nate is no one special. Just another client with another big budget.
“Like this.” I manage a smile and turn the screen around. “Small but pretty.”
Reese makes a squee sound at the image of Rose Leslie, otherwise known as Ygritte to Game of Thrones nerds like Nate, carrying a modest bouquet of white and ivory flowers interspersed with bright greenery. “That’s it! God, she looks so happy, doesn’t she?”