Chapter 1
Olivia
“Everyone gets cold feet, right?” I wipe the sweat from the crystal tumbler with a square bar napkin as the hotel bartender shrugs. “It’s totally normal to be drinking alone at eleven o’clock the night before your wedding.”
“You askin’ or tellin’?” He dabs the counter with a blue-striped rag before tossing it over his left shoulder.
I chuff. “Little of both, I guess.”
The bar is surprisingly empty for a Friday night, save for the occasional cluster of strangers dispersed around the room, most of them sipping overpriced Vieux Carres and Old Fashioneds from crystal Baccarat tumblers, their faces aglow in candlelight.
Getting married in the blush-pink rose gardens of the Augustine Pointe resort in The Hamptons wasn’t my first choice, but it was where my fiancé’s parents married, and their parents before them. Dorian convinced me that bucking Hawthorne tradition would be bad luck, and I believed him despite the fact that I’m not the least bit superstitious.
“You ready for another?” the bartender points to my empty glass. I check the time on my phone and mentally calculate that I have to be up in eight hours, but I know if I go back to my room now, I’m going to spend the next couple of hours tossing and turning.
“One more,” I say. I’m sticking around, but only because I’m hardly feeling this one and I’m desperate for something to take the edge off.
I’m pretty sure the rest of the bridal party—groom included—are all fast asleep in their suites. I don’t dare wake any of them. They’re saints who deserve a good night’s sleep after everything they’ve been through this week (and everything they’ve yet to go through).
My in-laws weren’t satisfied with a traditional Saturday celebration.
No, no. That wasn’t good enough for Briggs and Mariel Astor-Hawthorne.
This had to be a weeklong festivity. Dinners. Parties. Rehearsals. All of it leading up to a seven-figure wedding tomorrow and coming to a satisfying conclusion with a catered brunch Sunday morning with select guests watching us open presents and feign over-the-top excitement.
I’ve always hated being in the spotlight, which is why I can’t help but wonder if I’m dreading the next couple of days because I’ll be taking center stage—or if my dread has anything to do with the fact that I’m marrying into one of the wealthiest families in America and the moment my last name switches from Peretti to Hawthorne, my life will never be the same again.
The bartender swaps my empty glass for a full one and pushes it closer.
“Thank you.” I give him a small nod before taking a sip. This one’s stronger. I don’t know his name, but he gets me, and I appreciate him for that.
Two spots over, a man in gray slacks and a cream cashmere sweater fills my periphery. I sneak a glance, praying it’s a stranger and not a wedding guest, and exhale a bit of relief when the striking gentleman’s chiseled features don’t ring familiar. Then again, there are seven hundred people coming to this wedding, five-hundred-and-fifty of them guests of the groom. He very well could be a guest and I wouldn’t even know it.
“Boulevardier,” the stranger orders his drink—which happens to be the exact same drink I’m currently enjoying.
What are the odds?
“Twins,” I say.
He turns to me, dark brows furrowed. Facing him head on, I realize he’s even more gorgeous than I realized—not that I need to be noticing these things—but anyone with half a brain cell would agree with me on this one. With those broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his sweater, that perfectly straight nose and those not-to-thin, not-too-full mouth of his. Not to mention that splay of dark, luscious eyelashes that match his thick, inky black hair.
For a second, I lose track of real life and get lost in his amber-and-green gaze, and then I shake myself out of it. He’s nothing but a distraction—a break from the thoughts and doubts that have been swirling and ruminating in my head all week.
“Pardon?” he asks.
I lift my drink. “Boulevardier.”
The first time I had a Boulevardier, I was sitting in some darkened lounge in lower Manhattan, waiting to meet some guy I swiped right on. The guy showed up with a friend—a wingman—and that wingman happened to take a liking to me, offering his number at the end of the night (with his friend’s blessing). At two o’clock tomorrow afternoon, I’ll be marrying that wingman.
The bartender sets the man’s drink in front of the striking stranger, who hands him a twenty. It’s a random observation, but the drink looks good in his hands, as if it’s a coordinated accessory. The squared-off tumbler. The dark amber cocktail, sharp and classic.
“You in town for the wedding?” I ask, as my second drink warms my veins and gives me liquid confidence to chat up a complete stranger. I hope I’m not bothering him. All I need is a little smalltalk. Something to keep my mind off tomorrow.
He takes a sip, his eyes never leaving mine. “What wedding?”
There’s my answer.
I chuff, reaching for my drink. “Mine.”
His gaze travels to my left ring finger, and his brows lift. That seems to be the most common reaction when people see the ostentatious show piece on my finger. Seven carats because seven is Dorian’s favorite number. Or so he said. It was the first I’d heard of him even having a favorite number, and we’d been together two years at that point.
Maybe that should’ve been my first red flag, though looking back, it seemed so inconsequential at the time.
I slide my left hand under my left thigh.
When the fanfare is over, I’m going to talk Dorian into getting me a simple gold band for everyday wear. For now, he loves the attention he gets from “showing me off” (his words), and he never fails to point out the sparkler on my finger.
Sometimes I think this whole thing is more about him than it is about us.
“When is it?” the stranger asks. “Your wedding.”
I shrug. “Tomorrow.”
He pulls at his cuff, checking the chrome watch that decorates his left hand.
"I know, I know,” I say. “It’s late and tomorrow’s a big day and I should be in bed.”
The man's gaze lands on my knee, which I realize is bouncing.
I must look like a nervous wreck.
Or a hot mess.
Probably both.
“You ever been married?” I ask him, after spotting a naked ring finger.
He takes a sip, longer this time. “Once.”
“Did you have cold feet the night before?”
He takes another sip. “Nope."
“Are you still—”
“—nope,” he cuts me off.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He chuffs, shaking his head. “Trust me, it's a good thing.”
“I’m Olivia, by the way,” I say.
“Gabriel.”
“Can I ask you something, Gabriel? Something personal?”
“Shoot.”
A single bar stool lingers between us, empty.
“Do you mind?” I ask, pointing.
“All yours.”
I settle in closer to him and draw my half-finished drink nearer. “If you could do it all over again, would you still marry her?”