To Have And To Hold: The Wedding Belles Book 1 Page 3

  “Heather!” For once Alexis’s voice was anything but calm, and Brooke sensed she’d like nothing more than to kick her assistant under the table.

  “I’m sorry,” Heather said, going a little bit pale. “Was that rude? I just thought that if we’re going to be spending, like, every minute of every day together, we should know what’s off-limits and what’s fair game.”

  “Yes, of course it was rude,” Alexis said.

  Heather gave Brooke a contrite look. “I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s totally not a secret, and if I’m supposed to tiptoe, I have to know now, you know?”

  “Good Lord,” Alexis murmured, taking a sip of her champagne. “Have you ever tiptoed?”

  The women’s exchange gave Brooke a second to gather her thoughts—to recover from the shock of hearing it mentioned, only to realize that Heather was right.

  They would be spending a hell of a lot of time together, and as far as Brooke was concerned, the only thing worse than talking about it was not talking about it.

  And so, after taking a sip of champagne for courage, Brooke took a deep breath, folded her hands in her lap, leaned forward slightly, and told her new colleagues all about the guy she’d fallen in love with. The one she’d almost married.

  Right up until the moment the FBI had arrested him.

  At the altar.

  Chapter Three

  IT’S NOT AS THOUGH Brooke had meant to start dating a con man. She certainly didn’t intend to get engaged to one.

  But that’s the thing about con men. The good ones were good at, well . . . the con.

  And Clay Battaglia had been a good one. The best, actually, if you took the word of the FBI agent who’d debriefed Brooke and her family—while she was still in her wedding dress.

  Turns out that while Brooke had been happily building her wedding-planning company, Clay had been quietly and competently getting away with every white-collar crime in the book. While she’d been planning their wedding, he’d apparently been knee-deep in yet another Ponzi scheme.

  Brooke hadn’t even known what a Ponzi scheme was when the FBI had told her.

  She did now.

  Following Clay’s arrest, she spent weeks researching white-collar crime. Wanting to know what he’d been up to all those times he’d quietly kissed her forehead late at night and told her he needed to make some phone calls for “work.” Wanting to know what her life would have been like if the FBI hadn’t taken him down before they’d exchanged vows.

  Still, while Brooke would be ever grateful that she’d learned the truth before she’d become Mrs. Clay Battaglia, she’d be lying if she didn’t admit that the timing of it had stung just a little bit.

  If they’d only taken him down a day before. Heck, even an hour before.

  But no.

  Just moments after Brooke kissed her father’s cheek and prepared to marry the man she loved at the wedding she’d poured her heart into, the FBI stormed—yes, stormed—the church.

  Clay was in handcuffs before she even registered what was happening.

  Numbly she watched as he listened to his Miranda rights at the precise moment he should have been listening to the vows she’d spent months writing.

  And as reality slowly sunk in, Brooke waited. Waited for him to look at her. To look at her and say that it was all a lie. All one big misunderstanding, and that they’d be on their way to Bermuda as planned by tomorrow.

  He didn’t.

  He didn’t even apologize.

  No, the man she’d loved for two years with every fiber of her being merely smiled at her and then shrugged.

  There’d been plenty of photos taken that day, but that was the one that made it onto the front page of every major newspaper on the West Coast.

  “The Greatest Con of All.” “Arrested by Love.” And her personal favorite, courtesy of her very own LA Times: “White-Collar Bride.”

  The stories all read pretty much like you’d expect. About Clay, mostly, and the litany of accusations against him, but also about Brooke.

  The papers had stopped short of defamation, but the implications were there. She was clueless and ditzy at best, a potentially overlooked accomplice at worst. Completely oblivious to the fact that she’d been sharing a roof with the most nefarious white-collar criminal in a generation—or pretending to be.

  None of that had bothered her. What had bothered her was that she’d been a fool. Self-absorbed, naïve, and downright blind.

  Brooke had been dodging dumb-blonde jokes for most of her life, but the debacle with Clay was the first time she thought she might really, truly be deserving of the title.

  She hadn’t been surprised when new clients had stopped calling. Hadn’t been surprised when current clients canceled. Nobody wanted to hire that wedding planner.

  Brooke had even been relieved, at first. In those first weeks after Clay’s arrest, she hadn’t been able to handle any talk of weddings. Not her own, and not other people’s.

  But the worst part of all of this, the part that kept her up long into the lonely nights, wasn’t the negative effect on her career. No, the worst part was that sometimes, in the very darkest corner of her soul, she feared that she might still love Clay, at least a little. Sure, her brain knew that all the things she’d loved about Clay had been a lie. Her brain understood that his name wasn’t even Clay.

  But her heart? Her heart was having a harder time forgetting the way he always let her be the little spoon and tuck her cold feet against his warm calves. Or the way he’d brought her coffee in bed every morning. Or the way she’d come home after a long day with the worst sort of bridezilla and Clay would make them cocktails and sit on the patio with her, and watch the sunset and laugh.

  She’d imagined that all their nights would be like that. All the nights for the rest of her life, with maybe a couple of kids thrown into the mix eventually.

  Brooke swallowed.

  There wouldn’t be any more nights on the patio watching the sunset with Clay. Wouldn’t be any patio at all, because Brooke’s real estate broker had made it quite clear that she should be counting herself lucky to get a dishwasher in New York—a patio was out of the question.

  So no patio. No Clay, or whatever his real name was.

  No man at all, really.

  No falling in love.

  Not ever again.

  Chapter Four

  AFTER LUNCH, BROOKE WAS feeling the lightest she had in months, although she wasn’t quite sure whether it was because of the champagne or the fact that she’d just spilled her guts to two practical strangers.

  She hadn’t gotten all personal and weepy or anything, but she’d filled them in on the facts—the actual facts, not the tabloid facts—and getting it all out in the open went a long way to making her feel as though she was working with a clean slate.

  But the unexpected girl talk, while important for her fresh start, had nothing on the euphoria of the moment she first saw the Wedding Belles headquarters. Other than a delicate silver plaque inscribed with The Wedding Belles above the doorbell, it looked exactly like every other house on Seventy-Third Street, which made it all the more charming in its discreetness.

  After lunch, Heather and Alexis had headed down to SoHo for a small evening wedding, but Brooke had wanted to get settled at the main office. Her breath whooshed out in a happy sigh as she tentatively opened the front door and poked her head in. If the outside was charming, the inside was perfect—absolutely perfect.

  The main reception area had plenty of white, of course. Smart branding, given that the entirety of their clientele was of the bride-to-be variety. But whereas most wedding-related vendors tended toward frilly and formal, Alexis Morgan had taken the opposite direction, opting for clean lines and bright, unabashed pops of color.

  The black-and-white-striped wallpaper gave the place an Old Hollywood vibe, and the sleek furniture was made approachable by fun Tiffany-blue throw pillows. Michael Bublé’s swoony voice was crooning away from some unseen speaker,
the perfect choice for what the Wedding Belles were best known for: a tantalizing blend of the classic and the modern.

  It was this sterling reputation that had caused Brooke to consider Alexis Morgan’s job offer when she’d brushed off everyone else’s. There were hundreds of wedding planners out there and thousands more that wanted to be wedding planners.

  But for as many women who imagined it to be their dream job, the truth was that getting wedding planning right was hard. Really hard. The key was finding that nearly impossible balance between ensuring the details were taken care of and not being so rigid that you zapped all the romance out of the event. What brides were really after, but never knew how to ask for, was organized magic. The best weddings were the ones that went off without a hitch but also had room for spontaneity.

  Not only did Alexis get it, she’d figured out how to turn it into a formula. There wasn’t a single blight on the Wedding Belles’ resume.

  Not something Brooke could say about her own now-defunct company.

  She swallowed, pushing aside the dark thoughts, which was relatively easy. She’d had plenty of practice over the past four months, after all.

  Even when her friends had been pushing comfort wine into her hand, even when her dad was threatening to “show that bastard a thing or two,” even when her mom had insisted on crying “on Brooke’s behalf,” she’d known that she hadn’t needed to cry or scream.

  She needed to start over. And here she was.

  “Hi there!” a perky voice chirped as a petite redhead came into the lobby. “So sorry to keep you waiting. I didn’t have anything on the schedule, and I was just eating a late lunch.”

  “Oh, I’m not a bride,” Brooke explained. Not anymore. “I’m Brooke Baldwin. I—”

  “Oh. My. Gosh!” The redhead came around the side of the desk, and when Brooke extended a hand, the other woman ignored it and went in for a hug. “I am such an airhead. I’ve seen your picture, like, a million times, and Alexis totes just told me you were coming by today. I’m Jessie, the receptionist!”

  Brooke blinked in surprise at the hug. Not that she minded hugs, but Jessie was just about as different from her colleagues as could be. Like the others, she was attractive, but where Alexis was elegantly refined and Heather was confidently pretty, Jessie was freaking adorable. She had chin-length orange curls, huge green eyes, and slightly elfish features.

  “Tell me that’s not all your stuff,” Jessie said, gesturing at the large tote bag slung over Brooke’s shoulder. “When Mel moved out last month, she had, like, ten boxes.”

  Mel. That would be Melissa Thompson. Brooke had done her homework. Melissa was nearly as famous in the New York wedding scene as Alexis herself and had become pregnant with twin girls less than a year after giving birth to her first child, a son.

  She had, in Heather’s words, moved to the burbs.

  Brooke couldn’t blame her. Being a wedding planner was a full-time job. Nights and weekends weren’t just normal, they were necessary.

  Brooke continued holding out hope that she’d figure out how to fit a dog into her crazy schedule, but a baby? She couldn’t imagine. And three? No—not possible. Even for a glass-half-full kind of girl like Brooke.

  “I wasn’t sure how much space I’d have, or what the office would be like,” Brooke said, patting her bag. “I just brought the essentials.”

  “Ohmigod, you’re going to love. Your. Office,” she said, punctuating each word in a way that was, Brooke was quickly realizing, Jessie’s default rhythm of speaking. “It’s got these big old windows, a ton of amazing natural light,” Jessie gushed. “Come on up, I’ll show you. In the meantime, tell me everything. You’re from California, right? Can I call you that? California? It suits you!”

  “Ah—”

  “No, of course not,” Jessie chattered on. “It’s not like I’d want to be called Louisiana. That’s where I’m from.”

  “You don’t have much of an accent.”

  “I know, right? It just sort of started fading on me this past year. ’Bout all I have left of the South is the occasional ‘y’all’ and an affinity for fried food. You’re not, like, vegan, are you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Gluten-free?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Thank gawd. I mean, we could still be friends if you were, but food’s kind of like my thing, and everything that tastes good has gluten—that’s what Heather and I are always saying. You met her at lunch, right?”

  Brooke opened her mouth to confirm, but Jessie kept right on talking. “Anyway, you just let me know if you need anything. Since I moved to New York I’ve pretty much done nothing but work and tour the city. And eat, of course.”

  Of course.

  “Okay, so up here, this is where the offices are,” Jessie said, pausing at the top of the stairs and gesturing around.

  The upper level of the Wedding Belles office was mostly just hallways and doors, reminding Brooke of the little house she’d grown up in before her dad had gotten his big break in the Hollywood production world and moved them all to a bigger house in Beverly Hills.

  “What’s on the third floor?” she asked as Jessie led her to the end of the hall to the left.

  “That’s Alexis’s place.”

  “She lives here?”

  “Yup. And if you’re wondering how she manages to separate work and personal life, she doesn’t. I just didn’t get how a woman who deals with weddings all day long doesn’t even seem to want a boyfriend, but then I saw her in action and realized the woman doesn’t have time for a hamster, much less a lover.”

  “What about you?” Brooke asked. “Boyfriend?”

  “Eh, yeah. Dean. It’s new yet, but I’m feeling good about it. He makes good waffles.”

  Brooke held a smile. Had to like a woman that could be wooed by waffles.

  “What about you?” Jessie glanced over her shoulder as she asked it. “Boyfriend?”

  “I’m single,” Brooke said, deliberately keeping her voice light. “Super single.”

  Jessie skidded to a halt and turned around to face Brooke, eyes wide, before putting a hand on her arm. “Oh. My. Gawd. I’m such an idiot. I’d totally forgotten about all that crap and the guy you almost married, and . . . you know what? Let’s not even talk about it right now. That’s what we do in my house back home. We don’t talk about things that pull us down. Not at first. Unless of course you want to talk about it.”

  Brooke’s head was spinning. “No. I’m good. I mean, the topic’s not off-limits, it’s just—”

  Jessie held up a hand. “Say no more. Okay, here we go. You ready to swoon?”

  Jessie opened the door to Brooke’s new office, and Brooke made an involuntary happy noise.

  It was bigger than she’d expected—heck, it felt nearly as large as Brooke’s entire apartment in Yorkville. A white desk was pushed against the window, and though the view was of bare, leafless trees, Brooke had to imagine that in the spring it would be lovely.

  Or even better, what must it be like in autumn? As someone who’d grown up surrounded by palm trees, Brooke had always wondered what it would be like to experience true fall, with all the bright, vibrant colors of the changing leaves and the crisp air . . .

  “Right?” Jessie said, correctly reading Brooke’s silence. “Mel had a heck of a time leaving. She loved this office. Loved the job, really. But when you push, like, three kids out of your V in just a couple years, I guess maybe you have more important things to worry about. Kegels and breast pumps and stuff.”

  “And raising children,” Brooke said wryly.

  Jessie wagged a finger at her. “Right. And that. I like you. I know it’s dorky, but the Belles are kind of like a family, so I’ve been hoping that you’d be awesome. And you totally are. And super pretty.”

  Brooke rolled her eyes.

  “I’m serious! You look like you’re from LA with that blond hair, blue eyes, and the tan, and I mean that in the best way possible.”

/>   “Well, the tan won’t last long,” Brooke said. “It’s freezing out there.”

  “I want to tell you that you’ll get used to it, but you, like, totally won’t. Or at least I haven’t.” The redhead gave her an apologetic smile. “Bet you’re missing California right about now, huh?”

  “Not really,” Brooke said, determined to ward off the wave of homesickness that swelled the second Jessie had mentioned her home state. “I mean, I love it there, but I think I’ll love it here, too.”

  Jessie tilted her head. “A positive thinker. I like that.”

  Brooke smiled and shrugged. It was how she’d always rolled. Looking on the bright side just seemed smart.

  It would take more than one rotten fiancé to change that.

  “I should probably get back downstairs,” Jessie was saying. “That phone, like, never shuts up, and sometimes we get walk-ins. But let me know if you need anything. And we should for sure grab drinks later. If you’re not busy?”

  “Not unless you count unpacking my kitchen,” Brooke said.

  Jessie waved her hand. “Oh, honey. That can wait for weeks. We New Yorkers don’t cook much.”

  “Thank goodness. My fridge is the size of a toaster, and I’m pretty sure the stove doesn’t turn on,” Brooke said.

  “Yeah, well, welcome to New York. Alexis said you found an apartment in Yorkville?”

  “That’s what they tell me,” Brooke said. “I haven’t quite wrapped my brain around all the neighborhoods yet.”

  “Well, like I said, ask me anytime. I dated a broker when I first got here, so I know, like, everything. And mark your calendar for Friday-night martinis. Heather knows all the best places, and I’m her aspiring apprentice in all things slightly dirty.”

  “I’d like that,” Brooke said, meaning it. Jessie was slightly exhausting but fairly impossible not to like.

  Jessie left with instructions to make herself at home so she’d never ever want to leave, and Brooke started unpacking the few belongings she’d brought with her.