Page 7 of Bridesmaid to Bride

We settle into the cushioned chairs; the breeze whipping my hair. I remind myself that things between him and me are good again, as I’m working to become the daughter he’s proud to brag about at his charity galas.

“Tell me everything,” he says, leaning back with that charm that wins him almost all his cases. “How’s the Abrams’ account coming?”

“Really well,” I say, grateful for the opening to showcase the work I’ve done. “They’re close to settling.”

“Excellent.”

As we talk, for a moment, it feels like enough. Just me and Dad, no pretenses, no grand plans.

But then the sound of the crashing waves fades as my father shifts in his chair, a telltale sign that our light-hearted chatter is about to take a turn down Serious Street. He straightens his cuffs—lawyer mode activated—and I brace myself.

He says, “As you know, Schmidt Easel and I go way back, and he’s coming to the wedding.”

“I saw him on the guest list.” He and Dad went to law school together, and now, Schmidt Easel is State Senator Easel.

“Right. And he’s bringing his son, Foster, whom I’ve arranged for you to meet.”

Um, what? Now Dad’s trying his hand at the matchmaking game? And although I’ve never met Foster, I’ve seen him on FaceSnap, and he’s not my type. “Oh, great.”

Not great, but I nod, feigning excitement.

“Good-looking chap,” Dad continues, his sales pitch gearing up. “Young, successful New York lawyer. You two will hit it off.”

Foster Easel—even the name screams old money and political clout. “Because nothing says romance like a strategic pairing,” I say, but the humor fizzles under his hard gaze.

“Evie, he’s perfect for you.” His eyes twinkle with visions of matrimonial mergers. “And if there’s chemistry, it could mean great things for you and the firm.”

There it is—the double whammy. Date the guy, get dragged back to New York in a heart-shaped lasso, and oh, side bonus, help Dad’s firm get a boost courtesy of Foster’s senator father. No pressure.

“Wow, when you put it like that, how could a girl resist?” I plaster on a smile.

“Exactly.” I know he doesn’t miss the sarcasm, but he’s ignoring it. “It’s a win-win.”

“If winning is daily discussions of torts over tortes.” I can’t help it; I have to push back against the tidy box he’s trying to fit me into.

“Peanut,” he says, his voice softening, “just give him a shot. That’s it. And if there is a love connection, it’d be great for both of us.”

And just like that, the breeze of conversation turns into a gale. I swallow the sigh clawing its way up my throat. This isn’t just about me—it’s about family duty, about being Neil Steinberg’s daughter, about proving I can still shine and marry someone who can help me take over Dad’s law firm. For the record, I don’t want any help, but I know I’m not ready to be a boss yet. That said, part of me wonders if in Dad’s eyes, I’ll ever be ready.

Adding Foster to my already overbooked schedule feels impossible, but in the end I have to be the rock Dad can rely on. I failed him when he needed me most, and I vowed never to let that happen again.

When I started my catering business, I was on the verge of losing my investors. I was working day and night to keep them and didn’t travel home when Dad fell ill. I lost them anyway, and he ended up having a mild heart attack, and I wasn’t there. I’ll never forgive myself for that.

At the same time, I’m swamped, and I really need to put my focus into pulling off this wedding. “Let me think about it,” I say.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” Relief blooms across his face. “He’ll be at tonight’s cocktail party.”

I remind myself that Dad knows what’s best for me. He warned me about pursuing a career in the food industry, and he was right. I’m glad I’m back on track, working at his firm. Plus, I’m damn good at what I do. Food is a fun hobby, and I just need to leave it at that. “Okay. I’ll arrive ready to make an impression.”

“Wonderful.”

I stand, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in my sundress, ready to face the rest of this day. I’m already mentally sifting through conversation starters with Foster that scream I’m charming and semi-successful, but also down-to-earth and not at all interested in your father’s influence.

“I’m off. Gotta noon tee-time,” Dad says. “I’m in a foursome with the groom, Foster, and West.”

He flashes me a look, and I can see it in his eyes—the glimmer of hope that Foster Easel could be more than a pawn in his game of familial chess.

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