Page 50 of One Wealthy Wedding

I wrench open the door, hoping to see a uniformed FedEx employee, and come face-to-face with a very polished and annoyed person who is about my height. Their dark hair is perfectly coiffed and their lips are pursed.

“I’m George.” They stick out a hand. “You must be Cat.” They jerk a thumb behind them. “This is your trousseau.”

“My what?” I peer to the right and see what looks like enough racks of clothes to fill a New York Fashion Week show. “I didn’t order this.”

“I know. Mr. Archer did.”

“I don’t want this.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I appreciate that you’ve gone through a lot of work, but you can go home.”

George heaves a sigh. “Let me tell you how this will go. You’ll say you don’t want the clothes, then I’ll force you to take them, because really, who would want little ole me to get fired? Then you’ll try them on, fall in love with a dress, and wear it to the ball and fall in love again. With the man. Not the clothes.”

I narrow my eyes. “I can tell from here that most of these are size four. I’m a six, or an eight, depending on the cut. It’s the ass. But I suppose we can do this inside.”

George barks a laugh and follows me into the mansion.

I lead George and a small army of stylists into the formal living room. I don’t even know why Theo has this room. As far as I can tell, he never uses it.

George directs the stylists with efficiency, and when they’ve finally left, it’s just me and George facing off over nine racks of clothes.

“So he’s back,” they say. “And married.” At my carefully blank expression, George waves a hand. “I know it’s not real.”

“Oh, good.” My shoulders lower.

“Aren’t you a socialite?” George is eyeing me like they’ve seen my face before.

“I was. I was disinherited. Disowned by my family. Told they never wanted to see me again, etcetera, etcetera. It’s quite boring.”

“Sounds it.” They purse their lips.

“So you see why I don’t need this stuff. Theo and I aren’t actually in love. I assume he didn’t pick any of this himself, so he shouldn’t care if I refuse it.”

George shakes their head, looking sympathetic. My stomach squeezes uncomfortably. Of course Theo didn’t pick this stuff out. This is all fake, as I reminded him yesterday.

“It’s a little like armor, don’t you think?” George runs a hand over the dresses on the closest rack. “I’d think you, of all people, would understand that.” They cut me a glance. “I don’t mean it in a bad way. But if you’re already worried about people talking behind your back, which I assume you are, since I’ve seen the gossip columns, then you should take the clothes. Or some of the clothes.”

The thing is, I do want the clothes. I love pretty things—little lipstick tubes with gold embossing, ballet flats with those delicate ribbons, perfectly done nails, pretty dresses. I so desperately want to touch the silk, feel the heft of good quality materials and fine craftsmanship. I’m sure Theo bought only the best, because he doesn’t know anything different. I didn’t either, once upon a time. But letting him choose for me? I can’t.

“Want to have a drink?” I ask abruptly. “I’m a bartender. Not a very good one, but I can make a decent martini.” Because my father used to drink them, not from anything I’ve learned on the job.

“A decent martini? How could I refuse?” George’s eyes glint with amusement. “It’s three p.m. on a Friday, and Jonah would lose his mind. So yes. I’ll take a martini.”

The only issue with making martinis is that I have no idea where Theo keeps the liquor. I poke around in the kitchen, but don’t see anything. “Do you know where he stores it?” I ask. “I assumed he’d have a swimming pool of it.”

“Me? I’ve never had the pleasure of being within these hallowed halls.” George looks in another cabinet. “Also, maybe he drank it all.”

“It’s possible. He did have half the Royals hockey team here last week,” I muse. “His study maybe?”

We traipse past the second living room, the game room, the laundry room, and the massive staircase to the upper floors, all the way to the dark wood door of Theo’s study. It’s the only room I haven’t been in. I try the handle. It’s locked, as promised.

“Want me to pick it?” George asks.

“You can pick locks?”

“How hard can it be?” They shrug. “I have delicate hands.” They hold them out for inspection, and I laugh.

“It’s okay. We have plenty of beer.”

“My favorite,” George mutters.

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