Page 8 of Promised Love

“Autumn—”

Before Mom can shoot me with her death glare, Mr. Big opens the door separating the main inn with the offices at the back and pokes his head inside.

“Laura, the bridal party is here. I’m sure you’ll want to greet them.”

“Thank you, Mr. Big.” Mom immediately jumps into the role of hostess and forgets about my nonexistent dating life.

Or I thought so, until she turns around at the last minute and says, “You get changed and start working on the wish box. We’ll talk about this later.”

Mr. Big follows her out, but not before I mouth him a thank-you and he returns it with a wink.

I walk into the office, my hands grazing over the huge birch table. Mom hasn’t changed a thing in this place. Not only the office but the entire inn is exactly as it was when she inherited it from Grandma. I wonder how I’ll run it someday.

* * *

“How are my girls doing?” It’s almost midnight when Dad saunters into the inn.

“It was a blast, Dad.”

I drop the note cards littered with best wishes from the guests for the bride and groom on the table. These will be included in a wish box, which we’ll gift to the newlywed couple before they leave. They’ll probably treasure these notes all their life.

“You know the bride and groom met in kindergarten? Can you imagine being friends with someone for so long and then realizing you want to marry them? That’s epic.”

I’m lying flat on the couch, watching the hanging ceiling lamp. When my parents don’t reply, I turn around to face them.

Surprisingly, they don’t look as amused and exhilarated about this as I am.

“What? Don’t tell me you weren’t wishing a teeny tiny bit that you met Dad at school and not during his stay at the inn.”

My dad’s lips twitch a little, and he places a kiss on Mom’s cheek, pulling her closer to him. “I definitely would have loved to woo you in school, Lulu.”

I snicker. Dad has a penchant for calling Mom and me silly, random nicknames.

“Don’t worry, Dad. I think you guys’ story is much better than the couple’s last week.” I cringe at the mere thought of it.

“Autumn!” Mom reprimands me.

“What? I think I had a holy fuck moment when the bride said she hadn’t known her husband until the week before.”

“Watch your language, Autumn Smith!” She shakes her head.

“But, Mom, an arranged marriage? In this world? It gives me the creeps just thinking about it.”

Before the exchange between Mom and me blows up, Dad says, “If my business women are done with their work, I’d really like to take them home.”

As I slide into the back seat of Dad’s Mercedes, my phone vibrates in my jacket.

Chiara: Have you asked your parents about tomorrow?

Autumn: No. But I’ll talk to them. You just ask your brother to buy me a ticket.

Chiara: He won’t. Not until you get your parents’ permission.

Chiara: Santi is yammering nonstop about how he’s already lost a ton of money on concert tickets. We promise we’ll go and then you bail out.

“Who’s texting you so late?” Mom asks from the passenger seat.

“It’s Chiara,” I reply absent-mindedly.

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