Page 20 of The Wedding Wrecker

"Right. But I feel like it’s my duty as your closest friend to point out the obvious.”

“Why do I feel like your point is neither going to be obvious or necessary?”

“Which is,” Maggie continued, unbothered by my question, “that you haven’t been the same since Ireland. Before that, you would’ve been daydreaming about these guys you’ve dated. You would’ve been adding to your little ‘secret’ wedding board. And now? You’re like a crotchety old woman who can’t be pleased by any guy, no matter how acceptable he might be.”

“Acceptable?” I laughed. “Is that the bar we’re aiming for here? Because what’s the point of hitching my wagon to a guy if it’s not right? So we can get to our wedding day and watch it all fall apart?”

There was a long pause. “You realize that’s not?—”

“Hey, Maggie,” I said, cutting her off as it was my turn to step up to the counter and check in. “I gotta go. Bye.”

“This isn’t?—”

I ended the call and gave the staff member my information and waited while she clacked away at her keyboard while wearing an odd smile.

Did rich people get offended if staff didn’t look like they were enjoying themselves while doing menial, tedious tasks? Or maybe this girl just… loved typing?

My thoughts drifted back to Maggie, and the point she was trying to make. It wasn’t the first time she’d tried to broach the subject of my…distance.But I knew there was no point in trying to explain it to her. She just didn’t understand.

I spent so much of my life romanticizing love and weddings. I let it get to the point where I was completely blind to reality—where I thought all I needed to do was reach the wedding, as if it was some kind of finish line. It was, of course, ridiculous.

The wedding was hardly even the beginning, and people who reached that point with the wrong person were only setting themselves up for failure and heartbreak.

So, sure, maybe guys like Kyle and Brad weren’t terrible, but they also weren’t good enough. They weren’t perfect, and I wasn’t going to waste my time or risk my heart on anybody short of perfect. I’d just keep focusing on my own career, my professional goals, and… well, if Mr. Perfect never came along? So what? At least I’d be spared the heartbreak of forcing it to work with the wrong guy.

“There,” the woman said, her artificial smile widening. "You're in the Mountain View Suite." She handed over a satisfyingly heavy black and gold keycard. "Mr. Wellington specifically requested it for you."

Of course he did. I'd only spoken to Martha Wellington over the phone so far, but her husband's reputation preceded him. Richard Wellington III didn't do anything halfway. According to my research (okay, late-night web searches), the family owned properties across five continents and had some connection to actual royalty that I couldn't quite figure out.

It was all oddly vague and hard to pin down, actually. When I had tried to look at exactlywhichproperties they owned or who they were related to, I kept finding myself in circular loops that wouldn’t say where or what they were. But it wasn’t shocking. With money like that, it probably wasn’t hard to buy privacy, even on the internet.

But how dare they?Didn’t my idle curiosity and nosiness have rights, too? Damn them and their endless supplies of money.

I wove my way through hallways decorated with landscape paintings, over-the-top custom-made wood slab furniture and things like… ornamental root balls encased in epoxy, because of course that’s a thing.

When I reached my suite, I couldn’t help but squeal and do a little happy dance.

The huge window theme continued, giving me my own personal balcony view of the Rockies. A stone fireplace was already crackling and giving off delicious heat while an actual platter of sweet pastries, cheeses, an assortment of crackers, and all kinds of fancy sliced meats were set out on my bed.

And there was champagne.

“Don’t mind if I do,” I said to myself in a crappy British accent.

I stuffed some cheese in my mouth as I gently touched the petals on a bouquet of pure white roses in a crystal vase. I tipped back some of the champagne as I read the note on my pillow.

Welcometo Timber Vale, Emma. Dinner at seven - RW

I set the note down with a smile, and then my stomach dropped. Even though the major parts were already in motion for thewedding next week, I felt like I was inwayover my head. This place… these people…

Panic started to knock at the door, asking nicely if I’d mind letting it in.

Nope. No.“You’re Emma Marshall. Cool as cucumbers. You got this, girl.” After some deep breaths, I indulged in a little bit of food therapy.

Okay, alota bit.

I ate almost half of the platter, which I was pretty sure might have been meant for a larger group. I also drank half the bottle of champagne and earned myself a pleasant little buzz.

With a glance at my phone, I realized it was already closer to seven than I thought. I brushed the crumbs from my dress and used my insanely fancy ass private bathroom to freshen up. There was a towel warmer, which I might have wasted some valuable time playing with. There was even a frothy thing that dispensed shaving cream, so I gave my armpits a little touch up, just because.

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