Page 2 of The VIP Package

“Will do.”

As soon as they’re gone, I take a few moments to gather myself. This isn’t the first time Hayden’s been late. If I had ten bucks for each time he’s arrived on time for a date, I’d have…ten bucks?

Roughly.

It’s not that he doesn’t care about me. It’s that he cares for his career a whole lot. Which is fine! It’s great. We clicked in the first place because I admired his ambition; his drive to be the best.

It’s the same trait he loved in me.

I remember the year he made partner. It was the same year I launched my own practice and appeared regularly on Brooke Braham’s podcast. Yes,theBrooke Braham. We’ve been colleagues and friends since grad school, and you’re damn right I cashed in some professional capital to take my own practice to the next level. Brooke urged me to do it. She supported my goals every step of the way.

Which makes me feel guilty she’s not here today. Most of my family and friends couldn’t make it. This wedding came togetherso fast. Less than a week between Hayden’s heartfelt, “we should take advantage of this marital tax loophole,” and me admitting that I didkinda sorta maybeharbor a few teensy-weensy schoolgirl fantasies of being loved, honored, and cherished forever.

So what if we’ve only had six days between, “I can squeeze it in at lunch Thursday,” and me standing here wearing an organic cotton Windsor dress with waifish eyelet lace and ladder trim that itches a little?

And fucking buttons that won’t quit popping open.

“Dammit.” I shove two of them back through their holes, poking my boob with a fingernail. “Ouch.”

Snatching my phone off the paper towel holder, I scan for new texts. Just one from my sister, Courtney, asking if she should bring the flowers to the bathroom or if I’m coming out.

That’s it. I’m calling Hayden. After six unanswered texts, it’s time to be worried.

My betrothed picks up on the second ring. “Camille, hey.” Cutlery clangs in the background, maybe a glass being set on a table. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Uh, where are you?”

“Portland City Grill. John tipped me off they got fresh scallops this morning from?—”

“You’re at lunch.” The bottom drops out of my stomach. “Scallops.”

“Want me to order you some?” There’s some muffled chatter as he calls for a waiter. “They were almost out when I got here, but you know they always save extra for VIP guests. If I order now, they can box them up for you to have tonight while I’m working late on the Clauson case.”

I command myself to take a calming breath. To think before speaking. What would I tell a client to say in my shoes?

“You have to be fucking kidding me.”

Not that.

“Babe?” He’s chewing something, probably the focaccia I love. “You okay?”

“We’re supposed to be gettingmarried.” I’m trying hard not to shout. “Noon at the Multnomah County Courthouse, remember?”

“Oh shit. Oh, honey, I’m—” He takes a second to swallow whatever he’s eating. “Was that today?”

Fuck him.

Fuck this.

Fuck my life.

Calm, Camille. Stay calm.

We can still save this. “How soon can you get here? Maybe Judge Wallace can shift things around. His next trial isn’t until one-fifteen, right?”

“I doubt I could make it, even if I walked fast.” Swear to God, I hear him take another bite. “Besides, scallops don’t reheat well. It’s silly to let them go to waste.”

That’s the moment I know I’m not getting married.

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