Page 13 of Accidentally Marrying the Best Man
“Also not a good time. There’s a work function she has to go to in the evening and it’s a fancy event, so she needs time to get ready.
Jay leans back in the booth. “Suddenly, you’re awfully familiar with Charlotte’s schedule.”
I wave a hand in the air. “She needed a date to the work thing, so I offered to go.” I give him a pointed look. “Her fiancée was nowhere to be found, so I stepped. in.” In more ways than just as her date, which he’ll find out eventually.
“I will apologize to her, many times over.” He slumps in his seat. “Can you please just check into April’s background?”
“Sure,” I say, checking my cell phone. It’s almost time for Charlotte to be done at the office. “I got to go.” Sliding out of the booth, I pocket my phone and stride toward the door.
“Call me as soon as you have that info,” Jay calls after me.
“Will do,” I answer, thinking about what to pick up for dinner so I can feed my lovely wife. She’ll need calories to build up stamina for the evening activities I have planned.
Chapter 6
CHARLOTTE
Whatever gene people have for loving parties, I’m pretty sure mine mutated or died off sometime around late middle school. Actually, I know exactly which moment it was, and it happened in eighth grade. Patricia told everyone that the dress I wore to the homecoming dance was one of her old ones that she’d given to charity. I don’t know if it was true or not, but I got that dress at a secondhand shop. I never wore it again.
But that was high school, and now I stand at the threshold of the Grand Mirabelle’s ballroom, dressed in a brand-new red designer dress, fidgeting with the clasp on my evening clutch. My nerves ping from the tips of my toes, enclosed in red stilettos, straight to my scalp.
Beside me, Nick loops his arm around my waist in a gesture that’s equal parts reassuring and—let’s be honest—ownership.
I like it, even though my stomach somersaults from half anxiety, half anticipation.
I look around the ballroom. The high, coffered ceiling twinkles with glass chandeliers, each the size of a hatchback andpronged with a hundred gleaming drops. The air smells faintly flowery.
I take it all in. The glossy marble underfoot, the walls paneled in honeyed wood, the standing tables crowned with tight sculptural bouquets of hyacinth. Those are probably the source of the floral scent. There’s a gleaming grand piano near the doors, and a tuxedoed man plays background jazz.
Nick squeezes my side gently. “Ready, Mrs. King?” he murmurs.
The word hits me with a heady thrill, then a flush of panic. I’ve attended work parties like this before, but never as a wife
Actually, I’ve never even brought a date to one of these. They always feel like I’m still at the office. The same power plays and passive-aggressive insults.
I glance towards the clusters of chattering people, colleagues who knows nothing about my personal life. “Let’s hope so.” My voice is steadier than I feel.
He grins in a way that feels like it’s only for me, and suddenly I wish this wasn’t a work event at all.
The first test comes within ten seconds. “Charlotte!” chirps Lillian from HR, gliding over in a swirl of lemon-colored silk. "So this is your new husband."
I put on my best polite face. “Yes, Lillian—this is my husband, Nick King.” I get a little thrill of calling him mine.
Her eyebrows arch, then dip as she takes him in, head to toe. I can almost hear the wheels turning. The name, the hand on my waist, the way Nick’s athletic build fills out his suit. “How wonderful,” she coos, holding out a hand as if she’s a queen, expecting a visiting dignitary to kiss it. Nick shakes it, with charming deference. “Lovely to meet you.”
As Lillian launches into a story about a minor catastrophe occurring earlier—something about a rogue glass of Bordeaux. I steal a moment to scan the crowd. There are the departmentheads in a knot by the bar, young junior associates orbiting them the way moons circle planets. Patricia is there, center stage, wrapped in emerald velvet, her laugh sharp and practiced.
She hasn’t seen us yet. But she will.
And Nick will see her. His old high-school girlfriend. They dated for an entire year.
My hands go cold and damp.
Nick picks that exact moment to lean down and brush a whisper against my ear. “Want me to get us a drink or cut in on the canapes?”
I hesitate. I could use both, but I don’t want him to leave my side, not yet, with so many wide, curious eyes locked on us. “Let’s stick together. Safety in numbers,” I murmur.
He squeezes my hip again, a subtle claim. “Anything you want, Mrs. King.”
