Page 101 of How to Say I Do
“No, she doesn’t. She built her whole career by putting herself in the spotlight, and doesn’t get to cry about her fame now that the people who made her exactly who she is are cashing in. Everyone knows the score here. She knew, she damn well knew, that this would be the price of her fame. She built this life. She can fucking live in it!”
“It’s not only about what Tessa wants. It’s the location. The ranch.”
Here was the real problem, the huge, ugly, horrific problem at the root ofeverything. The ghost behind all my bad decisions, and the motivation for all the choices I’d made to push awayEliteand give them nothing. Here was what I’d spent the flight to New York agonizing over, chewing my fingernails down to bloody nubs as I paced at the back of the plane.
Wyatt.
I thought of a little boy counting shooting stars, and fireflies flashing at twilight, and grapes slowly ripening beneath a summer sun. Wyatt’s soul, alongside his father’s and mother’s, was sown in the grounds of the Gran Cielo Viñedo. The heartbeat of his family suffused every golden curl of grass, every ancient oak tree, and every bobbing wildflower beneath that great domed sky. That ranch, that slice of perfection built by dreams and grief, held more love in each speck of dirt than I had felt in my entire life, until I met Wyatt, and Liam, and Savannah.
I would stand in front of an army to protect that. I would face down every celebrity, every blogger, and every ravenous paparazzo. I would blow offEliteand their $10 million to protect Wyatt.
In fact, that’s exactly what I was doing.
“That ranch is the McKinley family home. There’s history there, and we can’t just stampede in and dictate what we want.” I had obsidian in my voice, and diamond-strong steel coursed through my veins. I sounded stronger than I ever had, standing up to my boss, the man who had literally made me in Manhattan. He’d helped me build my gold-plated career.
Now I was pouring gas on that career. I was striking a match and holding it up.
The air around us crackled.
“There won’t be any photo shoot,” I said. “There won’t be any A-listers or VIP attendees. There won’t be any exclusives forElite. This weddinghasto be a private affair. For Wyatt.”
“Oh, fuck the farmer!” Harrison’s shout shook the windows. “Doesn’t that hick realize this is the biggest paycheck of his life? He’s going to thank you for the publicity in a year when half of America wants to come pose for a selfie and drink shit wine where Tessa Yarborough said ‘I do.’ He better cash in fast, though, because there’s money on how long this love story of hers will last. People are only going to care about breaking down his doors while she’s still married.”
“This has nothing to do with money. It’s about what’s right, and I’m not going to let you into that ranch. You, orElite.”
“You’re fucking delusional, Noël. You’re not going toletus?” He shook his head, snorting. “You have no say in this. A billion-dollar company doesn’t take orders from you.Elitewill be sending in a crew to manage Tessa’s publicity, per the contract that this firm signed, and that’sfinal. Your job is to make that happen, not whine about your poor farmer friend or how the world is mean to the little guy. You’re fucking lucky you still have a job, frankly.”
And that was it. I was fuckingdone. Done with this life. Done with the fucking bullshit, and the farce, and the hyperactive superficiality of it all.
Ihatedthis. Ihatedwhat I was doing. What the fuck was it all for?
I had no more fucks to feel. Influencers and September issues and exclusive global rights could get fucked. So could my career. So could my partnership.
I flicked that lit match. “Iquit. I won’t let you do any of this. It’s her wedding, and you won’t step one foot on that ranch, so help me God, Harrison.”
Harrison bellowed at me as I turned my back on him. “You’re fucking wrong, Noël! I’ll do anything I goddamn want! I built you, and if you walk away from me, I willbreakyou! You willneverwork in this city again. There will be no world for you if you turn your back on me. You’ll never get your life back—” His voice boomed, shifting from rage to incredulity and back again. He railed against my stupidity, my ungratefulness, my disrespect—
I let the door slam shut behind me.
Quitting in a blaze of passionate glory was one thing. Hitting the street and taking a deep breath was entirely another.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I fumbled for my phone and jogged down the block. It was a race now between me and Harrison. Who could get to Tessa first and explain what was going on. I had my understanding of things. Harrison andElitehad theirs. Standing up for Wyatt and for Tessa’s dream was all well and good, but there were legal contracts at play. I had fucked up, big time.
I dialed Tessa twenty-seven times in a row before switching to Tyler’s cell phone. Another thirteen unanswered calls, and then I switched to calling his school. The receptionist was obviously experienced screening calls for Mr. Tyler Soon-To-Be Yarborough, and she refused to budge when I begged to be put through to Tyler’s classroom. Even pleading with her to just deliver a message got me nowhere.
“Just a fucking Post-It,” I begged. “I have to talk to him. It’s an emergency.”
“Sure, hon,”she said.“If it were, you’d be able to reach him on his cell.”The line cut out. She’d hung up on me.
I was out of options, or at least cellular ones. But I knew where Tyler lived, which put me a step ahead of Harrison, for the moment.
It had started to rain, which didn’t bode well for trying to get to Brooklyn in a hurry. I flung myself into the street and started screaming for a taxi, but bedraggled, wild-eyed men are exactly the fares that cabbies refuse to pick up, so I was shit out of luck. Damn it, the subway was going to be a madhouse in the rain—
Fuck it. I set off on foot, stopping at every intersection to try and flag down a cab. It took a massive effort, more than I thought I was capable of, to shove down my crazy and not look unhinged, just woeful and wet and desperate for a dry ride. Eventually, one cab slowed down near enough to me that I could throw myself into the backseat. I shoved three hundred-dollar bills through the slot and spat out Tyler’s address. “Go. As fast as you can.”
The rain kept falling while we crossed the bridge to Brooklyn, a relentless, driving percussion that blocked out the world. The cabbie’s Afghani radio station faded into static. He had the heat on, and the inside of the car turned humid and rich with the funk of wet pleather and a thousand other lost New York souls who had sweated and cried and daydreamed in the same sticky backseat I was huddled in. Fog coalesced on the windows. I drew a stick figure on the glass, and then gave him a cowboy hat and a smile.
No one was at home when I mashed on the buzzer at Tyler’s place. The rain poured down on me, and the few people coming and going from Tyler’s building were careful to keep me out. I stank of desperation and shit decisions, and no one wanted to let me inside. My adrenaline from before had leached out of me, and I sank onto his steps and dropped my head into my hands.
