Her wedding gift was here. The painting she’d had Sebastian, one of Hunter’s friends and one of the groomsmen, commission was finally finished, and she gazed at it, full of worry. The painting itself was amazing—it was an oil portrait of her, on her stomach on a bed of satin with the sheets artfully hiding her nudity. Sebastian had somehow managed to make her look flirty and sexy instead of the frizzy mess she normally felt she was. Her hair had a soft, tousled flip to it, and the look in her eyes was come-hither as she gazed out of the portrait.
Gretchen worried it didn’t represent her. And maybe it wasn’t enough of a wedding present. She was marrying a fricking billionaire. He was used to lavish gifts. He had ten cars of his own and at least that many houses. A frisson of worry skittered down her spine. The man could buy whatever he wanted; would he be expecting something more for their wedding-slash-Christmas than a portrait of her painted by his buddy?
Uh oh. Was she giving him the adult equivalent of a homemade present? Because she’d had his friend do the picture?
Was she being a narcissist by giving him a picture of her?
Oh god. What if it wasn’t enough of a present for Christmas? Like maybe it covered the wedding part of the day but not the Christmas part? Why did she have to slop her wedding onto Christmas like some sort of idiot? Why couldn’t she have waited until mid-January? Or February? Did it matter?
Except . . . things had dragged on for so long that she was desperate. She wanted to marry Hunter and she worried that the more it got delayed, the more it gave him a chance to change his mind about her.
“I think I’m gonna throw up, Igor,” she whispered.
The cat thumped his naked, wiry little tail, irritated. Yeah, that was about right. Even the cat found her irritating right now. She gave his ears one final rub and then moved to the window seat with her coffee. A quick peek out into the night showed that it was snowing, and snowing hard. Because of course it was. It was Christmas Eve and no sane person would be up at four in the morning for baking. Snow shouldn’t matter around a holiday because people stayed home in their pajamas, but noooo, she’d just had to have her wedding today of all days. Did Hunter have a snowplow? Why was it she hadn’t thought about snowplows in her contingency plans? She’d thought of everything else, hadn’t she?
Her phone buzzed.
Daphne: I know it’s early, but I can’t sleep. Lemme know if you want some baking company.
She nearly wept at the sight of the text message. It was wonderful having Daphne back, if only so she had one more person to freak out to. She texted back quickly. Not too early, and I’m making panettones so you’re welcome to come join me.
Daphne: Pane-what? Never mind, I’ll come over regardless. You’re up early tho! Can’t sleep?
Gretchen: Anxiety is driving me slowly insane.
Daphne: Aw, it’s cute that you somehow think it was a slow process.
Gretchen snorted.
Daphne: You just gotta get through today, big sis. Be there as soon as I can get a cab.
Gretchen: K—thanks, Daph.
You just gotta get through today. Easier said than done. She set her coffee down and went to go hug her cat, but he ran away. God, she hoped that wasn’t a bad sign. Today was going to be fine . . . wasn’t it?
***
Things got worse with every hour that passed. And given that she wasn’t getting married until two in the afternoon, that left a hell of a lot of hours for shit to go wrong. Next time she got married on Christmas Eve, Gretchen decided, she’d have the ceremony super early so she could relax for the rest of the day.
Gretchen had been so nervous with the wedding preparations that she’d forgotten to add yeast to her panettones and, as a result, she had to throw away all six batches and start over. The snow continued to pour down, the outside of Buchanan Manor a wintry wonderland that would have been perfect . . . if Gretchen hadn’t been expecting over two hundred guests to show up.
At nine in the morning, the wedding cake’s middle tier collapsed.
At nine thirty, she got the call that the minister was stranded in Boston, his flight canceled.
At ten, her hairdresser called and said her car had been buried by a snowplow and she couldn’t make it. Her makeup lady called not ten minutes later citing the same problem.
On a hunch, she tried on her wedding dress. The waist was too tight. After months of trying to diet, she’d gained weight. Gained. It had to be all the cakes and cookies and croquembouches she’d been worrying over. She had to taste them, of course. And she’d been tasting a lot of stuff. And now she was too fat for her dress, somehow, despite having a final fitting two days ago.
After that, she locked herself in her room for a nice, long cry. After all, what did it fucking matter what she looked like? She was going to be a hag under her veil.
She could fit into it, at least.
***
“Should we do something?” Daphne whispered as the soft sound of Gretchen’s weeping echoed into the hallway outside her bedroom door.
“Like what?” Greer, the very pregnant, very tiny bridesmaid gave Daphne a concerned look. “I’m used to dealing with brides and bridezilla actions, but this is just . . . beyond.” She clutched her planning guide and gave a worried sigh. “I know she’s been stressing about things, but she always has a laugh when I ask about it. I didn’t realize she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.”
Taylor pressed her fingers to her lips, concerned. “Should we change out of our bridesmaid gowns? Is the wedding canceled?”
“No, don’t change! I’m sure this will pass,” Greer said quickly, and gave Daphne another uneasy glance. “Where’s Audrey?”
“Sick,” Daphne said. Her twin had arrived, baby and gorgeous husband in tow . . . and immediately headed to the bathroom to puke. Apparently she was having a round of both morning sickness and food poisoning, which made her useless for helping out with Gretchen’s nerves. The other bridesmaids were standing around looking at Daphne as if she’d know what to do.
Well, crap. She’d have to try something. They were sisters. If friends wouldn’t work right now, the least she could do was try to coax Gretchen out. So she knocked on the door. “Gretch? Hey, it’s Daph. Let me in so we can talk.”
“Fuck off,” came the weepy voice from the other side of the door. “Everyone fuck off. I’m never coming out.”
“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” Daphne said, giving the worried bridesmaids a smile, like she had it all handled.
“Don’t care. I’m just going to die in here old and alone.”
Oh yeah, Gretchen definitely loved her drama. Daphne rapped her knuckles on the door again. “You won’t talk to me about what’s going on? What about Audrey?” Daph would get her a barf bucket and park her in front of the door if that was what it took to make Gretchen emerge. This was the wedding day. There wasn’t time for hysterics.
But the threat of Audrey only made Gretchen cry harder.
“Perhaps Hunter?” Brontë suggested quietly.
Daphne had just come to the same conclusion herself. She nodded and backed away from the door. Sometimes the best person to talk to was the one you had the most invested in, emotionally. Even if what they would say would devastate you, sometimes it had to be said.
Just look at me and Wesley.
She pondered this as she walked through the halls of Buchanan Manor. She felt . . . weirdly better after confessing how she felt to Wesley. She’d been turned down, and that hurt. And he was leaving her, and that hurt, too. But it was out in the open. She didn’t have to hide how she felt anymore. It felt like another mask she’d been wearing all this time, and now it was gone and she felt good. Her heart hurt, and she’d cried bitter tears last night after the rehearsal dinner (and a few when Gretchen and Hunter had exchanged sweet looks with each other) but today she felt cleansed. Whole, hurt
ing, but cleansed. If he didn’t love her back, well, she couldn’t make him. And if Gretchen was having second thoughts about getting married, then she needed to tell Hunter before things got too far along and became messier than they already were.
The house had been decorated with delicate holiday touches, and every table she passed was filled with roses. Purple roses, pink roses, red roses. They must have had some sort of significance to Gretchen and Hunter, though Daphne didn’t know what it could be. Maybe Gretchen had developed a thing for roses. Maybe Hunter sent Gretchen a lot of roses when they were dating.
God, if Gretchen had changed her mind about marrying Hunter? He’d be devastated. She’d met the man last night at the rehearsal dinner for the first time. He . . . hadn’t been what she’d been expecting. The scars were deeper and more brutal than she’d originally thought, and the man under them was stern and rather unforgiving-looking. It made her feel like a naughty child when she was in his presence, for all that he was probably only a few years older than Gretchen. But it had also been very clear to Daphne that he fucking worshipped Gretchen with all of his being. Every look he cast in her direction, every possessive touch, every gesture, all of it made it clear that he was utterly addicted to Gretchen Petty and would do anything for her.
Which made it even more confusing that things had gone wrong somehow.
The endless maze of halls that made up Buchanan Manor were cordoned off with red velvet ropes so guests wouldn’t stray, and Daphne found herself rushing toward the back of the house. There were massive double doors that servants opened, and a covered enclosed walkway that kept guests safe (well, relatively) from the blizzard that had decided to storm. She headed inside the big greenhouse that had—for some reason—been elected to be where the vows would be recited. As she walked in, she was hit by a wall of heat. A generator chugged somewhere in the distance, and fans blew warm air on the guests in the massive tent. Folding chairs had been set up in neat rows, and about half the chairs were full. At the front, a rose-encrusted archway was starting to wilt under the heaters, and two men stood on the small decorative stairs below the arch. One was Hunter, and he seemed to be arguing with another man who wore a suit. In the front row, she made out Wesley’s broad shoulders. He’d shown up after all, despite the blowout from yesterday. She was a little surprised. He’d braved holiday traffic and the driving snow just to be her platonic date.
It would have been sweet if it had meant something to him. Instead, it just made her ache. They were just friends and that was all they would ever be. The bittersweet disappointment returned, and she marched up the aisle, heading for the groom.
“Audrey? You’re not dressed?” someone called out.
Whoops. Daphne was still in her jeans and not wearing makeup and didn’t have her hair fixed. Of course they’d mistake her for Audrey. She held up a finger, indicating she needed a moment. That seemed easier than explaining. And she rushed to Hunter’s side and touched his sleeve.
He turned, and his ugly, scarred face focused on her. Immediately, he went still. “What’s wrong?”
“I know you’re not supposed to see the bride before the wedding, but Gretchen won’t come out of her room to get dressed. She’s crying and she won’t talk to anyone. I think something’s really wrong.”
Hunter paled and then raced down the aisle.
***
Gretchen’s nose wouldn’t stop running. Sure, it might have had something to do with the fact that she couldn’t stop crying, but the nose dripping was really bothering her. Taking the delicate mirror on her makeup table, she studied her reflection before wadding Kleenex into a nose plug and then stuffing it into one nostril. The tuft of tissue stuck out underneath her nose like a ridiculous flower, and she shoved a matching tissue into the other nostril.
The woman that stared back at her from the other side of the mirror was a mess. Her hair was a nest of tangles, her face ruddy from crying. Her nose was stretched out from the tissue, and her wedding dress was a crumpled heap around her shoulders, because it wouldn’t fasten in the back. She’d thrown her veil on at some point, and it hung crookedly over one side of her head.
She looked ridiculous, but what did it matter?
Her eyes felt hot and swollen, and Gretchen gave her reflection another unhappy look before pushing the mirror away. Of course she looked like hell. It was just icing on top of the terrible shit-cake that had turned out to be her wedding, the wedding she’d tried so hard to make perfect and had failed miserably at in every aspect.
Someone knocked at the door to her dressing room, and she felt a surge of irritation. Why couldn’t they leave her alone to have her pity party? “For the millionth time, go away.”
She heard a soft murmur on the other side of the door and what sounded like people leaving. Good. She knew all her bridesmaids and best friends were crowded outside the door but . . . she didn’t want to see them right now. She didn’t want to see anyone. She put her head down on the arm of the chaise she was moping on and closed her eyes.
The lock clicked.
Gretchen sat up, frowning. Who was the asshole—
Hunter’s broad shoulders filled the doorway and he shut the door carefully behind him. His gaze fixed on Gretchen, and her first thought was how incredibly handsome he was in his tuxedo. God, she was a lucky woman to be able to tap that on a regular basis. She loved every inch of him, from the white scars bisecting his brows to the way his mouth firmed into a flat line when he saw something that displeased him, like it was doing right now. He locked the door behind him again and then strode toward her. “Gretchen, sweetheart. What’s wrong?”
Oh man, and here she had tissue shoved up her nose. Could this day get any worse? Could she be any less sexy? “You’re not supposed to see me before the wedding!”
“Yes, but you’re telling everyone that there won’t be a wedding and your friends are panicking.” He sat down on the chaise next to her and gently plucked one of the tissues from her nose. “Do you need to talk?”
“Oh my god, don’t do that, Hunter! That’s so gross.” She snatched the tissue from him and furtively pulled the other out and then rubbed her nostrils. “This is not a sexy moment.”
“Every moment with you doesn’t have to be a sexy moment,” Hunter said in that grave, deep voice of his. “Just as long as it’s with you.”
Damn. Just like that, her eyes welled up and she began to cry once more. “Stop being so understanding!”
“Gretchen, love,” he pulled her against him, crinkling swaths of white taffeta skirts and all, and brushed the veil and tangled hair out of her face. “What’s happened to my impulsive, silly, happy woman?”
“She’s been replaced by a psycho-hose-beast,” Gretchen sobbed. She curled her fists against his chest and then reared back. “I shouldn’t touch you. I’ll mess up your suit.”
“Fuck the suit.” He patted his shoulder. “I’m yours to cry on.”
And because that was so sweet, she launched into a fresh round of tears, crying into the lapels of his nice pressed tuxedo. “I wanted our wedding to be perfect and it’s such a muh-muh-mess.” She cried harder because saying it out loud just made it that much more true. “The cake is ruined and my croquembouches won’t stay together and my dress won’t fucking fit and it’s a blizzard outside and—”
“And I’m here,” Hunter said gently, stroking her cheek. “And you’re here. And we’re the only ones that matter.”
“I know I’m a trainwreck,” Gretchen sniffed. “I know I don’t think about things before plowing ahead. And I thought with the wedding that I’d get things right for a change. I’d plan for months so nothing would surprise me at the last minute. I dieted. I tried to go with the flow, I really did. And the more I tried, the worse things got.”
“Is that why you’ve been so worried lately? You’re trying to impress me?” He seemed stunned.
“Well, yea
h. I mean, you’re awesome, Hunter. You’re rich and powerful and smart and you are so put together. You work really long hours and you’re really good at your job. I can’t seem to keep a damn job and how the hell am I going to do a cookbook when I can’t even bake properly for my own wedding?” Her lower lip quivered and then she pressed her face against his chest again. “My wedding cake collapsed. That’s what I get for trying to give it a pudding center.”
“Pudding center? I thought you went with lemon?”
“Yeah, but lemon was plain and boring and I didn’t want our wedding to be boring.” She was going to start crying again. “I wanted you to be impressed with me, Hunter. Like you could look at me and be proud of who you were marrying and then it wouldn’t feel like a mistake—”
“A mistake?” He pulled back, his fingers searching for her chin to force her to look at him. “Gretchen, where is all this coming from? How could you possibly think this is a mistake?”
“Because I’m a questionably employed woman with nothing to bring to the table and you’re a sexy billionaire? Hello—you can do so much better than me.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” He cupped her face—her teary, swollen, runny-nosed face. “I love you, Gretchen. You’re the first person that ever saw me, really saw me. Most everyone else just pretends not to notice the scars or avoids making eye contact. But you? You never let me fade into the shadows—you keep pulling me into the light and you’ve given me a new life and new friends. How can I not love you with every inch of my body? How can I not want to be with you forever? Of course I want to marry you.”
Her lip started to wobble again.
“And don’t cry.” He leaned in and gave her a quick kiss on the mouth. “I love wild, impulsive, silly Gretchen. This anxious, frantic Gretchen who’s trying to cater her own wedding? She’s going to have a nervous breakdown.”
“Going to? I think I’m there.” She managed a watery chuckle and burrowed against him. Him being here already made her feel a million times better. This was why they were perfect for each other—he completed her. He knew her. He understood her, and he could talk her down off of the impulsive ledges that she managed to find herself on. Gretchen sighed, snuggling up against him. “A Christmas wedding. I think I really must be crazy. Oh, and I screwed Christmas, too. I got you a wedding present and no Christmas present. I’m officially the worst wife ever.”