Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
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.
Welcome to 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 the wedding next week, I felt like I was in way over 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, a lot a 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.
I tried on the comfiest robe I’d ever felt in my life, tested the acoustics in the shower, and liberally scuffed my feet around in the “Timber Vale” slippers they had waiting by my door.
Even the freaking floor was heated, which put me in a dilemma between my slippers and bare feet—both of which were highly enjoyable.
Leaving my perfect room and entering into the chaotic world of wedding planning was hard, but I eventually pulled myself out of the room and back to the hallway.
I headed to the resort restaurant where Mr. Wellington was waiting and only got lost a few times on the way. Once I arrived, the hostess led me to a private dining room where a distinguished-looking man in his sixties rose to greet me.
"Emma Marshall." Richard Wellington's handshake was firm, his smile genuine. He had salt-and-pepper hair that was slicked back from tanned and lightly lined features. His jaw was strong and his shoulders were broad, and he had the look of somebody who used to be in great shape but had finally relaxed on his strict diet and exercise routine.
His silver eyes sparkled, drawing me from my rambling thoughts as he let go of my hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Martha speaks very highly of your work."
She does? All my interactions with Martha Wellington left me feeling like I was a bit of old cheese she’d found underneath her fingernail. "Thank you for having me," I said, hoping I sounded more confident than I felt.
"Nonsense. You're family now." He gestured to the chair beside him. "Or you will be. Speaking of family..." He looked toward the door. "Ah, perfect timing. Emma, I'd like you to meet my younger son, Richard the Fourth. Though everyone calls him Dick."
A man around my age approached, wearing an expression that suggested he found everything beneath him. Including, apparently, buttons—his shirt was undone halfway down his chest despite the December chill. A gold chain nestled in his chest hair, catching the light as he moved.
Objectively speaking, he was attractive. He had blue eyes, sharp eyebrows, an aqualine nose, and a chin and jaw I found slightly too proud. Features aside, his body language was practically radiating “douche” energy at such high levels I thought I might choke on it if I breathed too deeply.
"Dick," his father continued, "this is Lily's sister. The wedding planner I was telling you about."
"Charmed to meet you." Dick's eyes roamed over me in a way that made me want to button up my own perfectly appropriate neckline. "You know, I always say wedding planners are the most... passionate women. A career dedicated to love has a way of… greasing the wheels, if you catch my implication."