BRIDEZILLAS AND BILLIONAIRES

It's a real comedy of errors with Ivy & Evan turning from enemies to more. There's a great buildup & chemistry with this couple. Add in the snarky entitled family & a good collection of secondary characters. I liked the flow & the writing kept me wanting to read more. –Sandra, Goodreads

“Bridezillas and Billionaires is a fun and scorching romance with plenty of humor and memorable characters.” --Kat M., Proofreader, Red Adept Editing

“I love this story. It was entertaining and thoroughly enjoyable. I spent a good portion of the book laughing. There were plenty of feels.” --Rose, Amazon

Because humor, even outrageous and out of control humor, is my favorite approach, I enjoyed Evan and Ivy’s crazy story. – Emily, Amazon

I loved this story with the interactions between Ivy and Evan from the beginning and I had several laugh out loud moments. The 2 bridezillas in the story were really over the top and made for fun reading too. –Lynn, Goodreads

Chapter 1

Ivy

Ah, wedding season.

I’ve never been to a wedding I didn’t love. Even after a stressful twenty months of planning, during which I had been berated and yelled at by entitled bridezillas, somehow it was all worth it to see two people in love pledge their hearts to one another.

I looked on wistfully as the officiant continued the ceremony. The ruddy-faced man launched into a lovely message about being one another’s best friends and biggest advocates.

I wish it could be me one day. I sighed longingly.

“If anyone can show just cause why this couple cannot lawfully be joined together in matrimony, let them speak now or forever hold their peace,” the officiant announced, turning the page in the custom-bound book that held the wedding script.

All that was left was for Evan and Camilla to exchange rings and say “I do.” Then we would have the tasteful cocktail hour and reception.

“I do!”

There it was. I raised my hands to applaud then realized wait…they hadn’t said their vows yet.

There were titters in the audience. My heart hammered, and I began to panic. This was literally a wedding planner’s worst nightmare! I looked around wildly for the culprit. The maid of honor stood in front of the altar defiantly.

“I object to this union!” she said loudly.

Where was security? I was at the back of the venue; the camera guys were blocking the side aisles, and I wasn’t the bride, so I didn’t dare walk down the center to drag the girl away.

“I object, because Camilla is a lying, cheating skank!” The maid of honor reached into the bodice of her blush-pink, sleeveless bridesmaid dress and pulled out a glossy poster.

“This bitch,” she said loudly as she unfolded it and waved the poster around, “was sleeping with my boyfriend. Don’t think I wasn’t going to find out, Arnold.” She wagged her finger at the best man.

Arnold tried to act innocent, but it was clear that his face and the one in the photo, though twisted into the grimace of an orgasm, were the same.

“Oh lord,” I groaned. There were shocked cries from the audience.

Camilla turned to Evan, reaching for him. “I’m so sorry, baby! It was an accident! I swear! I had too much to drink. I love you.”

The billionaire was wavering. Evan, like all rich men, was obnoxious and self-centered. But he was also image conscious. Would he play nice with the bridezilla for the ceremony then get a quiet annulment later? Was a public forgiveness forthcoming? Would love, or at least reputation, win the day?

The maid of honor hitched up her dress and screeched, “Don’t believe that cheating ho!” She fumbled under her dress then pulled another rolled-up poster out of her prison pocket.

Evan’s great aunt fainted. Another older woman screamed as the maid of honor unrolled the poster to reveal the bride and the father of the groom in a very compromising and frankly downright pornographic position.

“See?” she yelled, displaying the poster to the crowd. “Camilla. Is. A. Skank!”

“You ruined my wedding!” Camilla screamed and hurled her bouquet at the maid of honor.

At that point I decided to hell with it, I was walking down the aisle. The bride and the maid of honor were going at it. The maid of honor had the clear advantage, as her dress was shorter, though Camilla was really giving her a run for her money. As I waded into the fray, I barely registered Evan brush past me, dazed, blue eyes in pain. I couldn’t worry about him. I had a wedding to salvage.

I am a stress eater, and I come from hardy stock. Camilla had been dieting and hadn’t had anything except three leaves of kale and an almond in the past two days. I easily hefted her off of the maid of honor.

“You ruined my life!” Camilla sobbed, her perfect up-do snarled.

“If you could all please,” I announced over the screaming women, “head out to the terrace, we have drinks and light refreshments for everyone to enjoy!”

The crowd gaped, and nobody moved.

“Please,” I said firmly, “we have craft cocktails that were specially developed for the happy—er, well, craft cocktails.”

The promise of alcohol roused Evan’s great aunt, and people helped her up as Camilla collapsed on the floor. The maid of honor chased after the audience, posters in hand. Camilla’s mother and cousin ran up to the altar, and I left them with her.

“I’ve never seen anything like it!” the red-faced officiant said, fanning himself as he followed me after the maid of honor.

Please don’t have a stroke, please don’t have a stroke.

“Uh, Ivy?” Elsie’s voice crackled in my Bluetooth headset. “I thought we had another twenty minutes until the wedding let out?”

“Change of plans,” I said to my best friend and wedding caterer as I desperately tried to chase down the maid of honor. “Have you seen… Oh wait, never mind.”

Elsie was on the terrace in her crisp black pants and white shirt when I pushed through the crowd. She looked as dumbfounded as I felt as the maid of honor clambered up onto a chair, tottering in her platform heels, to tell everyone in the audience exactly how she felt about the bride and Arnold, her soon-to-be ex-boyfriend.

“That lying, cheating bastard!” She waved the posters around. “You can’t trust a bitch!”

“Get those pictures from her,” I hissed into the headset as I rushed to corral the maid of honor. “Or actually don’t.” I skidded to a stop as I remembered where those posters had been.

The best man begged, “Please just come down off of there!”

“Dick! Lying piece of garbage!” The maid of honor threw the posters at him then snatched a platter of salmon crudité from a passing server and hurled it at Arnold. It missed—and landed all over me. Bits of fish dripped down my face and plopped onto the terrace.

I bit back a curse.

These people are future clients. Keep your composure.

“Where is Evan?” his stepmother demanded. I noticed she’d had time to grab a drink, so she clearly couldn’t be all that worried about him. “Where is my son?”

“I don’t know,” I told her, trying to look professional as I shook capers off of my shirt.

“You have to find him,” she berated. “You’re the wedding planner. What are we paying you for anyway if you can’t even hold onto the groom?”

You’re not paying me at all.

I grimaced a smile.

“We will all look for him,” I said as Elsie helpfully picked dill out of my hair.

“He can’t have gone far,” his friend Sebastian said. “I have his phone, wallet, and keys.”

I need a drink.

“Honestly, Ivy,” Camilla’s father, Orson Sutherland, said reproachfully. “How could you let this happen? What kind of wedding planner are you? Don’t think we’re paying you for this wedding,” he said with a frown.

Evan’s father, who had no shame, was pouring himself a drink.

“Honestly,” Evan’s stepmother and the father of the groom’s ex-wife said. “How could you?”

He took a swig of the drink. He had Evan’s same blue eyes, height, square jaw, and general aura of psychopath around him. He shrugged.

“I was drunk. It was dark. It wasn’t even that good. Certainly not worth all of this.”

In the distance, a bridezilla screamed.

“You should have insisted they pay before the wedding,” Elsie said angrily in my ear. “I thought that was Weddings in the City policy. You shouldn’t have given them a break.”

“You know the situation with the Sutherlands is complicated,” I hissed back to her as she swept up the food and directed the other employees to start passing out snacks.

I surveyed the chaos then picked up a craft cocktail and took a drink.

***

We didn’t even make it to the reception before the bridezilla stormed out.

“Go home! Stop making a mockery of this! You all conspired against me. This isn’t my fault!” Camilla screamed at me, “This is your fault. Make all these people leave! Make them leave right now.”

“Just have the food delivered to the house,” Camilla’s father told Elsie.

Fuck. That was my dinner. Elsie usually saved containers of leftovers for me. Now there would be no leftovers. To top it off, I smelled like fish and dill. The salmon marinated on me as I shoved gift bags into guests’ hands, gritting my teeth against the screams of the bridezilla as she destroyed the beautiful, expensive wedding cake with the handmade sugar flowers that Sophie had spent weeks creating.

The sun was just setting when we finally finished packing everything up.

“See you Monday, I guess,” Elsie said as we walked to the parking lot.

“Another day, another wedding.”

“It will be January soon, right?” she asked desperately.

“Girl, wedding season has just started.”

My ears were ringing as I opened the door of my crappy little Toyota. I sat in silence in the dark with my hands on the steering wheel.

Fuck. What was I going to do? If the Sutherlands don’t pay me, my business will be ruined.

I fretted as I drove out of the parking lot and down the winding country road from the exclusive country club. Normally, I loved the end of a wedding—I would listen to upbeat pop music, replay all the best moments in my head, and snack on leftovers—but now I felt sick.

“It’s fine,” I told myself, trying not to hyperventilate. “Everything’s fine, right?”

I looked into the rearview mirror to see a man glaring at me from the back seat.

Chapter 2

Evan

Ivy screamed and jerked the steering wheel.

“Fuck, woman, you’re going to get us killed!” I roared.

She kept screaming and pulled the car over, jerking to a stop and fumbling in her purse.

“I’m calling the police! Murderer! Serial killer!”

I grabbed her wrist.

“I have pepper spray,” she warned.

“Please don’t pepper spray me,” I said, grabbing her other hand, which was holding something canister-shaped in her purse. “I’ve already been through enough today, don’t you agree?”

I hadn’t been able to think when the maid of honor had announced that Camilla had been cheating on me. To be fair, she had never been the greatest fiancée; Camilla had regularly berated me for any perceived transgression and constantly complained I wasn’t spending enough money on her. I had assumed that she was just stressed about the wedding and that after it was over, we would be… well, not necessarily in love, but we would have one of those marriages like my father had with his sequence of wives: professional and distant but both oriented to the same goals. Everyone said marriage was about love, but as a billionaire, I had no such illusions. I just needed someone from a similar background—a good corporate wife who I could take to events and who could host a dinner party.

But lately, Camilla hadn’t even done that. The last few months, I had attended business events alone. Camilla had always said she was too busy with the wedding.

She was too busy cheating on you.

It stung. Actually, no. It was devastating.

And with my own father no less.

The betrayal had been too much. I had just wanted to run away from it all. But I hadn’t had my keys. I had recognized Ivy’s car in the lot, though—it was the only one that wasn’t some high-end imported car. It had smelled like flowers and cake, and I had curled up in the back seat, just wanting to disappear.

Now here we were in the dark. I had her wrists in my grasp, and she was snarling at me.

“If I release you, do you promise not to punch me?” I asked.

Ivy blew out a breath.

“Get out of my car,” she said flatly.

“But,” I protested, “I’m the victim here.”

“I mean, it’s sort of your own fault,” she countered.

“My fault?” I growled.

“You dated someone named Camilla, and she treated you like shit. Quelle surprise. You’re kind of a sociopath, but you don’t deserve someone who cheats on you with your own father.”

“I didn’t see it coming,” I said, releasing her.

Ivy raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure the women in your life did.”

“No they didn’t, and you never said anything to me either,” I lied. My sister, Mika, had never liked Camilla, and she hadn’t been shy about telling me. I glared at Ivy. “What do you know anyway?”

“Oh, you know, I’ve only just organized hundreds of weddings,” she said. “Trust me, I know when two people are in love. Camilla didn’t love you.”

“I loved her,” I said softly.

Ivy looked at me in pity then scowled.

“God, stop making that face. You’re making me feel sorry for you.”

“Have a drink with me,” I cajoled.

“I don’t have drinks with clients,” she said, turning around in her seat.

I tilted my head down slightly and did my best rakishly handsome look with the bedroom eyes. I caught her glance in the rearview mirror.

“It’s futile to resist,” I told her. “Women swoon when I turn on the charm.”

“I have no issues resisting,” she said, crossing her arms and turning to glare back at me. “Stop trying to manipulate me.”

“I’m sad and heartbroken and just need someone to talk to,” I told her, parting my lips slightly in what I had been told was an irresistible gesture. Ivy was wavering.

Ivy huffed, “Fine. I will take you to grab a drink, then I’m calling your friends.”

There were no bars out in the country, so we stopped at a gas station, and Ivy picked out a bottle of wine.

“I want beer,” I said.

Ivy gestured grandly. “Then have a beer.”

I patted my pockets. Crap. My friend Sebastian had my wallet too.

“That’s what I thought,” Ivy said.

“I’ll let you touch my chest if you buy these for me,” I said, picking up a case of a local craft beer.

Ivy regarded me thoughtfully. “That depends. Are those man titties covered in cash?”

“They could be.” I waggled my eyebrows at her.

“You’re disgusting,” she retorted, going to the cashier at the front of the store and swiping her card.

After she paid, we sat out in the parking lot on a curb. Ivy twisted off the cap and handed the bottle to me.

“Really keeping it classy out here in rural New York,” I said and took a swig of the wine. “This is disgusting.”

“I paid for it, so drink up,” Ivy ordered.

“I just can’t believe Camilla would cheat on me,” I complained as I took another swig of the wine. Though it was cheap, the alcohol was welcomingly numbing.

“It happens to a lot of people,” Ivy said.

“Yes, but not to people like me,” I said bitterly. “I mean, look at me! I’m incredibly good-looking, I’m a billionaire, for fuck’s sake, I bought Camilla everything she wanted, and she cheats on me with fucking Arnold. I mean seriously. Arnold’s spent the last seven years pissing away his trust fund, and he’s losing his hair.”

“Yeah, I’m shocked that she would give up such a great catch,” Ivy said dryly.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I asked, taking another swig of the wine.

“Your hedge fund has been acquiring magazines and laying people off, buying up housing and kicking people out, and aren’t you in business with the Svenssons now?”

“What’s wrong with the Svenssons?”

“They’re crazy and grew up in a polygamist cult,” she said flatly.

“Well, look at Ms. Judgmental with her nineties Toyota,” I said meanly.

“Gee, and he’s shocked that karma just up and punched him in the face,” she said to the night sky.

“That’s cruel,” I told her. “I’m the victim.”

“You’re a whiny little man,” she snapped.

“I’m not little,” I purred, leaning into her. The cheap wine had gone straight to my dick. Along with being generally unpleasant, Camilla had subjected me to a serious case of dead bedroom. In the wine-fueled haze, Ivy was starting to look not so bad. She was cute in a curvy way.

I could definitely hit that.

The wedding planner glared at me. “How much did you have to drink?” She snatched the bottle out of my hand and shook it. The remaining dregs sloshed in the empty bottle.

“For someone who complained about the quality of the wine, you sure drank that entire bottle quickly.”

“I needed some gas in the tank of my love machine,” I told her.

“Your breath smells like alcoholic grape juice. You’re like an adult toddler.”

“And you smell like fish, but you don’t see me throwing that around, because it’s rude, and weird smells are between a woman and her doctor.”

“Welp.” She stood up and dusted herself off. “Thanks for the terrible evening. I’ll be calling your friends now.”

“Wait.” I grabbed her hand.

Ivy pinched one of my fingers between her nails.

“Ow!”

“A number,” she said impatiently.

I tipped my head back and watched the bugs bounce off the streetlights.

“I can’t deal with them right now,” I said quietly. “I can’t deal with my friends and their pity. I can’t deal with my sister, who’s just going to say ‘I told you so.’ I can’t deal with my stepmom, who is going to want me to give Camilla another chance because she’s a sorority sister of Camilla's mom’s. And I definitely cannot deal with my fucking father, who all through my life could never resist screwing over his only son and now has literally screwed me over.” I looked up at Ivy. “I just I need a break.”

She glared at me then rolled her eyes. “I’m not paying for a hotel. My credit card is already on life support as it is. So you can sleep outside, or you can call a friend. But me and my phone are leaving in the next two minutes.”

“Or,” I said, smiling slowly, “there’s a third option.”

She curled her lip. “No.”

“I’m the cutest stray you will ever take home!” I cajoled.

“I already picked up a stray cat, and it was an epic disaster.”

“Please?”

“You’re going to make my apartment smell.”

I did my best Baby Yoda impression.

“Gah! Why do you have to be so attractive? Don’t say anything. Your ego is already ginormous.”

I smirked.

“Fine,” she huffed, “I will take you home. But if my cat hates you, and he will, you cannot stay!”

Chapter 3

Ivy

Evan sat in the passenger seat, one arm lying casually on the armrest of the door, as I drove back into Manhattan.

He is so not staying at my apartment. I should have set a firm boundary, but thanks to my mother and her awful parenting, I had absolutely no boundaries, as evidenced by the fact that I had not insisted on payment before the wedding, and Weddings in the City was now twenty thousand dollars in the hole.

It’s fine. Fergus will hate him. Then bye-bye Evan.

The feral cat that I had so graciously invited into my micro NYC condo hated people. He regularly attacked me and my friends. The only thing he liked was food. That was our bonding thing, and as such, he had grown enormous. Fergus the Magnificent was a Maine Coon. A member of a huge cat breed already, Fergus was now as fat as an English king.

He hissed audibly as we approached the door.

“Sorry,” I told Evan as I stuck the key in the lock. “Fergus is probably going to attack you. He’s very sensitive, so if he gets too riled up, you cannot stay here.”

And in three, two, one, Evan is out of here, and you will be eating the last of the Cameli’s lasagna.

I opened the door. Fergus sprang out into the hallway, and I jumped back from habit. My cat was an ankle biter. Evan bent down and extended a hand. I winced. Fergus was going to take out an eye.

“Hey there, kitty cat! Oh, look at you, you’re such a big kitty! What a good boy!”

Fergus sniffed Evan then rubbed his head against Evan's hand.

“What a good cat!” Evan picked him up and snuggled Fergus to his chest.

What. The. Fuck. That fucking traitorous cat!

“I cannot believe it!” I fumed. “I feed him, I give him a warm place to sleep, and he repays me by biting and clawing me!”

“Fergus?” Evan kissed each of the cat’s toes, and Fergus purred as loudly as a vacuum in his arms.

“Not my precious Fergus! No he doesn’t. He’s such a good cat!” Evan, cuddling Fergus, waltzed past me into my tiny condo.

I had scrimped and saved to buy this condo. It wasn’t my first choice of residences, or even my second or twenty-fifth, but it was mine, from the outdated tiny kitchen to the bathroom with the leaky faucet to the fire escape and the single window with its struggling plants that looked out onto a dim alley.

“Fergus, are you going to give me the grand tour?” Evan asked the cat, bouncing him.

“You better be careful,” I warned Evan. “Fergus is going to chew your nose off.” But I knew as I said it that Fergus was instantly in love with Evan. I had never even heard Fergus purr, and now he was like a jet engine.

“So grand tour… well, here,” I pointed to a little galley kitchen, “is where I heat up food. That door at the end leads to the bathroom.”

“You have a bathroom off of your kitchen?” Evan made a face.

“Yes, Mr. Privileged Billionaire, because those of us who actually work take what we can get.”

Fergus glared at me and hissed. Evan smirked.

“And here,” I blew out a breath, “is the bedroom slash living room slash my office slash the guest room. And that’s it. That’s the tour.”

“Oh,” Evan said.

“You are free to go elsewhere,” I reminded him.

“No, this is cool,” he replied.

The double bed took up the majority of the room. A fold-down Murphy bed would have been more practical, but after the condo fees, the broker fees, and just generally trying to survive as an adult in New York City fees, I didn’t have money left for a Disney+ subscription, let alone a whole new furniture set. No, my college bed with the lumpy mattress would have to do for the next thirty years while I tried to pay off not one but two mortgages. No, don’t ask. No, really, please don’t. Remember, people pleaser here with no boundaries.

It didn’t seem as if Evan had any boundaries either. He had set Fergus on the bedspread and was in the process of removing his clothes.

“What in the world!” I yelled and clapped a hand over my eyes.

“I need a shower,” Evan retorted. “The smell of rotten fish that is all over you is now all over me.” There was the soft wumpf of his pants being dumped on my bed then a puff of air as he moved past me to the bathroom.

The door creaked shut, and I uncovered my eyes. My condo had never felt particularly large, but with Evan in the bathroom and his clothes around the small space, it felt oppressive. I wasn’t a small woman by any means, but Evan was huge. His shoes took up a chunk of the usable floor space all on their own. I hastily put them on the shelf by the door then begged Fergus to please get off of Evan’s nice suit so I could hang it up. Whatever cat magic Evan had exuded earlier had disappeared with him into the bathroom, and the large Maine Coon hissed at me as I snatched the jacket and pants off of the bed.

I refused to acknowledge how good they smelled as I hung them up. Instead, I was antsy and shaky about having not just a man but an unfairly attractive one in my home.

“You need food,” I told myself, trying to calm down.

Normally after a wedding, I went home and held my own little party with Netflix and the leftover catering—especially the cake. But Evan had ruined my plans, and now there was no cake, no shrimp cocktail, and no fresh pasta. Well, I did have some pasta. Cameli’s made the best lasagna in New York. I kept some in the tiny under-counter fridge for emergencies. There was one square left. I stared at it then flicked my eyes to the bathroom. Evan and I could share it.

The bathroom door was frosted glass. The water stopped running, and I heard the shower curtain move, because the condo had paper-thin walls. Through the frosted glass, Evan’s shadowy silhouette was visible. Even through the wavy glass, I could tell he was cut.

I was wanting a little something more than lasagna.

Down, girl. This morning, he was a soon-to-be-married man. And he is also still an asshole.

I turned on the oven and slid the lasagna in its metal tray inside to heat up. The smell of garlic and cheese filled the small space. Baking and food were my happy places. I was standing at the oven, inhaling, when the bathroom door opened.

“That smells really good,” Evan announced. “I’m starving.”

Fergus scampered toward Evan’s feet. To be honest, it was more of a lumber—that cat seriously needed to be on a diet. I cringed. I had been on the receiving end of a Fergus ankle attack. I hissed and winced, but Fergus just gently licked the water droplets on Evan’s skin.

Jealousy rose in me.

“I rescued that cat from a dumpster,” I complained, glaring at the traitor. “And he has never showed me the amount of gratitude that he’s shown you, and he doesn’t even know you!”

“What can I say?” Evan asked smugly. “Everyone loves me.”

He posed, so tall his head almost brushed the top of the ceiling. It was good that I was thinking about his height; otherwise I would be thinking about the tiny towel that Evan had around his waist.

“Not everyone loves you,” I said snidely. “Camilla sure doesn’t.”

“Ouch, Ivy,” Evan said, giving me that kicked-puppy look.

I immediately felt like a bitch. “I’m going to shower,” I muttered. “Lasagna will be done soon.”

I hid in the bathroom and texted my friends. Now that I knew things were visible through that door, I was not undressing while Evan was outside it. I sat on the toilet, texting my friends, while Evan puttered round in the kitchen, making Fergus a snack.

Ivy: Help there’s a man in my apartment!

Grace: Call the police.

Amy: Only if he’s not cute!

Grace: She shouldn’t be obligated to sleep with a strange man just because he’s handsome!

Sophie: It’s not obligation, it’s taking advantage of an opportunity that has presented itself. Besides when was the last time you got laid, Ivy?

Ivy: Too long.

Sophie: See, an opportunity has presented itself.

Ivy: I don’t think I should take advantage of it.

Ivy: It’s Evan, the groom from today.

Elsie: Evan, the obnoxious billionaire whose match made in heaven was one of the worst bridezillas in the history of wedding planning?

Brea: And he’s just in your condo?

Ivy: He’s hiding.

Grace: He’s there to get laid. Men like that think with their dick.

Ivy: I felt bad for him.

Elsie: You need to set boundaries.

Sophie: The only boundary she needs is a condom!

Ivy: I don’t have any.

Ivy: Wait what am I saying, I’m not sleeping with him. I just insulted him and he got mad.

Sophie: Men like that are intrigued by women who are domineering because they’re so used to being catered to.

Sophie: Also I hid condoms under your mattress. You’re welcome!

Grace: She cannot sleep with a client.

Sophie: Former client.

Elsie: Agreed, bad idea.

Ivy: I am not sleeping with Evan Harrington.

I can’t believe my friends, I fumed as I showered. As if I want anything to do with Evan.

I dressed in the tiny bathroom then padded out into the kitchen. The oven was off.

“You just need some food. Everything is more positive with lasagna.”

I peeked into the bedroom.

“This lasagna is good,” Evan told me, shoving another bite into his mouth. He was sprawled on my bed in nothing but a pair of the SpongeBob boxers that I used for sleepwear. They were baggy on me but a little tight on him, giving me a very nice view that I could not fully appreciate because of the almost-empty lasagna pan taking up all of my attention.

“You ate all that?” I shrieked at him.

Evan paused, the fork almost to his mouth. “You said it was for me.”

“That was for us!” I yelled, marching over to him. Actually, it was more scooting around the foot of floor space between the bed and the wall.

Evan stared at me as I shimmied, got stuck, and then tripped on one of the containers I had shoved under the bed and half flopped onto the mattress. Fergus swiped at me with a paw. I ignore the cat and snatched the lasagna away from Evan.

“You can’t just come into someone’s house and eat all their lasagna.”

“You said I could have it!” he shouted. “Besides, this is barely enough for one person!”

“You’re so entitled! The lasagna was to share!”

“Then have the rest of it,” he said angrily.

“There’s barely any left.”

“I cannot believe we’re fighting about food!” he scoffed. “I’ll buy you some more.”

“With what money?” I retorted, glaring at the container. There were only two bites left. I rage-ate them. “This is the worst day ever,” I complained.

“You’re telling me,” Evan said, crossing his muscular arms over his ripped bare chest. “I don’t even see HBO Go on your laptop.”

Chapter 4

Evan

“So no streaming then?”

Ivy’s gaze was ice. I felt slightly bad about eating her food.

“We’ll make it up to her, won’t we, Fergus?” I said to the cat as Ivy shuffled back around the bed to the kitchen.

She was wearing a long T-shirt and yoga pants. I suddenly wondered what we were going to do about the sleeping arrangements. I would have slept on the floor, but there literally wasn’t any room. My office at my company headquarters was bigger than this place.

Ivy had made it cozy, though. Weddings in the City was considered one of the trendiest wedding companies in Manhattan, as Camilla had liked to tell everyone. And Ivy had decorated the space. There were café lights that let off a warm glow, a few plants that were clinging to life, and vintage record covers decorating a wall. The bedspread was soft and white. A fabric-covered bulletin board held pictures of smiling brides, calligraphy wedding invitations, and a fancy three-story penthouse with a huge clock window. On the photos, Ivy had written #Goals in fancy gold script.

I leaned back against the mound of pillows with Fergus curled into the crook of my arm. The gentlemanly thing to do would be to leave, but after dealing with not just the terrible wedding day but also the months leading up to it, during which Camilla would screech and throw things at me, it was nice to be in Ivy’s soft and comfortable apartment.

Though she did not have HBO Go.

“There’s YouTube and Netflix,” she said, coming back and sitting on the edge of the bed. I scooted over so she had more room.

She didn’t budge.

“You can’t possibly be comfortable.”

“You’re taking up the entire bed! My bed, the bed that I bought.”

“Guess she’s sleeping in the kitchen,” I told Fergus.

Ivy huffed then lay down next to me. Her arm accidentally brushed my bare chest, and an electric thrill passed through me.

Yeah, it’s definitely been too long since I’ve been laid.

I glanced at Ivy. She had her arms crossed tightly against her chest and was stiff as a board.

She’s probably not going to humor any funny business.

Ivy judged me as I scrolled through YouTube videos on the screen.

“Of course you would want to watch that!” she scoffed when I selected one.

“What’s wrong with a Call of Duty gameplay?” I asked incredulously.

“It’s just so predictable.”

“Oh, and I’m sure you’re not. Let’s check your watch history.”

“No!” she shrieked as I navigated to the tab.

I laughed as she wrestled with me. “Ooh, too bad someone’s arms are just too short,” I teased, holding the mouse out of reach. “Let’s see what we have here.”

“That’s my personal browsing history!” Ivy yelled. She had an arm around my neck and was lying half on top of me.

“So many Henry Cavill videos. My word, Ivy! And an embarrassing amount of Chris Evans videos too.”

“Gimme that mouse!”

“Henry Cavill and Chris Evans together at the same time! Scandalous, Ivy. What would the neighbors think?”

“You weren’t allowed to look at those!” she snapped, half climbing up me to try and grab the mouse.

Her soft breast pressed against my chin, the nipple hard under the soft fabric. I suddenly wondered what she would do if I took it into my mouth then turned us over…

Fergus yowled at her, and Ivy scuttled back, releasing me. Whatever moment might have happened was cut short as Fergus jumped into my arms.

Cockblocked by a cat.

I petted the big Maine Coon.

“He was just trying to protect you from me, his actual owner, who scrimps and saves to buy him only the fancy cat food,” Ivy said.

“Poor Fergus,” I cooed, stroking his soft fur. “Let’s watch a cat video. That will cheer you up, big guy!”

“Fergus doesn’t like seeing other cats,” Ivy said.

“I’m starting to feel very honored that Fergus likes me so much.”

“Don’t get too excited,” Ivy said, disgusted. “He also gets this happy about eating out of the trash can.”

***

I fell asleep to pet treat baking videos and woke up early the next morning to Ivy shrieking.

“Fergus, you coughed up a hairball on me!”

I looked down blearily. There was a grey, wet lump on Ivy’s side of the bed.

“He just needed to get that out,” I said, lying back down and snuggling the cat next to me. “Maybe we can get Ivy to make us some coffee and clean up that hairball.”

Ivy yanked the covers off me.

“Get out,” she snapped.

“But it’s so cozy.” I yawned.

She threw my suit on top of me. Fergus yowled in frustration.

“What the hell?” I protested.

Ivy bared her teeth.

“You can’t come into my house, eat my lasagna, leave your clothes all over the place, co-opt my cat, and then tell me to clean up after you and make you coffee!”

“I’m the victim here,” I reminded her.

“Are you? Because all I see is a spoiled man-child. And you know what?” she continued. “You and Camilla should have gotten married. She’s a sociopathic bridezilla, and you’re an entitled billionaire. You two are a match made in hell. I can’t believe I ever felt sorry for you.”

“Yeah, and I can’t believe I came here expecting sympathy from you!” I spat, swinging my long legs off the bed to stand in front of her. “All you do is sit in your sad little apartment and plan weddings. It’s no wonder you don’t have a boyfriend. No man in his right mind wants to be saddled with an uptight shrew.”

“After having to suffer with you, I’m glad I’m single!” Ivy yelled then picked up a shoe and threw it at me.

I dodged it, and Ivy cursed as it hit the white wall, leaving a black scuff.

“Get dressed and get out of my house.”

***

“Doing the walk of shame, eh?” a garbage man shouted at me as I walked down the empty streets in the pale morning light.

I nodded in greeting then kept walking. I felt bad about yelling at Ivy. It wasn’t right. In fact, it was the type of shit Camilla would always do: throw my worst insecurities at me. I wished I had kept my mouth shut. Then I could have continued to stay at her place. Now where would I go? I couldn’t go back to the condo I had shared with Camilla.

I did, of course, still have my penthouse bachelor pad. Camilla had wanted me to get rid of it. I had lied and told her I was in the process of selling, but in reality, I had never contacted a realtor. Maybe it was my subconscious telling me something wasn’t right with Camilla.

Before I could go to my penthouse, I needed to stop by my sister’s condo for the spare set of keys I kept there.

“Oh my god, Evan!” Mika exclaimed when she opened the door. She wrapped me in a hug.

“You only just saw me yesterday, sis,” I said, hugging her back.

“I thought something terrible had happened to you!” she cried. Then she punched me. “Where were you? We’ve been up all night looking for you. I thought—” She clamped her mouth shut.

“You thought that I had thrown myself off a bridge because I was so heartbroken over Camilla?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

Mika looked up at me.

I patted my little sister on the head. “Just go ahead and say it.”

“I’m so glad you’re not dead,” Mika told me.

“No, the other thing.”

She punched me again.

“Ow!”

“I told you so! I told you Camilla was a lying, scummy bitch.”

“You did,” I said, rubbing my arm.

“Where were you, anyway?” Mika hissed as I followed her back into her open living room and kitchen. “I had to spend the entire night with our family.”

“Evan!” my stepmother said, hobbling over to me. She was still in her wedding outfit and looked like she was on her third bottle of the wine that Camilla had imported from Italy with a custom label of our faces and everything.

“Yesterday was an endurance test. Honestly, how could the wedding planner have let that happen?” my stepmother asked dramatically.

“Excuse me,” I interjected, stepping back from my stepmother. “Ivy had nothing to do with this. She is the furthest person to have anything to do with this. Camilla cheated on me with two men, one of whom is my own father and your ex-husband.”

My stepmother rolled her eyes. “Men like him cheat. You would have cheated on Camilla eventually too. It’s part of our world.”

“I would not,” I growled. “I honor my promises. I can’t believe you’re so blasé about this.”

My stepmother patted me on the shoulder. “Your father is who he is.”

“He’s a dick.”

“You’re his son,” she said. “Besides, I’m sure you were off somewhere cooling off.” She smirked at me.

I screwed up my mouth. “I was trying to clear my thoughts,” I growled.

“And now that they’re gathered, surely you can go through with marrying Camilla.”

“Excuse me? No, I will not be marrying her. In fact, she needs to vacate my condo.”

“You’re so dramatic,” Imogen, my half sister, said. She was at Mika’s kitchen island, flipping through images of flower arrangements for her own upcoming wedding.

“You tell Camilla next time you see her,” I told her. “She needs to get out.”

“Tell her yourself.”

“I’m never going to talk to her again. Or Dad for that matter.”

“You’ll see him at my wedding.”

Mika and I looked at her askance.

“You can’t be serious,” Mika said.

Imogen turned on her, snapping, “It’s my wedding, it’s my big day, and I want my father to walk me down the aisle. If you can’t handle it, then you don’t have to be in my wedding party!”

“Now Imogen,” her mother soothed, “you have already removed too many bridesmaids.”

“I didn’t remove them, they abandoned me!” Imogen shrieked.

A headache started; I was getting flashbacks of Camilla.

“They weren’t being supportive. I can’t have a bridesmaid who isn’t supportive of me,” Imogen continued.

“You’re hyperventilating,” Mika said, handing her a brown paper sack.

Imogen slapped her hand away. “I can’t have a smaller wedding party than Serena’s,” Imogen said then started crying.

I looked around for the exit. But before I could escape, Imogen grabbed my sleeve. “You have to be in the wedding party,” she said, hiccupping.

“I’ll be one of Teddy’s groomsmen, sure.”

“No,” Imogen said, shaking her head. “You have to be my man of honor.”

“Uh—”

“She fired her maid of honor,” Mika said to me under her breath.

“I didn’t fire Kaitlyn, she quit!” Imogen yelled. “She got pregnant, and she cannot be a maid of honor if she’s pregnant, because she’s going to take all the focus off me, and it’s supposed to be my special day. She could have waited to get pregnant; a real friend would have.”

“Why can’t Mika be the maid of honor?” I suggested.

Imogen glared at Mika. “She’s the matron of honor. She’s too overweight to be the maid of honor.”

Jesus.

“I’ll think about it,” I said, backing away.

Thought about it, and no. No way in hell. I’m done with weddings.

“I just need the key to my penthouse,” I told Mika.

I followed her into her home office, and she handed me my keyring, wallet, and phone. “Courtesy of Sebastian,” she told me. I checked my phone. There were a hundred missed calls and two hundred text messages. I deleted them all.

“Can you please be the man of honor?” Mika begged. “You don’t know what it’s like. Imogen is awful.”

“Then quit; you don’t have to participate,” I told her.

Mika stared down at the floor dejectedly. “I sort of feel like I have to.”

I knew what she meant. When our mother had died, our stepmother had looked after us. She could have let our father send us to boarding school in Austria, but instead she had insisted that we remain in the USA.

“If you won’t do it for her, just please do it for me?”