MARRIAGE AND MIMOSAS

Chapter 1

Elsie

The most perfect day of any woman’s life—her wedding day. My friends and I had planned, decorated, and cooked delicious food for the event. My dress had been handmade by my bestie, and I was standing next to my father, waiting to walk down the aisle.

And waiting …

And waiting …

My dad mopped his balding head with a handkerchief. Wils, my fiancé, had insisted on an outdoor wedding. It was the middle of July. As a wedding planner, I had to take an off-season wedding so it didn’t conflict with work. Okay, so maybe this wasn’t my dream dream wedding, but I was marrying the man of my dreams, and that was all that mattered. Right?

I checked the little watch on my grandmother’s something-old bracelet.

The wedding was behind schedule.

I pulled my Bluetooth headset out of the dress bodice.

“Ivy,” I whispered into the Bluetooth headset us wedding planners at Wedding in the City wore on the big day, and, of course, my own wedding day was no exception. “What’s going on?”

There was a pause on the connection, then Ivy started speaking in a bubbly tone.

“We’re just making sure everything is perfect. Sometimes ceremonies start a little late, but we have contingency built in. Can’t rush perfection. You want these photographs to be magical!”

“Don’t you use that tone with me,” I demanded, starting to panic. “That’s the tone you use when there is an epic disaster brewing, and you don’t want the bride to freak out. I am not a bride that’s going to freak out. You better tell me what’s going on, so help me—”

Ivy came rushing around the corner into the small rose garden where the wedding party was being staged.

“Everything is fine,” she assured me, a big smile plastered on her face. One of her eyes was twitching.

This was not good.

I forced myself to calm down. I was the one who was always in control, who despised drama, who didn’t let her emotions get the better of her. An ex-accountant, I prided myself on always remaining rational and being able to straighten out any catastrophe. That was why Wils and I were a good match. He was in finance as well. We were practically an old married couple already.

“Totally fine,” Ivy repeated. “Here, have some champagne and some sunscreen.” My friend fussed over me.

“Don’t give her any alcohol,” Brea’s voice squawked into the headset.

“I have some Benadryl in my purse,” Sophie added.

“Did someone have a heart attack? A child ruined the decorations?” I asked, listing off the various disasters from weddings past. “The flowers are wilting?”

“I mean, they are wilting,” Amy said in the headset. “I hate outdoor July weddings. It should be a crime against humanity.”

I gave a strained laugh.

“Honestly, Ivy, I’m getting married on a Tuesday. Let’s not go overboard here. I’m sure whatever happened, it’s not that bad.”

She gulped then mumbled something.

“What?”

Ivy tapped her two index fingers together. “He left.”

“Who left?” I demanded, feeling overheated. The dress was constricting.

“Wils does not want to marry you anymore. He just had a revelation and decided he’s not ready to get married.” Ivy winced.

I blinked. “My fiancé left me at the altar? Me?”

“Not at the altar,” Ivy corrected. “Before the altar, so that’s a blessing.”

She gave me a strained smile.

“Oh, Elsie,” my dad said mildly, “I’m sorry to hear that.” He patted me awkwardly on the shoulder. “Your mother and I will help you send the gifts back.”

“Send the gifts back?”

“Yes,” my dad said, nose twitching as his glasses slid down the end. “I believe that’s the proper etiquette.”

“Fuck etiquette!” I yelled.

My father jumped.

Ivy grimaced. “Elsie, this isn’t like you. You’re the rational one—oh my lord!”

Ivy ran after me as I stomped toward the arch of flowers that marked the beginning of the lavender-lined aisle that led to the arbor of blush-pink roses wilting in the hot summer sun.

“Apparently,” I screeched as the guests, who had been whispering amongst themselves, turned to gawk. “Wils is a lying piece of shit and a coward, so the wedding has been canceled. Everybody get out. If you want your gift back, then fine, but you don’t get to take a wedding favor.”

The guests gaped at me as I continued my march of rage down the aisle to the altar.

“Wait! I wasn’t ready!” The flower girl raced down the aisl and threw a handful of flaccid petals at me, which were congealed together in a mushy lump.

“Oops,” she said loudly.

There were titters in the crowd.

“Why are you all still here?” I shouted at the crowd. “Go home!”

My mother stood up and made her way over to me.

“I’m so sorry, Elsie, dear. Wils got cold feet.”

Ryan, the best man, checked his phone, eyes unreadable behind his dark sunglasses. Unlike me, a sweating, sunburnt mess, he seemed perfectly cool and attractive in his suit.

“This is your fault,” I screamed at him.

He looked up at me, miffed.

“The only job of the best man is to make sure the groom shows up to the wedding.” Tears swam in my eyes. I angrily blinked them away.

Ryan tucked his phone in his pocket and pulled his sunglasses down. Dark-blue eyes flashed at me as he regarded my admittedly unhinged appearance.

“My stepbrother didn’t want to marry you? Shocking.”

“Dick.” I hit him with the bouquet.

“She said a bad word,” the flower girl declared, pointing.

Her mom stood up to hurry the little girl away and give me a glare.

“That’s nothing,” I yelled after them. “You want to hear a bad word? Wils is a goddamn motherf—”

Ryan grabbed me by the upper arm then turned to address the crowd, voice as deep and smooth as whiskey.

“Everyone, I think we’ve all had to suffer enough for this non-wedding. If you could please make your way to the reception tent, there is unfortunately no air conditioning, but there are cocktails that should still be somewhat cold.”

“What are you doing?” I hissed at him, trying to struggle out of his grasp.

“It was a two-hour drive out here,” he said as he started to drag me toward the reception tent. “Everyone’s starving, and they want alcohol. You’re not going to do anything with the food. Might as well let the guests eat it. Besides,” he added, glancing at me, “then you can keep the gifts.”

“I’m throwing the whole lot in the dumpster,” I argued as we followed the herd of guests, “along with Wils’s corpse.”

A server, one of my employees at my company that was catering the wedding, seemed a little shocked as the guests streamed into the tent.

“What’s going on? We didn’t get the cue from Ivy,” he whispered to me. “We’re behind schedule. The lobster poppers are still cold.”

“Just leave them out in the tent.” Ryan grabbed a bottle of wine from the bar to the protestations of the bartender and poured himself a glass. “They’ll heat up fast.”

“Where is Wils?” I demanded.

“I don’t know why you’re so upset,” Ryan said after taking a long drink from his glass. He turned it around in front of his face. “Even before Wils left you hanging at the altar, this was the most pathetic wedding ever. I can’t believe people pay you guys. Wedding planners? Such a scam.”

Chapter 2

Ryan

“This is a very nice wedding.” Elsie was incensed. If she didn’t look like she was going to strangle me with the big ribbon around her waist, I would have said she was almost cute.

I snorted. I was so sick of weddings and hadn’t even wanted to go to this one. And now even Wils had bailed.

“It’s happening on a Tuesday in a cut-rate venue.”

“This is a nice venue,” Elsie protested.

“It’s an overgrown vegetable patch.” I gestured with my wine glass. We were at one of the run-down estates built during the Gilded Age by the industrial scions of old. Now that most of those families’ luck had run out, the estates were rented out for events. Big spenders were allowed to actually use the house.

People on a budget? Outdoors.

“This event has some strong second- or third-wedding vibes,” I told her. “The sad dress, the disillusioned guests, the severe lack of hard liquor.”

“This is the type of dress Wils likes. There isn’t anything wrong with this dress.” Elsie smoothed down the satin.

I flicked my eyes away and I huffed out a laugh. “As someone who has been to many a bar with Wils, I’m going to say no, that is not his preferred style. The bodice makes your tits look like you’re having a mammogram.”

“Give me that wine; you don’t get to drink wine at my wedding if you’re just going to insult me.”

Elsie tried to grab the bottle from me, but I just held it above my head while she jumped around me, the plain but voluminous dress puffing out at the waist.

I took a sip from my glass while she hung on my arm, trying to climb for the bottle.

“Elsie Clarkson, what has gotten into you?” The mother of the bride grabbed her daughter, who’d landed in a heap on the floor.

Her eyes watered. “He was cheating on me, wasn’t he? Ryan?”

I pulled off my sunglasses and looked down at Elsie as her mother tried to haul her off of the parquet wood floor.

“Of course not. He had cold feet. I’m sure he’ll come back around. After all, who would walk away from … that.” I inclined the bottle at her.

“I’m not getting back together with Wils,” she snarled.

“I’ll be sure to relay the message.”

“Get up. Your dress is filthy. We’re taking pictures. Now,” her mother hissed.

“I’m not taking pictures,” Elsie whispered angrily.

“I’ve already paid for the photographer,” Jane Clarkson said in a low voice. “We’re going to do the Christmas card portrait.”

I saluted Elsie with the glass of wine while her mother dragged her off.

I didn’t believe in marriage, love, or any of that romantic crap. And I especially didn’t believe in weddings.

Between my parents, stepparents, ex-stepparents, my current and ex-step siblings, and assorted half siblings, I was clocking in at five family weddings per year. One year it was for the same person—two different men. Like I said, weddings are such a racket.

Both of my parents loved to fall in love. Each new partner was the one. They were going to do it right this time. Of course the longest my dad had ever stayed married was four years, and my mom only had him beat with five.

Weddings were expensive parties. I liked a party, but all those people who got weepy at weddings as the bride and groom said their vows were delusional.

Still, free alcohol was free alcohol.

The catering staff, working on autopilot, swept around with the hors d'oeuvres. I grabbed a plate and filled it up with blistered shishito peppers, caviar potato chips with lemon cream, and molten feta with pine nuts.

I did have to give Elsie props for the food.

My younger half sister Deliha wandered over to me. She had a plate with carefully selected offerings from the charcuterie grazing table that really should not have been out in the heat.

I stole one of the crackers off her plate.

“Hey!”

“I’m your favorite brother,” I reminded her. “And that better not be alcohol in that glass,” I warned, looking down at the goblet in her hand. “You’re eleven, and our mildly evil stepmother is looking for any excuse to keep me away from you.”

We both looked across the tent to my father, who was slumped at one of the round dining tables with its oversized floral centerpiece, staring absently at his themed cocktail while wife number seven, Angela, was loudly telling everyone in earshot why she thought Wils had ditched Elsie at the altar. Spoiler alert, she was blaming his mother, aka wife number four.

“Drinking alcohol is about as gross as marrying someone younger than your own child.” Deliha wrinkled her nose.

“And less attractive,” I quipped, though it was still jarring. Sure, I was in my thirties, but Angela was young enough to be my daughter, if she really had to. Even I would feel weird dating someone Angela’s age. She had only just turned old enough to drink.

“Are we still going to have cake?” Deliha asked me and ate a piece of cheese.

“Hell, yeah,” I told her, tugging lightly on the white bow in her hair. “If I have to suffer through a wedding, then I better get a slice of cake.”

My phone chimed.

Wils: Can you make me a to-go box?

Ryan: … Dude.

Wils: I love Elsie’s cooking. That’s all I wanted from the wedding.

Ryan: Guess you should have waited to leave her until after the reception.

Wils: Damn. You’re right.

The catering staff was bringing out the dinner, and my mouth watered. I grabbed a chair and let the servers fill me up. At this point I wasn’t going to bother with trying to find my assigned seat among the careful array of calligraphy name cards.

“You’re not going to make Wils a pity plate?” Deliha asked as she plopped down next to me the table.

“I already had to pay emergency movers to get him out of Elsie’s condo,” I reminded her.

“You’re the family ATM,” she said dryly.

A revolving door of stepparents had taken their toll on Deliha. She had developed a darkly acerbic view of the world.

That was the thing about being a billionaire that no one told you when you hit the nine-figure mark. You thought that money was going to solve all your problems, make it so that you could protect and take care of the people you love most, but money wasn’t magic fairy dust. All I wanted most in the world was to take my little sister out of the chaos of my father’s house and let her live with me. But my billions hadn’t solved that problem.

“Deliha!” Angela barked, tottering over to us in the cheap-looking platform stilettos that I knew must have cost a fortune. “You already ate dinner.”

“She had appetizers during cocktail hour,” I said to Angela, trying to keep a leash on my temper. “Now she’s having dinner.”

“You can barely fit in that dress as it is,” Angela complained, overly Botoxed face screwing up in an imitation of a frown.

“Angela,” I growled, ready to jump to my sister’s defense.

But Deliha didn’t seem ruffled at all.

“Oils keeps you looking youthful,” my half sister deadpanned. “That buccal fat removal procedure didn’t do you any favors. You look like a fifty-year-old cosplaying as a thirty-year-old. Which is funny,” she added in that chirpy-yet-snarky-tone only a tween girl could pull off, “because you and I are closer in age than you and Ryan, and yet he looks like he’s ten years younger than you.”

I choked on the risotto.

Angela sucked in a breath. She did resemble a fairy-tale evil stepmother. She’d had a procedure to sharpen her cheekbones, and they protruded from her face. Her cheeks were hollowed out, more pronounced by the heavy makeup.

“It’s like Yzma from The Emperor’s New Groove. Watch out, she’ll turn you into a llama,” Deliha said in a stage whisper.

“That’s it, young lady. You’re grounded,” Angela snapped.

“Angela,” I began.

“Mom,” she snapped at me. “I am your mother.”

If it wasn’t for Deliha, I would have gone no-contact with my father and the whole hack job of a family.

“Sure, Mom,” I said, drawing out the words.

As much as it galled me, I turned on the charm.

“Clearly everyone’s really upset after what happened today, and maybe we should just do a reset. Becky and Tom are both getting married soon, and they really want Deliha to participate. She can’t do that if she’s grounded, right?”

Angel’s eyes narrowed.

“Fine,” she said, “but you better watch it, missy.” Angela wagged her finger at Deliha.

“I can’t stand her,” Deliha muttered, stabbing at her food with her fork after Angela had left. “I wish I could come live with you.”

“I have your room all ready to go,” I promised her.

She dejectedly took a bite of scallops.

“Why don’t you help me make Wils a to-go plate?” I offered, trying to distract her.

Deliha scoffed as she followed me to a buffet table. “I can’t believe we’re taking him food after he ditched his own wedding. He doesn’t deserve any of these scallops. They’re sick, and I want more of that fried squid. So good. Elsie’s an amazing cook.”

“Hence the request for a to-go box.”

Deliha scowled as I flirted with one of the catering staff and convinced her to give me one of the aluminum containers filled with food.

“Wils should be rewarded for coming to his senses,” I reminded Deliha. “Marriage is a scam.”

As the catering staff filled up a container for me, I heard someone yell, “Don’t you dare give that man any leftovers!”

Chapter 3

Elsie

Ryan was flirting with one of my staff members as she wrapped up a large aluminum pan.

I raced over. I was sunburnt, hungry, and sweaty. After being needled by my mother to smile for the camera, I was mentally at the end of my rope. The satin dress clung to my legs as I sprinted toward Ryan.

“No leftovers,” I barked at the staff.

“But Elsie,” Sarah, one of my best cooks, said slowly, “a lot of guests left after the ceremony was, ah, cut short. We have a ton of food.”

Ryan, with his stupid, smug, handsome face, winked at me and grinned. “I’m just doing my part to eliminate food waste in New York. “Oh, and Sarah, I’d love it if you could add a few more of those meat pies to the box.” He hit her with a megawatt smile, and she giggled.

“Meat … pies … holy shit. Absolutely not.” I grabbed the aluminum box from him then cursed as some of the meatball sauce slashed up and landed on the dress.

No matter. I was going to soak it in kerosene and light it on fire the minute I found a change of clothes.

“I know you’re giving those to Wils!” I yelled at Ryan.

“I am the world’s most awesome best man,” he replied, tugging the container back toward him. He pried my fingers off the aluminum while my employees watched me lose it in front of them. I was going to have to make an apology focaccia for tomorrow. But today I was a bride—well, ex-bride—on the edge.

Ryan handed the box to a tween girl and wiped his hands.

The DJ transitioned the music into teeth-rattling hip-hop.

“Wait, what? Why is the DJ playing?”

“This party sucks enough without us sitting here in silence,” Ryan said, striding through the dancing guests to the other side of the tent.

I raced after him as his long legs and broad shoulders cut through the somewhat anemic crowd.

“You tell the DJ to pack up this instant,” I demanded as he headed to the dessert table, so lovingly prepared by Sophie.

“Why don’t you sit down and have some of the lobster bisque?” he suggested. “Might as well break the bridal fast, considering the diet was unsuccessful.”

“How dare you?” I exclaimed. “You shouldn’t body-shame people.”

Ryan raised his hand.

“I would never! I am both a tits and an ass man. No, I’m not insulting your body, just your personality. Hungry people are unpleasant. No wonder Wils skipped out.” 

“You are sick.”

“If I am, it’s because you had a grazing table in the middle of summer.”

I clenched my teeth. “This is a wedding reception, and it’s perfectly acceptable to—hey!”

Ryan grabbed a cake server off the table then proceeded to hack into my wedding cake.

I grabbed his arm. The muscles were steel under his suit.

“You can’t do that. You can’t cut a bride’s wedding cake.”

Ryan sighed. “It’s not like you were going to have a romantic cake cutting all by yourself. Though,” he mused, “I suppose I could ask the DJ to play some Lizzo if you did want to go the girl power route.”

He slapped the large wedge of cake onto a plate.

I was not a dramatic person. However, Wils leaving me at the altar had unleashed my inner harpy. I was unhinged. A woman wronged. And now here was Ryan, with his stupid hot body, stealing my cake.

“I was going to eat that cake.”

“Not all of it. This is enough cake for two hundred people,” he argued.

“I know you’re taking it to Wils.” The tears were spilling down now.

“Elsie,” Ryan said impatiently, “half of this cake belongs to Wils. This isn’t the 1950s. Couples split wedding costs. The groom’s family—and by that, I mean me, because let’s be honest, I’m the only person here with piles of disposable income—helped pay for this sad little wedding.” He waved the cake knife around. “Therefore, half of this cake is mine, and I am leaving with my half of the cake before the event gets even more tragic and you embarrass yourself giving drunken speeches about how men are the devil.”

As Ryan stood there, mansplaining weddings to me, I realized it was all just too much. No one should be expected to maintain her cool when faced with this much self-indulgent testosterone.

Almost like it had a mind of its own, my hand flew up, sending the plate in his outstretched hand spinning into the air, and it landed with a wet, sopping noise on his chest.

“Goddamn it,” Ryan swore, arms raised as the cake slid down his expensive suit.

“You know what?” he said, blue eyes flashing as he bared his teeth at me. “I’m taking the rest of the leftovers home just for that.”

“Fine!” I screeched at him. “I don’t want anything associated with your lying, promise-breaking, cowardly brother anyway. Take all of it. Take a fucking cupcake!” I picked one up and threw it at him. It got him in the arm, making him curse.

“Have another goddamn cupcake. Have a donut.” The donut left a powdered sugar imprint on his thigh.

“Have the rest of the fucking cake!” I sobbed, scooping it with my hands and throwing it at Ryan, showering him, me, and the floor with chunks of cake, icing, and sugar flowers.

“Elsie!” Ivy came rushing over to me, dodging the next cupcake I threw. “Calm down. We can fix this.”

People were filming. I was ruining my business. My friends were going to hate me.

The DJ chuckled into the microphone. “Looks like it’s time for the bridal meltdown, folks.”

“I’m going to blacklist you,” I screamed at the DJ.

I turned wildly, looking for the power supply so I could pull the plug then strangle the DJ. But I slid in the mess then tripped over the dress and crashed to the floor.

“Don’t throw cake at my brother. This is assault.”

A tween girl, one of Wils and Ryan’s sisters, barreled over to me.

“Deliha, no,” Ryan barked, but she grabbed the top two tiers of the wedding cake and dumped them on my head.

“You’re being a bully,” she scolded me.

“I’m not a bully. I’m a woman wronged,” I sobbed as cake dripped down my carefully styled wedding updo.

“You’re also a woman under arrest.” Radios crackled.

I wiped at the cake and frosting covering my eyes in time to see two burly cops reach down to force my hands behind my back.

A woman with abnormally sharp cheekbones and a glass of wine sloshing in her hand screeched at the cops, “She assaulted my son.”

“No, I didn’t,” I protested, sputtering through the frosting that dropped down my face. “I didn’t touch any children.”

“No wonder Wils left you at the altar.” The woman was irate.

“All right, let’s go, ma’am.” The cops hauled me to my feet or tried to. My frosting-covered arms kept sliding out of their grasp.

“Please don’t arrest her,” Ivy begged the officers. “She’s had a rough morning.”

The officer looked down at his cake-covered shoes in disgust.

“Look,” Ryan said. He unbuttoned his suit jacket. “You don’t want to put her in your car like that. You’ll get ants.” Torso twisting artfully, he shrugged off the ruined suit jacket.

“Why don’t we offer you some refreshments while we get everyone cleaned up?”

***

The cops happily allowed the catering staff to ply them with mocktails, plates of food, and large slices of cake while Ryan’s family members took turns at the microphone to shit-talk one another.

Ryan sat down next to me with a glass of whiskey. Along with his suit jacket, he had removed the waistcoat and dress shirt and was now in his undershirt in front of me. The outlines of his washboard abs were visible under the thin T-shirt material.

No, no, and hell no. You cannot lust after your ex-fiancé’s brother slash best man. That’s just … that’s against, like, every wedding planning code there is.

Ryan reached over to swipe a finger down my cheek then stuck it in his mouth to lick off the frosting.

“Cupcake, it’s been a weird, heavy morning. I think we should all just go home, rest, recuperate, and regroup. I’ll take you out for a drink—”

“If I see you again,” I said in a low voice, “I’m going to end you.”

“Tough crowd.”

Chapter 4

Ryan

“There’s my favorite ex-stepbrother!” Wils boomed when Tom, Deliha, and I walked into my penthouse. He’d clearly been helping himself to my liquor cabinet.

Deliha rolled her eyes. I’d convinced Angela to let me take her home with me by lying and saying that Wils wanted his favorite siblings around for emotional support.

Tom took the containers of wedding leftovers out of the large brown sacks and set them on the counter.

Wils clapped the heavyset man on the shoulder and breathed in appreciatively.

“Elsie does make the best food.” He took a big bite of a meat pie. “Glad you didn’t eat these all in the car, Tom.”

Wils laughed loudly while Tom smiled weakly.

I scowled. Wils was my least favorite of all the step- and half-sibling clusterfuck. I knew Tom hated Wils’s teasing, but he’d told me he hated it more if I jumped in to defend him, so I kept my mouth shut and tried to change the subject.

“Did you get everything out of Elsie’s condo?” I asked Wils.

“Yep.” He smirked. “And I took the wedding gifts.”

“You better take those back,” I warned.

“Half of them are mine anyway.”

“No,” I said sharply, “half of those are mine. I paid for fifty percent of that wedding.”

Wils sneered. “You just love to throw your money around.”

“When you’re the only person who didn’t squander their portion of the inheritance, it’s kind of inevitable,” Deliha remarked from where she was scrolling through TikTok videos on my couch.

“Ryan’s always really generous,” Tom said, opening up another of the containers of wedding reception leftovers.

“That he is,” Wils declared, downing the rest of his drink. “Say, you need to hire some servants, Mr. Billionaire. I need someone to unpack my things when the movers arrive.”

“You’re not staying here,” I said coldly. “I had my secretary rent you a hotel room. You can stay there for the next thirty days while you find a new place.”

“You own multiple other properties in Manhattan. Why can’t I just live in one of those?” Wils argued.

“I’m in the process of selling them,” I lied.

I was a member of the billionaires’ club in Manhattan, and one thing the old-timers stressed was not to let shady family members earn tenant rights.

“Fuck it, whatever. Tom, looks like I’m moving in with you.”

Tom almost dropped the forkful of creamy pasta and pancetta he was about to eat.

“I, um, I’m not sure Jessica would—”

“You two don’t even live together,” Wils said. “Come on, it will be fun.”

I knew it would not be fun. Wils’s mother was the woman my dad cheated on Tom’s mom with. His mom was going to be pissed. But Tom was a nice guy, always wanting to get along with everyone. It would be hell for him if Wils moved in.

“I think it would be healthier for you to live by yourself. You know, start a new chapter in life,” I said.

Wils gave me a cold look. “Tom’s a good brother. Aren’t you, Tom?”

Tom’s willpower crumbled. “Sure, you can move in with me. It will be fun. I’ll arrange a time for the movers to come by.”

“Attaboy.”

Tom tried not to seem dejected as we divvied up the leftover food, dessert, and booze.

“Just let me know if he gets to be too much. I’ll flush him out,” I whispered to Tom.

“We’ll be fine. See you tomorrow.”

I made a disgusted noise as I closed the front door.

“I’m going to take a shower,” I told Deliha.

“Then we can play the new Harry Potter game?” she asked excitedly.

I grinned at her. There wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for my baby sister.

“Sure. Get it set up.”

I needed to figure out a way to keep Deliha full-time. She was already happier without Angela constantly breathing down her neck.

One of the reasons my father wouldn’t sign the paperwork for Deliha to live with me was because Angela was a controlling narcissist and had convinced him that I was a bad influence because I had a revolving door of women visiting my penthouse.

Sure, I had, in the past, used my billionaire status to the fullest, but in the last year, I had gone cold turkey and hired a matchmaker to only find me reputable wife-worthy women. My dad was a traditionalist—yes, you can go ahead and laugh—and believed kids needed a mother and a father.

Of course my siblings and I had several times that many of each parent, but my dad would pretend not to hear you if you ever confronted him about it.

I was under the clock.

I knew eventually Angela was going to get pregnant, and then she was going to want Deliha to be her free, live-in nanny. I needed to rescue my sister before then.

I pulled off my shirt as I headed back to the master suite. The smell of frosting was strong in the air. Elsie had been furious. Not that I could blame her. My mother had been stood up by one of her almost-husbands a couple years ago. His kids had talked some sense into him and snatched their elderly father out of my mother’s clutches at the eleventh hour.

“Don’t feel too bad for Elsie,” I reminded myself as I turned on the shower. “Anyone who believes Wils is husband material deserves what they get.”

Elsie was the same as my father’s wives, completely blinded by the romance of a big wedding and unable to take a clear-eyed look at the man in front of her.

Typical.

But she did have a hot body. I loved curves—the more the better. 

The way the frosting had clung to her cleavage, I wanted to lick the sweet confection off of them. That dress really wasn’t doing her any favors. Better to take it off.

Stepping under the spray of the water, I shook my head, chasing the thoughts away. My standards were pretty low, but I did have them. Getting in a relationship with my brother’s ex was up there in big no-nos.

And so was offering rebound sex.

Chapter 5

Elsie

The numbers on my spreadsheet swam in front of me. I had spent the night in the office, crying and drinking. And now I was paying for it.

“I’m too old to be going through a nasty breakup,” I sniffled as my friends ferried tea, aspirin, coffee, and greasy breakfast foods to me in our office. My chinchilla was buried in a tea towel on my lap. I stroked her soft, furry body. 

They were used to me being the rational one, the one who brought everyone back to reality, who was the adult in the room. Ivy had started Weddings in the City as a one-stop shop for brides to plan their high-end dream wedding. Brea sewed custom wedding dresses, Grace did award-winning photography that brides got tons of likes for on Instagram, Sophie baked delicious and beautiful cakes, one of which Ryan had ruined, and Amy made showstopping flower arrangements. Yours truly provided the catering and handled the accounting. Well, I used to. I wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to ever plan another wedding.

Wils leaving me at the altar hadn’t just ruined my wedding and relationship—it felt like it had ruined my whole sense of self. I was unhinged and day drinking and had just made a novice-level mistake in Excel.

“We’ll do a trash-the-dress photo shoot,” Brea said in concern as she moved the laptop aside.

I blew my nose.

“Just wash it and donate it to someone more deserving. You probably need to redesign it, though, Brea,” I said miserably. “Ryan didn’t like it.”

Brea and Sophie exchanged a look.

“Who the hell cares what some guy named Ryan thinks?”

Me for some reason.

I picked at the breakfast sandwich.

“Let’s just wait a couple months before making rash decisions,” Ivy said soothingly, waving Amy over with the container of hollandaise sauce.

The elevator in our office dinged, and Grace strode out. She came over to the long work table in front of the big round window with a giant clock in it that overlooked Manhattan. Yes, it was so extra, but Ivy’s billionaire boyfriend had bought it for her as an apology present, and now we used it as our office. It was better than the coffee shops we had been working out of.

“It looks like Wils has moved out of your apartment,” Grace said, handing me my keys. “He also took some of the presents.”

“Fine,” I snapped. “He can write the thank-you notes, then.”

Ivy gave me a pained smile. “See, every storm cloud has a silver lining. Maybe this is a blessing. You can focus on yourself, maybe redecorate your condo.”

“She doesn’t need toxic positivity, Ivy,” Grace said, thunking a bottle of champagne on the coffee table. “She needs alcohol.”

“I don’t care about Wils,” I lied. “I just feel bad about how I hurt the business. Brides will think we’re cursed.”

“One of the Kardashians just had a baby, and her hubby claims he’s not the father,” Sophie said reassuringly. “So the videos of you going insane on your wedding cake hardly got any views at all.”

“This is a good thing,” Brea assured me. “You’re going to find a man who is way better than Wils.”

“Wils was everything I wanted,” I said firmly then sagged. All my friends were dating, engaged, or married to legit, no-joke billionaires. Not that that was what I wanted. Wils had a pretty good-paying job, and he was low drama, which was enough for me. I didn’t need a man with a credit card number for a bank account balance.

“I’m thirty-five,” I reminded them. “I was lucky to find Wils.”

“There’s good luck and bad luck,” Sophie muttered.

Ivy elbowed her. “We’re all here to support you.”

Brea popped the top off the champagne. “Rebound sex, here you come!”

“I think it’s a little early for that,” Sophie said, wincing as we were misted by the champagne.

Brea set a champagne glass in front of me. It had the word “Congratulations” etched into it.

I grimaced as she poured out the golden liquid.

“Everyone toast to Elsie’s newly single status!”

“Oh my God, I’m single.” I buried my face in my hands. “My sister is going to be insufferable.”

Chapter 6

Ryan

I never felt more like a billionaire than when I went into my office.

“Good morning, Mr. James!” my employees all chirped at me.

I saluted them and went into my private corner office, which had a view over the nearby park, and thanked my secretary when she brought me a coffee.

I toasted my grandfather’s scowling portrait that I kept on the wall above the bookcase.

My father’s father had been in finance since the Wild West days on Wall Street and he had been extremely fiscally conservative. He was currently rolling over in his grave now that I had invested the money I’d inherited from him in cryptocurrency, NFTs, online gambling, and online dating. Unlike my siblings and other relatives who had frittered away their inheritance on pricy real estate rentals, cars, and overpriced fashion accessories, I had struck it big during the latest online gold rush.

No safe investments for me. That was not how you became a billionaire.

“There’s my favorite ex-stepbrother,” I said cheerfully when Tom squeezed into my office. “Do you need me to have Wils kidnapped?”

I took out a Snickers ice cream bar from my secret under-counter freezer—because hey, if you didn’t have a secret freezer, what was even the point of being a billionaire?—and handed it to Tom.

My stepbrother took it gratefully.

“Wils is just trying to recover from the shock.”

I snorted. “I just checked the Meat Market dating website database, and it showed that he spent three hours on it last night, so I don’t think he’s too heartbroken.”

Tom took a big bite of the ice cream bar.

“When Jessica and I get married, he wants me to move in with her, and he’ll stay in my condo.”

“No, Tom.”

My brother shrank under my sharp tone.

I took a breath, trying to modulate my voice. “I meant, does Jessica know about his plan?”

Tom took another large bite of the ice cream bar. “He wants me to tell her soon.”

“Look, don’t make any rash decisions. You know how Wils is. He’s probably going to find some new woman online who’s looking for a sugar daddy to manipulate, and he’ll move out. Just try to make your place as bland and as boring as you can, and he’ll be gone before you know it.”

“I guess.” Tom gave me a pained smile then tossed the ice cream wrapper in the trash and stood up.

“I’m going down to do a code review with the Love Is Us programmers. Which, by the way, I wish you would change that company name.” Tom lowered his voice. “It makes it sound like I’m employed at a porn website when I tell people where I work.”

“I wish we were running a porn site,” I said wistfully. “Think of all the money. I could buy a football stadium.”

Tom grimaced.

“I need my star computer programmer to look happier than that,” I cajoled him.

“I have that catering meeting this afternoon,” he sighed heavily. Then his voice turned hopeful. “Do you think you can come? You always have good ideas.”

He tugged down his sweater-vest over his ample stomach. Jessica was stressing out Tom with the wedding planning. Another reason why I would never get married. Tom was a wreck, and there were eight months of wedding planning down and six more to go. It was criminal. 

Normally I would never be caught dead in a wedding planning meeting. But Tom was in a bad spot.

You need some good karma.

“Sure,” I told him. “What the hell, I’ll be there.”

He smiled at me gratefully. “Thanks, man. It will help take some of the pressure off.”

“You can bathe my feet later.”

“Gross.”

I flipped through the reports on my desk, but my thoughts kept meandering back to weddings and a certain cake-covered ex-bride.

Weddings are the devil, I reminded myself. A wedding brought out the absolute worst in someone, and I should know. Not only did I have to deal with my parents and ex-stepparents marrying and remarrying, now my stepsiblings and ex-stepsiblings were getting in on the action. Weddings were an opportunity for old grievances, grudges, and hurts to be dug up and displayed. Sisters carefully compared notes on money spent on their weddings to jostle for the spot as favorite child. Stepsiblings married to one-up one another. Some of them were even marrying one another—the carnage of blended families.

I would never get married. Tried that once and fortunately didn’t go through with it. No, I was going to be the forever bachelor.

“I can’t believe I’m going to a catering meeting. God help me.”

But hey, a free lunch was a free lunch.

Chapter 7

Elsie

“Are you sure you don’t want me to run the meeting?” Sarah asked me, hovering by my left arm as I carefully plated the sample hors d'oeuvres.

“Jessica is my sister,” I told the kitchen manager. “I know I said I wanted you to take on more responsibility with brides, and you’ve done a great job so far, but my sister is a whole other level of bridezilla. I’d be the boss from hell if I subjected you to her.”

Sarah’s eyes widened slightly.

“Besides,” I said as I added a little bit of garnish to the bright-pink-beet-juice-colored devilled egg topped with coral-colored salmon roe, “I would never hear the end of it from my mother if I dared to send an underling to serve her and my sister.”

The front door of the catering shop chimed.

“Are they early?” Sarah was alarmed.

My business was run out of a kitchen on the ground-floor level of my co-op. You’d think it would be convenient, but all it really meant was that my senior citizen neighbors would breeze in at all hours, no matter how many times I explained it to them—no, I was not running a café open to the public. Yes, we had tables and chairs, but those were for clients.

“Yoo-hoo!”

I wiped my hands and went out to the front of the shop. I loved the space and owned it outright through the co-op. I lived in an old prewar building, and the plaster had crumbled off the walls, leaving some of the exposed brick visible. From picture rails I had hung several of Grace’s photographs of the various catering spreads we had done for other high-end weddings.

An elderly woman and her poodle, who were wearing matching pink rain jackets, waited for me.

“Moira, hi,” I greeted her.

“Oh, Elsie!” she cried. “I heard the terrible news; I brought you bourbon.”

Out of her enormous canvas bag came a flask.

I gritted my teeth as I took the offered bottle. I was still emotionally on edge from being dumped on my wedding day. That bastard hadn’t even so much as sent me an apology text yet.

“Now, I know you’re working, but I wanted to stop in for a coffee.”

Could I be a hard-ass and yell at the elderly until they got the memo? Sure. But I had to deal with them at bi-monthly co-op meetings. Not to mention they were generous with letting clients use their designated parking spaces, and coffee was cheap.

“All I have is drip,” I told her.

She stuffed two dollars in the tip jar I’d put out on the coffee bar after one elderly man had insisted on Venmo-ing me for the coffee because “you shouldn’t work for free, dear” and had accidentally emptied out his bank account.

“Such a darling little café,” Moira said as I poured her coffee. “My bridge club is looking for a new venue on Tuesdays since we were booted from O’Reilly’s bar. Honestly, there’s no respect for the elderly these days. How late is your café open?”

I knew exactly why the bridge club had been booted from O’Reilly’s; they constantly manhandled the waitstaff and catcalled the bartender.

“Your friends would rather be able to buy alcohol,” I reminded her, “and the seating here isn’t that comfortable.” And I was not going to be babysitting drunk senior citizens on my rare evenings off.

I handed Moira the paper coffee cup. I did not need her here when my mother arrived.

“I’ll see you at the next financial literacy meeting!” I waved Moira away then helped Sarah set out the catering samples.

I had just changed into a freshly starched white chef’s jacket when the bell over the door chimed.

“Oh, Elsie,” my mother said, in her perfectly pressed Chanel suit with her handbag hanging from the crook of her elbow. “I don’t understand why you can’t move this operation to Connecticut. You could have a very nice, clean new space.”

“Would you like some champagne, Mom?” I offered, not taking the bait.

“She could be trying to attract one of those hot young chefs. They like run-down restaurants like this one,” Jessica, my youngest sister said, tossing her bag and umbrella at Sarah, who trilled out a greeting.

Jessica ignored her, took off her sunglasses, and walked over to the table with a critical eye.

“Champagne?” I offered her a glass.

“Poor Elsie,” my sister said with exaggerated sympathy. “How are you holding up? What happened to you is so humiliating. I don’t think I’d ever be able to show my face again, yet here you are.”

I gave her my best professional smile, even though I wanted to knock the designer sunglasses off of her head.

“I’m just trying to take it a day at a time.”

My sister gave me a pitiful look. “I can see you’re trying but struggling. And you’re in your wallowing Crocs,” Jessica tsked. 

“Crocs are great for restaurant work—nonslip and comfy.”

“But to meet a client?” My mother tutted.

Jessica smirked into her champagne.

“Are you stress eating?” my mother demanded, pulling a lock of my hair back. “You look puffy, like you’ve been eating a lot of sodium. One of the gals in my Daughters of the American Revolution group was telling me about this new diet she was doing. You drink lemon water with cilantro, of all things, for seventy-two hours.”

“Unfortunately, Mom, I have a business to run and don’t have time to spend three days glued to a toilet.”

Sarah, ever the professional, only let her eyes widen slightly from her spot, where she was carefully surveying the table of samples.

“Elsie!” My mother pinched my arm. “What if Jessica’s fiancé’s family was here and heard you making juvenile humor suitable for a twelve-year-old boy, not a mature woman who can trace her lineage back to the Mayflower?” 

Jessica giggled. “You are looking very matronly.” She poked me in the stomach.

“I spend three hours a day making bread. I will break your hand,” I deadpanned.

“With that kind of aggressive energy, I see why your fiancé left you,” Jessica said snidely.

“Girls!” my mother barked.

“Are you sure we’re okay to park in the lot across the street?” The door to the shop flew open, and the middle Clarkson sister stumbled in. The big binder she was carrying dropped on the floor, spilling papers everywhere.

My mother threw up her hands. “Someone save me from unruly daughters.”

Molly gave me a big hug.

“Are you doing okay?” she whispered as I helped her pick up the papers.

“I’m fine,” I assured her. “Just lost a lot of deadweight is all.”

“Is Tom here yet?” Molly asked Jessica after giving her a slightly sweaty hug then mumbling an apology.

“You just can’t wait to eat, can you?” my sister said, draping herself artfully over one of the café-style chairs I’d had imported from France.

I was seriously going to stab Jessica with an oyster fork.

Molly seemed to shrink into herself. Like me, my sister struggled with her weight. Unlike me, she hadn’t given body-shaming the middle finger.

“Maybe she just likes to start things on time,” I said sharply.

“You’re going to be married in several months,” my mother reminded Molly. “You had all these goals for how you wanted to fit in your dress. It’s probably going to be too small.”

“It will be fine,” I assured Molly, handing her a glass of raspberry lemonade with mint and gin. “Brea is a great seamstress and won’t let you walk down the aisle in anything less than the perfect gown.”

“You better not be serving that at my wedding,” Jessica said, turning up her nose when I offered her a drink.

“It’s good, though,” Molly insisted. “You can serve it at mine, Elsie.”

“Honestly, Molly, go freshen up. You’re sweating like a pig,” my mother admonished.

Molly slunk away.

“I guess it’s good you have a job.” My mother said “job” like it was a dirty word, which for her, who had been a stay-at-home wife, it probably was. “If Wils had left you high and dry, your father and I would have had to build a guest house on the property so you’d have somewhere to live.”

I’d rather have lived in a box than move back in with my parents.

“It’s probably why Wils left her,” Jessica said. “She pays more attention to her business than him.”

I gritted my teeth. I had been stewing on my former relationship, turning it over and over in my brain, wondering if it had been something I had done. Wils and I hadn’t been intimate in a number of months, but he hadn’t ever complained about my working too much and seemed all too happy to have me bring him wedding leftovers.

I shook off the memories and plastered a smile on my face as Sarah welcomed the groom and his mother into the tasting room.

Tom, the heavyset groom, leaned in to kiss Jessica. She turned her face away slightly, and he pecked the side of her mouth then gave each of us an awkward hug.

My mother and Tom’s mother sized each other up. Both were wearing conservative designer clothes and had nearly identical handbags. Both women belonged to rival DAR chapters. Lorraine never failed to remind my mother that their chapter had recently had a statue installed in a popular park.

Tom’s mother sniffed as Molly hurried back into the room.

Jessica opened her mouth to make a snide comment.

“Hi, Molly,” Tom stammered out at her. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“I’m sure she didn’t want to miss the opportunity for free food,” Lorraine said.

Molly sighed.

My mother’s face was ice.

Tom gave Molly a reassuring smile. “It’s okay. I’m here for the free food, too.”

“Of course you are.” Jessica’s tone was syrupy sweet.

“Shall we get started?” I asked, moving to stand at the head of the table.

The front door slammed open.

“I’m sorry I’m late, everyone.”

Tom’s mother turned on him, fury in her eyes, as a woman with unnaturally sharp cheekbones strode into the café.

“Oh, Tom, is that your new stepmother? How progressive of you to include all of the blended family members in the wedding planning.” My mother was the queen of underhanded digs.

Lorraine’s lips were thin matte-pink lines.

“Angela,” she practically spat as Tom’s stepmother leaned in to press their cheeks together.

The ex-wife and the current wife walk into a fake café ...

I suppressed a giggle. I hadn’t been sleeping lately. I kept having dreams of the best man, Ryan, and me rolling around on the grass in the frosting-covered remains of my wedding cake.

Maybe you have been stress eating too much.

The tension between the two women was palpable, especially since it was clear from her clothing that Angela did not move in the same circles as my mother and Lorraine.

“Now that everyone is here, why don’t we begin the tasting,” I said, gesturing to the table.

Tom pulled out a seat for his mother, glancing furtively to the window, probably trying to decide if he could make a run for it.

“Let’s start with the offering for cocktail hour,” I said while Sarah poured out crystal glasses of sparkling water.

“We have a variety of crostini. Up first is rye bread with spicy radish butter with anchovies and fresh herbs, topped with house-picked radishes. Since your wedding colors have a palette of pink,” I told Jessica, “I’ve selected a few dishes with pops of pink as a subtle nod.”

 Jessica picked off a tissue-paper-thin slice of pickled radish and ate it.

“This is delicious,” Tom complimented, chewing around a whole crostini.

Molly put a hand up to cover her mouth as she chewed.

“This is amazing, Elsie, and I don’t really like radishes.”

“At least it’s healthy,” Jessica stated. “Tom, don’t.” She reached out to grab his hand before he could snag the rest of the uneaten crostini off of her plate.

“I can’t imagine raising a son who lets his wife order him around like that,” Angela remarked into her glass of gin raspberry lemonade, “but I suppose some people find mothering difficult.”

Lorraine’s nose twitched, and she took a sip of her water.

“Let’s move on to the next item,” my mother said to me, clapping her hands.

“So is this a go or no-go?” I asked Jessica and Tom while Sarah stood ready with the printed list of the refreshment offerings to highlight the final selections.

“Can’t you make this low-fat?” Jessica asked me. “Like just serve the pickled radishes on a low-fat cracker.”

“Honestly, Jessica, Tom doesn’t have to eat during the cocktail hour,” my mother hissed at her.

“He’s gotten even bigger since the last time I saw him,” Jessica snarled.

“That’s not nice, Jessica,” Molly scolded her.

“Are you seriously going to let her talk to you like that?” Angela goaded Tom.

“He’s my son, thank you very much,” Lorraine said. She turned to her son. “Tom, are you going to let her speak to you like that? Especially considering she’s the one spending your money.”

“Jessica received a very generous inheritance from my parents,” my mother said, back ramrod straight.

Damn, we hadn’t even gotten through a single cocktail offering before all hell had broken loose.

Could always be worse.

“Honest, Jessica,” Tom said plaintively, “I’ve been trying to stick to the diet, and I go to the gym with Ryan every evening. Well,” he amended, “most every evening.”

“Has Ryan been sneaking you food?” Jessica snapped.  

A fork clattered against the china as I picked up another dish of crostini.

“Honestly, Elsie!” my mother shrieked. “Do something.”

“Tom, do you want them to serve this or not?” I asked. “Or we can wait until you’ve sampled everything.”

Tom mopped his brow with a cloth napkin and babbled, “Jessica, sweetie, I think our guests might enjoy it.”

“It’s literally a spread of butter on carbs,” Jessica shrieked.

“We’re paying for this wedding, so Tom can have what he wants,” Lorraine thundered.

“Actually,” a deep voice drawled from behind me, “I’m the one paying for this disaster.”