Page 95 of The Temporary Fiancée
For the rest of the planning meeting, I remain silent and acquiescent. I speak only when Cecily speaks directly to me, and even then, I don’t bother to contradict her. I agree to everything she says, from the color scheme that I hate to the resort location that I know my parents couldn’t afford.
The wedding planner’s questions get shorter and snippier by the minute. I can tell that he’s irritated on my behalf, but he doesn’t argue either, which is a relief. The fastest way to get out of this place is for both of us to give Cecily her way.
After an hour of misery, Ryan closes his laptop. His smile is a bit too tight as he says, “I think that’s enough for one session. Don’t you?”
“Yes,” I say immediately, before Cecily can protest. “We got a lot done.” I’m itching to get out of here.
“Before next time, each of you should put together a Pinterest board,” he suggests. “Include any aesthetics that strike your fancy. We can go over them together and get a sense for what kind of wedding everyone wants.” At that, his gaze slides over to me meaningfully.
“Sounds good,” I say with a nod.
“Great.” Ryan slides his laptop into the satchel slung over the back of his chair. He stands up hastily and reaches to shake Cecily’s hand. “Let’s schedule another meeting for next week. I have an opening on Friday, if that works for both of you.”
Cecily seems taken aback by his sudden departure, but she doesn’t want to make a scene any more than I did. She shakes Ryan’s hand, nodding. “Next Friday, then.”
Ryan hurries out of the room, and I follow in his wake before Cecily can say a word to me. Not that she would, anyway. If anything, she probably just wants me out of her country club as quickly as possible.
The trip back from Long Island drags. I spend the entire drive staring out of the window, replaying the past hour in my head on an endless loop. With each passing minute, I feel more heartsick—and more annoyed with Cecily.
I try to pass the time on my phone, putting together a Pinterest board like Ryan suggested. It only serves to make me feel worse. My board is full of things that Cecily is sure to shoot down—the exact opposite of the kind of wedding she clearly wants.
By the time I arrive back at The Luxe, I don’t have the energy to knit anymore. I stare forlornly at the unfinished sweater on the couch for a few minutes, then trudge into the kitchen. I’m exhausted, I’m upset, and I want to eat something sweet.
Luckily, Reed’s pantry is stocked. That’s one of the many perks of this penthouse—I know there will be chocolate bars. There’s a bag of marshmallows that I picked up last week when it started to get cold outside, just in case I wanted to make some hot cocoa. All I need now is graham crackers, or a suitable substitute.
I raid the cabinets until I find a package of gingersnap cookies. That’ll have to do. There’s a pack of wooden skewers in one of the silverware drawers—I snatch that up, too.
I light the front burner of the expansive gas range, spear one of the marshmallows on a wooden stick, and begin to roast it over the stovetop.
I hear the soft rumble of the elevator doors, but don’t look up from my s’more-in-progress. There are footsteps outside of the kitchen; they stop in the entrance.
“What are you doing?”
Reed’s voice is incredulous, but not angry. I pull my golden brown marshmallow away from the flame and use two slabs of chocolate to slide it off the skewer.
“I’m making s’mores,” I say.
“That’s usually an outdoor activity, no?” I can practically hear the raised eyebrow in his voice. “What’s the occasion?”
I shrug. My fingers are already sticky from the marshmallow, but I can’t bring myself to care. My concoction, sitting on a napkin on the counter, isn’t pretty—but it’ll do. I scarf it down within seconds, then re-light the stove to prepare a second one.
“Okay,” Reed sighs, taking a seat at the counter. “What’s wrong?”
“Don’t know what you mean,” I mumble through a mouthful of chocolate. “‘M great.”
“Yeah, sure. That’s why you’re toasting marshmallows on the stove.”
I swallow hard to clear my tongue. “I just got back from my meeting with your mother and the wedding planner.”
“Ah.” Sudden understanding dawns on his face, followed closely by concern. He grimaces. “That bad, huh?”
I spear a second marshmallow and hold it over the burner. “I know this is a make-believe fantasy wedding, but your mother is taking this planning processveryseriously.”
“What did she do?”
Shrugging, I rotate the marshmallow over the flickering blue flame. “She just talked over me the whole time. Shot down everything I said, and wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise.”
I sigh, glancing over my shoulder at him. He’s watching me with a furrowed brow, his hands steepled together over the counter.
