“Oh, no. We won’t be changing a thing.” In an eye-searing-green pantsuit, Mrs. Ross fussed around Sammi. Her hands fluttered from the petal-like skirt to adjust the crafted silver bead rose on Sammi’s hip, then flickered dangerously close to her breasts. “Mr. Barclay approved this dress. He also approved the Asiatic lilies for the bouquet and the string quartet for dancing.”
A string quartet?
Sammi could only sigh.
“I was thinking it’d be sweet to use Sterling roses for the bouquet instead of lilies.” At Mrs. Ross’s blank look, Sammi added, “Sterling roses, for my fiancé, Sterling.”
“Nonsense. The plans are approved. The wedding is in three weeks. This isn’t the time to make sentimental changes.”
“Oh, no. Can’t muck up a wedding with silly things like sentiment,” Sammi muttered on a sigh. The tiny rebellious voice in her head wanted to point out that it wasn’t Mr. Barclay’s wedding. Except that it was, her practical side argued. He was paying for everything, including the dress and jewelry.
And she was marrying his son.
So, really, it was his wedding.
Besides, Sammi owed Mr. Barclay so much.
And it wasn’t as if she’d been dreaming of her wedding since she was a little girl. She’d never actually considered it a possibility until Sterling had mentioned that his father was hoping they’d marry. Next thing she knew, they’d set a date and Mr. Barclay had told Sammi she could use their nuptials as a test run for her suggestions that they host weddings here at the Barclay Inn.
“You do know how to dance properly, don’t you?” Mrs. Ross asked with a doubtful look.
“I don’t need lessons, if that’s what you’re suggesting.” Sammi started to shrug, but the dress was so heavy, she was afraid one good shoulder twitch and her breasts would flop out. Before she could ask if Mrs. Ross had changed anything else about the wedding, a whirlwind rushed into the room.
“Sorry I’m late. There was an accident on Old Marsh Road, ER was packed.” Blythe Horton’s words tumbled over each other much the same way her blond curls tumbled out of the bundled knot on top of her head. Her magenta hospital scrubs clashed with the lime-green frames of her glasses and, Sammi glanced down, her red plaid high-tops. “Whoa, Sammi Jo. Check you out.”
“Pretty fancy, huh?” Sammi said, holding out both bare arms and twisting one way and then the other. She didn’t do the full turn, figuring she’d had enough of a workout for one day.
“Fancy schmancy,” Blythe returned with an eye roll. “You look like you should be getting married in El Paso or even Dallas or Houston. Not Jerrick.”
“This dress is entirely appropriate for a wedding of the Barclay stature,” Mrs. Ross interrupted with a harrumph, gesturing for Sammi to turn around.
Sammi sighed with relief. She could feel herself growing lighter as the older woman started unlacing and releasing her from the lacy confinement, so that when she stepped out of it to tug on her simple blue cotton robe, it was as if she were floating on air.
Oh yeah. She’d definitely be much more comfortable in something simpler.
“But isn’t a wedding supposed to be about the bride?” Blythe kicked off her high-tops. “Not about the father of the groom’s stature?”
“The groom is a Barclay, as well.” Mrs. Ross unzipped the protective bag holding Blythe’s bridesmaid dress with a metallic hiss. “Perhaps instead of criticizing things you know little about, you should practice telling time so as not to be late for any wedding-related events during the next three weeks.”
“Sorry. All of those injured people distracted me from watching the clock,” Blythe said with a sad shake of her head. She made a show of looking around the space, the elegant smaller bedroom as lovely as the rest of the Barclay house. “I guess the other bridesmaids were so punctual that they’ve been and gone.”
“Nobody likes a smart aleck,” the older woman snapped, her carefully drawn-on eyebrows arching almost to her modified beehive as she tried to stare Blythe down. But Blythe was an expert on disapproval. Sammi didn’t even get to the mental count of three before Mrs. Ross gave up with a loud sniff and flounced out of the room.
“I love smart alecks,” Sammi claimed as the door slammed. Grinning as Blythe laughed, Sammi found the shoe box marked with Blythe’s name and set the heels on the floor next to the dress.
“That woman is a complete nightmare. Especially the way she lords over the dresses,” Blythe muttered as she shucked her clothes with all the inhibition of a five-year-old. “Does she get paid extra to impose her views on everything? Has she demanded the cake be four tiers instead of three? Changed your jewelry again? I don’t know why you put up with her.”
“She’s not a complete nightmare,” Sammi defended halfheartedly. Mr. Barclay had carefully chosen the wedding coordinator, both for his only child’s wedding and because he wanted an expert on hand to advise them before they launched Weddings at the Barclay Inn.
As both the bride and the assistant manager of the inn, Sammi was a little disappointed that he wasn’t letting her handle it on her own. But it was the end result that mattered, she told herself as she unhooked and unzipped the amethyst satin dress on the hanger. In a few short weeks, she’d be married to a man she respected who’d then gain her the respect of others. And if this new venture worked as well as she hoped, she might even get that long-promised promotion to manager.
She gave a happy sigh. Manager of an inn that offered the loveliest wedding packages in western Texas. Didn’t that sound awesome?
“Mrs. Ross knows this event will kick off Weddings at the Barclay Inn.” She handed Blythe her bridesmaid dress, noting that it weighed a lot less than her own. “She’s probably a little overenthusiastic.”
“Uh-huh.” Blythe twisted her mouth but didn’t say anything else as she stepped into the dress. She tugged the fabric chest-high, then turned so Sammi could zip her up. Strapless and fitted to the hips like Sammi’s, the rich purple exploded over the knees in petal-like layers. “I notice you didn’t deny that she’s lording over the dresses.”
“The woman watched while I washed my hands to make sure I did it right before she’d let me touch my dress.” Giving in to her own sense of the ridiculous, Sammi rolled her eyes.
“You manage the fanciest inn in the county, you’re so organized it’s scary and you have exquisite taste. Why wouldn’t old man Barclay let you arrange your own wedding?” Blythe tweaked her shoulders this way, then that, arching her back and trying to make it look as if she had breasts holding up that fabric.
“I’m assistant manager,” Sammi corrected meticulously. Don Reedy was the actual manager. Sure, he was away as often as he was here, given that he handled a number of Mr. Barclay’s properties. But he still had final say in everything, and the inn was run to his specifications.
“But didn’t Barclay promise over a year ago that he’d promote you to manager?”
“Once I proved myself.” Sammi nodded. And she had, hadn’t she? In the past year, she’d increased reservations by 20 percent, arranged for the launch of a new
