I never would have gotten through my selfish stage.”
Annie laughed at the irony.
Growing up the adopted child of two renowned therapists, and the only rice cracker in a community of Saltines, Annie had acquired the unique ability to identify and soothe away people’s fears. She could find a solution before most people realized they had a problem. It was what made her so good at her job. And so easy to open up to.
The nurses at the hospital had taken to calling her Dr. Phil.
Annie was a good girl with a good job who managed to attract good guys with the potential for greatness when it came to love. Her life had been a nonstop revolving door of serial monogamists, each with a fatal flaw that kept him from finding the one. For most of their time with Annie, the men were convinced she was the one. Then, ultimately, she’d fix what was broken and make some other woman enormously happy.
Annie had wife-in-training written all over her DNA. She had a knack for helping her boyfriends overcome their issues. Four of her last five met their wives within months of breaking it off with her. The fifth married his high school crush, Robert.
Then came Clark. Her practical knight in surgical scrubs, with an amazing family, a solid life plan, and an unshakable foundation. He was the first guy to get down on one knee, tell Annie that, for him, she was it.
Foolishly, she’d believed him.
And when he’d recanted, confessed he wasn’t husband material, that it was him not her, she’d believed that too. Until mere weeks after ending their engagement, when he and Molly-Leigh had “put a ring on it.”
“You have a lot to be called on. Let’s start with the money for the dress you now owe me.”
He sighed, long and loud. “How much?”
“Four million dollars.”
“Oh, for the love of God.”
“No, Clark, for the love of my grandmother’s dress. My grandmother’s dress.” Her voice cracked, and so did her heart.
“Anh-Bon...” The sympathy in his voice was real. Sadly, so was the pity, damn him.
“Five million dollars. Price just went up! And before you Anh-Bon me one more time, don’t forget you also owe me half of the cost of the cake, the three hundred and fifty invitations,” of which only fifty were hers, “and the deposit I put down to hold the venue.” Being the mature bride-to-be, she had insisted on covering. God forbid she appear incapable of being a full partner in their union. “Since I haven’t received anything from the Hartford Club, I’m guessing the check was mailed to you?”
It was the only reason she could gather for why her bank account was still short ten grand. Ten grand she desperately needed.
“You can forward me the check,” she continued. “I assume you know how to break into my contacts and find my new address?”
“It’s not breaking in if the owner grants you access,” Clark teased. Annie didn’t laugh. “Come on, Annie, don’t be like that. I’ll Venmo your half of the cake cost now, and I’ll pay you back the deposit for the venue after the wedding.”
“Pay me back?” Annie’s hold on the dress slipped, the silk sliding nearly past her waist before she caught it. “What is there to pay back? The planner specifically told me that if the venue was rebooked by another party, she’d send a refund. The venue was rebooked over a month ago. Where’s the refund, Clark?”
“Molls and I met my parents there for lunch, and I remembered what a great location it was.” His tone was wistful. “Historical but with modern conveniences. Intimate but large enough to hold everyone. Classy but not too expensive.”
Perfect but not for me. “Get to the refund.”
“It checked off all our wedding wants and more. When Mom asked about availability, we were told they still had us booked for that weekend.”
“Impossible. My mom told me she canceled it.” Her statement was met with silence. “She never canceled it, did she? That’s why my grandma’s dress was still at Bliss.”
“She said she was hoping we’d work it out.” His words were followed by a long—that’s not happening—pause that caused her insides to heat with embarrassment. A reaction that often accompanied her mother’s matchmaking attempts. “I thought under the circumstances, it would be a shame to let such a beautiful venue go to waste.”
That bad feeling had moved through her chest and worked its way up to twist around her throat. “What’s a shame is that I spent two years waiting for that perfect venue. Half my wedding budget to reserve that venue.” Her hand fisted in the silk at her waist, the pressure wrinkling the silk. “Clark, please tell me that you didn’t promise Molly-Leigh my venue.”
“I didn’t know what to do. She took one look at the giant windows and said the light from the afternoon sun illuminated the hall as if it were lit by a thousand candles. What was I supposed to say?”
“That you’ve been there, done that, dumped the bride, so that venue is off-limits.”
“I tried, but she said after experiencing the magic of the Hartford Club, she couldn’t think of a better place to get married.”
Frustration bubbled up in her throat and the anger expanded, sealing off her airway until breathing became impossible and she feared she might pass out. Reaching behind her, she popped the top two eyehooks of her corset to let her lungs expand far enough to take in air.
It didn’t help so she popped a third.
“Grab a pen and paper,” she instructed, fury vibrating through her words. “Because I can think of a thousand other places to get married. Ready? Great. Now jot this down. ‘Anyplace that isn’t where you were going to walk down the aisle with another woman.’ Or how about ‘Find a place that won’t hold my ex’s money hostage.’ That’s my rainy-day money, Clark,” she stressed. “I need it back.”
“It’s supposed to be a dry summer, but I promise I’ll pay you back after the wedding. It will just be easier and less confusing that way.”
“For who?” she asked.
Clark was silent, his devastating disregard for her situation sobering. “It’s my grandparents’ wedding date.”
“I know,” he said softly. “Which is the other reason I’ve been trying to get ahold of you. I wanted to get your thoughts before we committed to anything.”
“The dress isn’t up for discussion. Period.” Realtering it again would be daunting, maybe even impossible, but there was no way in hell her grandmother’s dress was going to be worn by any woman other than a Walsh.
“Of course not,” he said, doing a piss-poor job of hiding his disappointment. “I was referring more to the day of the wedding.”
Annie had worked with Clark for six years, lived with him for three of those, so she knew his moods and quirks. Knew by the long, soft pauses between words that renowned surgeon Dr. Clark Atwood wasn’t providing options. He was delivering a prognosis.
Whatever hopes Annie had about
