He had wrenched me toward him and shoved his family heirloom of a ring on my finger. He had looked me in the eye, his green gaze striking and almost mesmerizing.
I found myself blinking up at him as his fingers dug into my arm. Rough and calloused pads that signaled he was anything but soft.
His touch wasn’t hesitant or gentle. He was the kind of man who saw what he wanted and seized it immediately.
And he had no problem making it known.
I pull my hand back from Heath’s at the memory, clearing my throat and focusing instead on what I have to say.
“Heath, actually… it’s not just that I can’t make that night. I can’t any night because I’m getting married.”
He laughs as if I’ve told a clever joke, the tittering sound almost nervous. Then his gray eyes widen behind his glasses when he realizes I’m serious.
“Married, Simone? To who? Since when?”
“My father’s business associate. In five days.”
Heath’s mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. “That’s crazy. I’ll talk to your dad. I’ll marry you. Tomorrow! Any day. Just… just give me a chance to?—”
“That won’t work. It’s already been agreed. We’ve already had the engagement dinner.”
He shakes his head, leaning forward on a desperate beat. “I’ll talk him out of it. He’s told me I should be the one. He respects me. He’ll change his mind.”
“Don’t you mean me?” I ask irritably. “Where is my consent in any of this, Heath? Are you assuming I’d want to marry you?”
“Well… I… I just thought…” he stammers, his face flushing pink. “You’re at the age?—”
“We have to break up,” I interrupt, standing abruptly. My chair scrapes against the polished hardwood floor, drawing a few glances from nearby tables. “I’m sorry, but it’s the way things are.”
I grab my purse and walk out, weaving through the tables and heading straight for the glass doors at the front of the restaurant.
The server is heading back with our food, a confused expression on her face as she glances between the empty seat and Heath’s stunned face.
But I don’t look back. I’m already gone.
Over the next few days, I learn that with enough money and influence, an extravagant seven-figure wedding can be planned in less than a week. You just need the right name to drop and enough cash to toss around.
I’m dragged from one prep event to the next—from cake tastings and dress fittings to live music auditions and venue visits.
Both families designate a wedding planner for the occasion, which means constant clashing between the two sides.
The Callahan planner wants traditional Irish touches: Celtic knots in the invitations, a bagpiper during the ceremony, the family tartan and coat of arms on display. The Langston planner insists on modern elegance: a string quartet, a champagne tower, imported flowers.
I’m often stuck in the middle, left to find a compromise that’ll fit Dad’s demandsandSeamus Callahan’s.
The entire time, I don’t see Ronan once.
My groom is absent. He’s given the opportunity to enjoy his last few days as a bachelor without the stressors of wedding planning.
But me? Not so lucky.
I’m bogged down with so many details that by the time the eve of the wedding arrives, I’m exhausted and ready to get it over with.
I’m lying on my bed with aching feet and a pounding head when Mom taps on my bedroom door and enters. She’s wearing a sympathetic look as she crosses the plush carpet, her long silk robe swishing.
She sits down on the edge of the bed, her hand resting gently on my ankle. “What’s wrong, baby?”
I’m not fooled by the gentle tone. I’ve been moody and bitter toward my parents all week. How can I not be when they’re literally giving me away? They’re handing me over like some possession to the mob.