Every Little Piece of Me: Orchid Valley, Book 1 Page 9

Her smile is so big and bright and just for me that I feel like I’ve won the lottery and gotten superpowers all in one fell swoop.

  Chapter Eleven

  Brinley

  Present day

  The room is dark and silent when I wake up, and my head aches.

  I listen for Cami, for the soft sounds of her watching art tutorials on YouTube in the living room, but then I remember. My birthday. Savvy’s insistence that I do something for myself and make my dream weekend in Vegas a reality. Running into Marston. Kissing Marston. Touching Marston. The lights on the Strip. We met Savvy at that club with the poles. I watched Marston as I danced, drank shots, laughed, and . . . everything gets fuzzy after that.

  I fumble for my phone on the bedside table and turn it over.

  When I first see the numbers 10:34, I close my eyes again. I wish I could sleep all day, but I need to call Savvy. If we’re going to try to make it to our noon spa appointments, I need to get a shower.

  I look at my phone again. I missed a call from my mom.

  Shit.

  I sit up in bed, and my stomach heaves in protest.

  Note to self: move slowly.

  I fumble with the lamp and light floods my room—no. Not my room. A massive luxury suite. Marston’s suite.

  “Mars?” My voice is thick with sleep, but I don’t feel rested at all. My head is heavy. “Marston?” I close my eyes against the light, push the sheets back, and carefully swing my legs over the side of the bed. I shiver when the cold air hits my bare skin. Because, of course, I’m naked.

  Fuck. Shit. Damn.

  Not that I mind the idea of spending the night naked with Marston—I’ve imagined it many more times than I care to admit. It’s just that the reality is so much messier, and I wish I at least had some memories to take home with me.

  I put the back of my hand to my mouth, and something hard tears at my lip.

  A diamond.

  On a ring.

  A diamond ring on the ring finger of my left hand.

  I extend my arm in front of me and stare. My internal organs can’t decide if they want to sink or surge into my throat or tangle all together, and my pounding head is giving me nothing to go on here.

  Yep, memories would be great. Details like how that ring got on my finger would really come in handy right now. As would knowing the location of the guy who put it there.

  My head pounds as I gingerly rise from the bed to hunt down my clothes. My breath comes faster and faster, and I start to count the beats of my inhales and exhales to force myself not to panic.

  Did we have a clichéd drunken Vegas wedding?

  I shake my head, then brace myself on the bedside table when the room spins. I never would have married Marston. That’s a childhood fantasy, and there’s too much at stake to indulge such whims now. And him? No, He wouldn’t risk his fortune on a whim.

  Just one band, Brinley. Just an engagement ring. This isn’t good, but it could be so much worse.

  I find my shoes at the foot of the bed, my bra and dress on the walnut dining table in the main part of the suite, and my panties . . . my panties are nowhere to be found.

  I vaguely wonder if I lost them in the suite or long before we made it back here.

  How much did I drink last night? Did someone slip me something?

  I wriggle into my dress and loop the straps of my heels on two fingers. I need to get out of here. I sigh in relief when I see my clutch on the desk and find my wallet inside.

  Where is he? And why didn’t I get his damn phone number?

  But maybe it’s a blessing he’s not here . . . and that I have no memory of last night or his proposal. Maybe it’s easier this way.

  I grab a pen and piece of hotel stationery and scribble a note to leave on the dresser.

  Marston,

  I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking last night, but I can’t. We can’t.

  Please forgive me.

  Love,

  Brin

  When I pull the ring off my finger, I swear something tears loose in my chest, unraveling years of pent-up emotions. I shove them back down and drop the ring on top of the note.

  The room spins, and it’s so tempting to go back to bed. Wherever he is, he’ll be back soon.

  But my daughter is waiting for me at home, and if Marston knew about her, he never would’ve put this ring on my finger.

  * * *

  Marston

  I practically race to the elevator to get back to my room.

  I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything more gorgeous than Brinley tangled in my sheets, naked, with my ring on her finger. Except maybe her smile last night when we said our vows in that quiet little chapel, the way those blue eyes brimmed with happy tears when I said I do.

  Alec told me I could skip the meeting this morning, which said a lot, since he knows I never miss out on business. Hell, if he’d known Brinley and I ended up getting married last night, he probably would’ve insisted I skip it. God knows I considered it.

  I woke wrapped around Brinley, one leg thrown over hers, one hand between her breasts. She was clinging to that hand in her sleep, and I didn’t want to pull away. But this is who I am now. A man who’s true to his word. A man respected by the best in the business. I need to be that man now more than ever—to prove to her, to myself, that I’m not the screwed-up kid I used to be, that I’m worthy of her and this life we’re going to build together.

  The elevator dings as the doors slide open on my floor, and I smile, imagining crawling back into bed. I hate that I had to leave her the morning after our wedding, but making it up to her is something to look forward to.

  I slide my key into the card reader and push into the room. The hair on the back of my neck prickles, and immediately, I know something’s wrong.

  “Brinley?” I walk through the suite, looking for any sign of her, but even before I see the ring on the dresser, I already know she’s gone.

  Prologue

  Marston

  “I hope you’re going to wipe that pissy look off your face before our dinner with the Gamble team,” Alec says from my office door. He scratches his dark beard and fails to hide the amused twitching of his lips.

  I toss the invitation across my desk. “Given what just came up from the mailroom, I’m not sure you want me there.”

  Alec strolls toward me and swipes up the linen-and-lace card detailing the upcoming Orchid Valley wedding. His eyes widen. “Is this—”

  “Yes.”

  “But . . .” He scrubs his free hand over his neatly trimmed beard. “Do you know if—”

  “All I know for sure is my wife is getting married and has invited me to her wedding. Thoughtful, no?”

  When I first opened the invitation, I was sure it was some sort of joke—a quirky way to apologize for walking away from me six months ago.

  By the third time I read it, I wondered if it might be real. I don’t keep tabs on what’s happening in Orchid Valley, but the internet’s a thing, so it was easy enough to pull up the Orchid Valley Times, do a quick search for Brinley Knox, and . . . there it was. The evidence stared at me in bold print at the top of last month’s society page.

  Brinley Knox and Julian Hallison announce engagement

  My first instinct was to send the invitation through the paper shredder. It would certainly be satisfying, considering the care that was so clearly put into its production. The inner envelope is linen, tied with a thin lace bow, and the stationery is written in the finest calligraphy. Not computer-generated script—that wouldn’t do for a Knox—but meticulous hand lettering. How many of these are floating around in the world if the Knox family deigned to invite the punk kid who worked for them one year? Or maybe they invited me as a jab. I can just imagine Brinley’s mother insisting they send an invitation to the old town charity case. Not because I’ve made something of myself over the last eleven years, but because the old woman would want me to know Brinley’s off the market. She’d want to announce—in the mos
t respectable way possible—that her daughter will never be mine.

  Joke’s on you, old hag. She already is.

  “Has she filed for a divorce?” Alec asks. He keeps rereading the invitation, as if the words might change. I might find it comical if I hadn’t just done the same damn thing.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “I told you not to let her walk away.” He waves the invitation in front of me. “See what happens when you don’t grow balls and go after the girl, Marston?”

  “Glass houses and stone throwing, asshole.”

  “This is different. She thinks she’s marrying this guy. In May.”

  “I’m aware.” Just two months from now. The spring wedding high-school Brinley always dreamed of. I push out of my chair and straighten my tie. “Give the Gamble team my apologies. I’ll be in touch.”

  A smile slowly stretches across Alec’s face. “Finally.”

  Once, I promised Brinley that if she were mine, I’d never let her go.

  I guess it’s time to return to Orchid Valley and remind my wife that I’m a man who keeps his promises.

  Chapter One

  Brinley

  “Don’t look now,” Abbi Matthews says across from me, “but the world’s most beautiful man is standing at the bar, and he cannot take his eyes off you.”

  We met up at my cousin’s bar tonight. Smithy’s is our favorite outside-of-work spot. It’s popular without being too loud or crowded, always clean, and my favorite idiot cousin owns the place and takes good care of us.

  “Like, nine-out-of-ten fine,” she continues. “You’re so lucky.”

  “I’m off the market, remember?”

  “Hmm.” She frowns, her attention still on the other side of the bar. “That’s cool—I’ll take him for myself. If he ever stops staring at you.”

  I laugh. If he’s looking at me and not her, he’s gotta be incredibly near-sighted. Abbi’s the kind of curvy beauty that inspires country songs and makes men stop in their tracks.

  I wave the catering paperwork in front of her again. “Can we get back to business here? My wedding? The menu? You’re the one who insists I need to make some decisions, so heeeeelp.” I punctuate my whine with a smile, but she only laughs at me. Abbi and I have known each other since high school, but we were never super close until she dropped out of college and moved back to Orchid Valley. Once we found ourselves both working at The Orchid, we quickly became friends. She’s been by my side ever since.

  “Do you realize you haven’t made a single decision about this wedding on your own?” She finally pulls her eyes off the hottie behind me to give me her attention. “What does that tell you?”

  “If it were true, it would tell me that I’m not a big wedding person, but it’s not true. I’ve made all kinds of choices. That’s why I need you now. I have decision fatigue.” I slide the paperwork across the table until it’s in front of her. “Please.”

  “Name one.”

  “What?”

  She folds her arms and flashes me her easy smile. “One decision. Name one decision you’ve made yourself.”

  “I don’t know. They all blur together.” She stares harder, and I throw up my hands. “Fine. The venue. I chose to have the wedding at the Chapel Valley Church.”

  She grunts. “That doesn’t count. Your mom said, and I quote, ‘If you get married anywhere but our family church, you’ll be dishonoring your dead grandmother.’”

  “It was still my choice,” I say, but I know it’s a lame defense. I don’t care about this wedding. In fact, the part I’m looking forward to the most is the part when it’s over.

  Tossing her long, dark hair over her shoulder, Abbi grabs her martini glass and licks the sugar off the rim before taking a sip. “Try again.”

  Lemon drop martinis are historically our girls’ night favorites, but I’ve been cut off for the next two months. I nearly salivate at the sight of hers, but the trainer my mom hired has me on a strict diet until the wedding. This means no booze, which normally wouldn’t be a big deal, but since wedding planning involves extra time with my family, it’s been torture. “I picked out my dress.”

  “You tried on half a dozen dresses and agreed to buy the one your bridal party cooed over the most.”

  Trying to pretend it’s vodka, I take a long pull on my iced water—I haven’t hit today’s eighty-ounce quota anyway. In truth, I hated dress shopping. When I was younger, I imagined what it’d be like to wear a white dress and say vows to the man of my dreams. I haven’t idealized weddings or marriage since I found myself knocked up and alone at seventeen.

  “You didn’t choose the invitations or the reception location. You didn’t choose the flowers or even the song you’re using for your first dance,” Abbi says. She doesn’t say, “You didn’t even choose your groom,” but it’s at the root of this conversation. It’s the elephant in the room. My big secret, known only to two of my closest friends. “Can you think of something you truly chose on your own?”

  I chose to invite Marston. And holy hell, I still can’t believe I did that. Wedding planning has made me lose my mind. There’s no other explanation for it. But after we looked over the hundreds of invitations from the calligrapher and approved them, I snagged a couple. “For my memory box,” I told my mom, and she had to wipe away tears. I did put one in my memory box. The other I carefully addressed to Marston Rowe, president and co-founder of Rowe and Hayes, International. I dropped it in the mailbox myself.

  If Savvy and Abbi knew about that little moment of insanity, they’d say it was a cry for help. Savvy already thinks I’m nuts for walking away from Marston after the night we spent together in Vegas. I’d prefer to think of that night as a gift to my younger self—the one who kissed the new boy after knowing him for minutes, the one who stripped down to her underwear and swam in the cold October water of Lake Blackledge with him, the one who believed maybe her life could be her own.

  I don’t know what I expected Marston to do when he opened the invitation, but he should’ve gotten it by now, and I haven’t heard a word. Maybe he burned it.

  I’m being dramatic. “Okay,” I concede. “I’m not into making wedding plans. I’ll admit it, but let’s not pretend this is a bad omen. If anything, it makes my life easier. You and I both know Mom will veto anything she doesn’t agree with. It’s better if I’m not too emotionally attached to any choice.”

  “Or to the groom,” Abbi mumbles behind her glass.

  I glare. “Say what?”

  “Huh?” She takes a dainty sip then looks over my shoulder again. “Oh, hell. Mr. Hottie is coming this way. Lord help us.”

  “Have at him, girl.”

  “I’m afraid I’m already taken.”

  The familiar deep voice has me spinning in my chair and looking right into the eyes of Marston Rowe.

  “Marston.” I don’t say his name so much as breathe it. When his lips quirk up in response, his dark eyes scanning my face again and again, I feel transported back in time. To high school, when my loving housekeeper’s orphan nephew was the biggest act of rebellion I’d ever managed, and the only thing I could think about. I think of stolen moments in the woods, at the lake, of dancing together outside the senior prom. I think of six months ago when I went looking for him in Vegas. I went to that club because I wanted to see him again, yes. And because . . . because I was lonely and panicking about the future, and I knew he’d wash that all away.

  Most of the time, I’m grateful I came to my senses less than twenty-four hours later, but sometimes I wish I’d stretched out that indulgence just a little longer.

  “Marston Rowe?” Abbi squeaks. “Holy hell, Mr. Self-Made Man, you look even better than you did in high school. I didn’t even recognize you.”

  Marston swivels his attention to Abbi. “My apologies, I don’t remember . . .”

  “We never officially met,” she says.

  “In that case, I’m Marston.” He offers her his hand. “You’re . . . ?”

 
; Abbi blinks, looking him over in a way that’d be super creepy if anyone else did it. She’s just too cute to be a man-eater—which is why they never see her coming.

  “Abbi Matthews,” I supply when it appears my friend has lost her capacity for speech. “One of my best friends.”

  She blinks a few times before turning her gaze on me. “You . . . He . . . Does he know you’re engaged?”

  If he somehow didn’t, he does now. But I don’t let my grimace show. I lift my chin and meet Marston’s eyes. “I’m not sure. Did you get the invitation?”

  “You invited him to your wedding?” Abbi screeches, and half the bar turns in our direction.

  “She did,” Marston says, his voice low and gravelly. I swear, this man was born with bedroom eyes and an intonation most guys can only manage mid-coitus or first thing in the morning. Is it any wonder I ended up in his bed in Vegas?

  And engaged, Brinley. Don’t forget that ring.

  “You didn’t tell me that.” Abbi sounds too damn giddy, so I shoot her a look. “What? Most girls would consult their best friend before inviting their first love to their wedding.”

  “A little louder so the folks in the back can hear, Abbi?” I snag her half-full martini, and it sloshes over the rim and onto my hand, cold and sticky. “You’re cut off.”

  She bites her lip and her cheeks blaze red, but her bright eyes give her away. She doesn’t feel even a little guilty.

  Marston’s lips twitch again. Of course. I’m endlessly amusing. “It’s nice to meet you, Abbi. I think I like you.”

  Abbi flutters her lashes dramatically. “And I like you . . . or at least everything I’ve heard.” Her wink suggests graphic details I haven’t shared with a soul, but Marston’s cocky enough that he doesn’t balk at the suggestion of me spilling all his bedroom secrets. “But seriously? She didn’t mention me at all when you saw her in Vegas?”