How to Ruin a Wedding(72)

“Don’t be nosy, Lucy, it’s gross.” I know she’s nervous because she scans a red blender instead of the stainless steel one beside it.

I match her quickened pace. “Is something wrong?” Why would Valerie, a proud nepo baby, be frantic to add a bunch of gifts to a last-minute registry? Wouldn’t she be able to just buy anything and everything she wants? Didn’t she offhandedly mention to me once that she had a family credit card with no limit?

She snorts. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You’re being evasive.”

“You’re being aggravating.”

I give her a moment to crack, scan a few more items, before we reach the end of the store. We return our scanners to the front desk, and the employee helps Valerie review her list of items on the monitor to ensure she got everything. (She deletes the red blender.)

We leave the store, and I point to a couple of benches on the sidewalk overlooking Queen Street, the long road filled with endless shops, restaurants, bars, and activities. The most active part of Charleston. Before she can disagree, I loop my arm through hers and drag her to sit.

After a few minutes of watching cars and people go by, the silence eats at us like I knew it would.

She snaps, “Are you going to make a big deal out of nothing?”

“Hm.” I hum. “Depends on what it is, but, Valerie, you can trust me,” I say, and my throat feels itchy as the words come out because she can, in the sense that I’m doing what’s best for her, but she can’t, in that whatever she says I’ll have to use to separate her from John. “That’s why you asked me to be a bridesmaid. I know I’m not the closest person to you, and I know you’re worried I’ll talk to Anders about whatever you say, but I can be a good friend to you if you let me.”

She looks at me through unusually thin lashes—she forgot that step she has always remembered every other time I’ve seen her. She removes her arm from mine, then places her hands on her thighs below her pale miniskirt. A couple of her manicured gel nails are missing.

“You swear you won’t tell Anders?”

I hold out my pinkie so it feels less like a lie when I nod. She wraps her pinkie around mine, tightening her grip.

“I mean it,” Valerie says. “Anders cannot find out about this.”

I reach for her hand, keep it pressed between both of mine. “Valerie, I’m here for you.” The words slip out easily, because I mean them. Every syllable.

“Okay.” She takes a breath. “I got scammed out of a million dollars.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“Calm down,” she says quickly. “And I know, my father is loaded, my brother even more. But as much as I can get away with spending thousands on my card without raising any flags, me taking over a million from our accounts is not going to go over well.”

“A million?” My eyes nearly bug out of my skull.


A good reading habit deserves a next page.

Keep a few more books close by with Lokepub.



Valerie slaps a hand over my mouth and glances around like one of her relatives might spring out from behind a bush. “Calm down, you’re not the one down the money.”

“How in the world did this happen?” I ask. “What is going on?”

She rubs a hand over her face. “Ugh, it’s a mess. I should have paid more attention. Should’ve asked John to show me the paperwork.”

“Okay. Slow down. Explain it to me.”

“John found this house,” she starts. “This cute, boring thing overlooking a creek. Not my style at all, but it was his dream home, so I agreed. I figured I could decorate it, make it mine. That was the compromise. Even if it meant gutting the place—because I swear, the ’70s died in there. It had orange shag carpet and lemon-yellow tile in the shower. Who does that?”

“Valerie,” I say. “Focus.”

“Right, right.” She nods. “So John’s credit score isn’t great, and we used my name for everything. But instead of going with the family’s tried-and-true realtor, he insisted on using his friend’s friend’s friend. Total stranger. No reputation. Said it would be quicker and cheaper.”

“Okay, that’s already a lot of red flags.”

“I know,” she mutters. “Anyway, this sketchy realtor tells us there’s another buyer. Supposedly offered an extra fifty grand, but was applying for a mortgage. He said if we went in all cash and added another fifty on top, the seller would go with us.”

“Oh no.”

“Right? So we wired the money. The full amount.” She exhales. “And then, poof. The guy disappears. Just had his license suspended for mortgage fraud, and we’re out a million.”

“And you haven’t told anyone?”

“How can I?” she asks. “Everyone already thinks I’m a bratty airhead with an attitude problem. And they’re not wrong. But my dad already put me on a spending limit. He says I’m wasteful and wouldn’t survive in any other family. If he finds out I lost that much money? Game over. My cards go dead for a year, minimum.”

“You have to get help. Legal help. You have to try to recover it.”

“I know.” She waves her hand, like we’re talking about losing her keys. “I used to sleep with this guy who interned at my dad’s law firm. He’s got a new job now, but said he’ll help if I convince my dad to hire him full time. So I’m working on that.”