Inheritance (The Lost Bride Trilogy, #1)(2)

Planning a wedding equaled insanity. Sonya decided that once you’d accepted that as incontrovertible fact, you could just get on with it.

If she had her way, she’d ditch the whole crazy circus. She’d buy a fabulous dress she could actually wear again, have family and close friends over for a backyard wedding. A short, sweet ceremony, then bust it all open for the best party ever.

No fancy, no formal, no fraught and fuss. And all the fun.

But Brandon wanted all the fancy and formal and fuss.

So she had a fabulous dress—that had cost the equivalent of two months’ mortgage, and she’d wear it for a matter of hours before she had it cleaned and boxed away.

They’d booked a fancy Back Bay hotel for a guest list that crept over three hundred and might come close to four before the invites went out.

She’d designed the invitations—she earned her living as a graphic designer, after all. Then again, so did Brandon, so he’d had input there. Maybe the invitations had crept up to more formal than she’d envisioned, but they were gorgeous.

They’d done the Save the Date deal months before, and spent the best part of a day with a photographer for engagement photos.

She’d wanted to tap a friend to take some candid shots, casual, fun shots. And had to admit she’d resented his absolute veto there. Still, the photos were lovely.

Sophisticated. A sleek, sophisticated ad for the perfect, happy, upwardly mobile couple.

They’d spent what seemed like days going over the menu—plated and formal, of course. Then cake. She liked cake—she’d go to the ground believing something was intrinsically wrong with anyone who didn’t like cake.

But Jesus, who knew building a wedding cake—flavors, filling, icing, design, tiers, topper—could become a study in frustration?

She did now.

And that didn’t count the groom’s cake. Or the petits fours with their initials in gold on the top.

Add the flowers, the music, seating charts, colors, themes, and despite the efficient and incredibly patient wedding planner, it all boiled down to nightmare.

She couldn’t wait until it was over and done.

And that probably made her an aberration.

Weren’t brides supposed to want the fuss and bother? Didn’t a bride want her wedding day to be special, unique, a fairy tale?

She did want it to be special, unique, and she very much wanted the happy ever after.

But.

And those buts had been coming fast over the last few weeks. But it didn’t feel like her day, her special, unique, gloriously exciting day. At all. Somehow, it had slipped right out of her control. When she reminded herself it was Brandon’s wedding day, too, and he should have some say, it struck her he had all the say.

None of it reflected her vision or her wishes. It clearly reflected all of his.

And if their vision and wishes were so dramatically different, didn’t that mean they just weren’t suited?

If she dwelled on that, she worried. Like she worried when they spent three Saturdays house hunting and he pushed for the sleek, contemporary McMansion and she wanted the rambling old house with character.

But.

If she didn’t dwell on it, if she remembered the last eighteen months of being a couple, she couldn’t find anything to worry about.

A wedding day was just one day, and why shouldn’t Brandon have the fuss he wanted? A house? It’s what you put inside it that counted. They’d find a compromise, and make it a home.

Wedding jitters, she told herself. The Big Reality was setting in. And she had proof—literally—in the wedding invitation proof in her bag.

Accepting jitters, she canceled an appointment with the florist—couldn’t face it—and headed home.

She’d have a couple of quiet hours. Brandon had some groom thing to deal with, so she’d have the place to herself until he got home.

She decreed when he did, they’d open a bottle of wine, go over the wedding invitation proof, finalize that, then finalize the ever-growing guest list. Order the invitations, and be done with it—since he’d hired a calligrapher to address them.

Something she could’ve done, but hey, she wouldn’t complain about not addressing a couple hundred invitations.

She pushed through Boston’s Saturday traffic with the windows down and the music up. In eight weeks, she thought, the color would have exploded with fall—her favorite season. And all this would be behind her.

She was twenty-eight, closing in fast on twenty-nine and the end of another decade. She was ready to settle down, start a family. And in eight weeks, she’d marry the man she loved.

Brandon Wise—smart, talented, romantic. A man who’d taken it slow and easy when she’d been cautious about starting a relationship with a coworker.

He’d won her over—and she’d enjoyed being won over.

They rarely fought. He was incredibly sweet to her mother, and that mattered. He enjoyed the company of her friends, and she enjoyed the company of his.

Sure, she could think of a lot of ways they diverged. He’d go to a cocktail party, dinner party, art opening—name the social event—every night. And she needed to spread those things out, hold on to the quiet-at-home times.

He had more shoes than she did—and she liked shoes.

When he talked about buying a house, he talked about grounds crews, and she imagined mowing the grass and planting a garden.