The Ex (The Boss 4)

I settled back in my seat. It was easy to feel sorry for Elizabeth, but she had a new life, and a new baby, on the way, something Neil had been unwilling to give her. She was probably as happy with whoever was in her life now as I was with Neil. Despite the huge shock she’d gotten today, there was no proof that she was unhappy.

My mom often says that life has a funny way of working out sometimes. That’s such a huge understatement someone should slap her. From the moment I’d walked up to Neil in LAX to the moment he’d walked through the door at Porteras, everything in my life had perfectly aligned to reunite us.

I hoped with all my heart that I would never be that woman on the sidewalk. The universe had worked too hard to bring Neil and me together.

* * * *

After a lot of consideration, arguing, and a hefty sum to buy out the couple who’d already reserved the spaces that weekend, Neil and I had decided on a wedding at the Plaza. Neil found it traditional and romantic. I said it was cheesy, but part of me was still the little girl who’d dreamed of a beautiful wedding out of the movies.

Okay, so, the adult part of me had dreamed about that, too, even though she’d been convinced she would never get married.

To make things as streamlined and stress-free as possible, I’d given Neil the reins and let him go with regards to the food and the flowers. Those were really his area of expertise, anyway.

With the clock ticking toward our June sixth date, Neil and I still had to meet with the wedding planner to discuss the set up. I took an early lunch and hopped on the subway into the city. It was just faster than sitting in traffic. I was still five minutes late, and Neil looked annoyed but forgiving when I stepped out of the elevator.

“You’re late,” he needlessly informed me, kissing me on the cheek.

“I am aware,” I replied, overly sweet. I turned to the two women standing near the doors to the Terrace room. “Shelby, Ms. White.”

Ms. White was the banquet and events manager at the Plaza. She was in close communication with Shelby, our wedding planner. Shelby had worked in PR for Elwood & Stern’s New York office for ten years, before breaking away to deal with Bridezillas and cake catastrophes. She said it was less stressful than working for Neil.

“Ms. Scaife,” Ms. White said, shaking my hand. She could have been named for her hair color. She wasn’t super old, probably in her early sixties, but her hair was a brilliant, shining white that framed her pale, narrow face in an ear-length bob. Her lips were almost always pursed, but she was warm and personable, even at a professional distance.

Shelby offered a more effusive, “Sophie! We’re getting close. Are you nervous?”

“I’ve got three more months to get nervous,” I said with a laugh. I wondered if brides ever answered that question with a thirty-minute hyperventilating freak-out. Probably at least one had.

“We were just discussing the potential for the space,” Shelby went on, leading us to the doors. Her cloud of fluffy orange spiral curls bounced as she walked. Shelby had gorgeous light brown skin, big gold eyes, and a smattering of dark freckles over her nose. She’d gotten married two years before, and she’d shown us photos of her amazing seaside wedding at her parent’s home in Nassau. She’d worn heels on the beach, and that was what had cemented her, in my mind, as the perfect person to plan our wedding. A woman who will wear heels in sand is a woman who has no fucks to give about anything.

Dinner and dancing would be in the Grand Ballroom, but the ceremony would take place in the Terrace Room. In advance of our arrival, the space had been set up in a loose configuration of how weddings were usually staged. Chairs sat on each level, with a section on either side of a center aisle.

“Ooh, I’m so nervous about walking in.” I took one of the steps down, pretending to hold my skirt. “I don’t think I’ve ever worn anything as big as my dress before.”

“How big is this dress?” Neil asked, holding his hands up and mimicking the width I estimated.

“I’m not telling you anything about it. You can see it on the day.” I walked to the next step and tried again. Maybe if I memorized the number of footsteps from one level to another, I would be less likely to trip and fall flat on my face. “Besides, I haven’t technically seen it yet.”

Neil walked around with his hands in the pockets of his sharkskin trousers. The sleeves of his white button-down were rolled back. That was my kryptonite. I was helpless at the sight of a good forearm.

“Sophie, Shelby is asking you a question,” he said with a quirk of his lips. Damn. He’d caught me looking.

“Sorry, I was distracted,” I said, turning to Shelby. “What was it?”

“I was just saying, it will be easier if you’ve got someone walking you down. I’m not sure how you’re planning that. Obviously, the traditional choice is for the father of the bride—”

I’ve never been physically punched in the kidneys, but I was pretty sure it felt like hearing the words “father of the bride”. I almost doubled over.

Not having a father had been the theme of my entire life. I’d constructed a self-destructive identity around being an unwanted child, or so our former therapist had told me. The last and only time I’d seen Joey Tangen, the man who’d provided half my DNA, had been at my high school graduation. He’d pulled into the parking lot of Calumet Middle School, where all of us were waiting in a line outside to file in, came up to a group of us, asked where Sophia Tangen was, handed me a card with twenty bucks in it, and left.

He hadn’t even known my real fucking name. I’d found out later, through an internet search, that he’d gotten married and had other kids, ones he actually cared about. I’d never bothered to look again.

I bet he was walking that daughter down the aisle.

“I think Sophie was planning to walk on her own,” Neil answered for me, glossing past the unpleasant shock I knew he could read on my face. “Or is your mother giving you away?”

“Um, no.” I shook my head and forced a smile. “I’m not somebody’s property to give away.”

That came out way too vehemently. I cast a look at Neil that was a silent plea. He picked up on it right away and changed the subject. “What I’d really like to discuss is where the string quartet will be.”