At Wits' End: An Enemies To Lovers Romantic Comedy Page 2

  Heck, the entire wedding is so not me. Jonathon Witlocke? He was picked out for me yesterday. By pulling his name from a hat.

  “In sickness, and I will definitely be sick of you before the honeymoon’s over…”

  “Sienna! Don’t try to ignore me!”

  I let out a startled squeak. My window is rolled down, and my mother has snuck up on me. “I need to put a bell on you,” I mutter, snatching my veil off my head. I hadn’t even tried it on before I pulled in to the parking lot.

  “What?”

  I turn to face her and flash a big, innocent smile. “I said ‘Hello, you.’” I drop the veil into the gym bag where I’ve stuffed my wedding dress and shoes.

  “No you didn’t.” She reaches up and tucks a lock of frosted, flat-ironed blonde hair behind her ear. “And those had better not be the vows that you actually recite at the wedding ceremony.”

  I wish. I’d love to say what I’m actually thinking on my own wedding day. But I would never. I made a promise to help save the family business, once and for all, and I will keep that promise.

  “What were you yelling about?”

  “You’re running late. You’ll barely have to time to change. We’ve got to sell this wedding. We’re already on thin ice.”

  My mother looks deeply aggrieved. As if any of this were my idea. As if this deranged scheme hadn’t been cooked up over this past week and served up to me with the expectation that of course I’d drop everything, upend my life, and go along with it.

  Which, of course, I did.

  Just then, my purse makes a meowing sound. I slide my hand in and stroke Aceto, a burly, scarred old tom cat who appeared on my grandmother’s porch as a kitten the day after Uncle Nuccio died, ten years ago. Aceto means vinegar in Italian, and it pretty much sums up his personality.

  “Shhh,” I whisper to him. “We had an agreement.”

  My mother peers in through the window, horrified. “That isn’t… Sienna… Get rid of that thing!”

  I shake my head. “Negative. Aceto has been missing for weeks, and Aunt Fernanda was devastated. He jumped into my car right as I was leaving. I’m not letting him out of my sight until we get back home.”

  Aunt Fernanda suffered a stroke two weeks ago, and she’s just been moved from the hospital to a rehab facility where she’s going to spend the summer learning how to walk again. I am not going to risk upsetting her.

  “A black cat at your wedding? Are you trying to sabotage it on purpose?”

  “Since when are you superstitious? Since never.” My mother’s the least superstitious and sentimental person I’ve ever met. “It’s a marriage in front of a rent-a-pastor. It will be legal. It’s fine.”

  “I’m just afraid that the buyers aren’t going to…well, buy it.” Her brows pinch together, but her smooth, Botoxed forehead barely moves.

  My lovely mother is forty-seven, but she doesn’t look a day over thirty. When we’re in public together, she insists I call her Linda, in the hopes that people will mistake us for sisters. And with her movie-star makeup and body-hugging, fashionable dresses, she draws male attention like a magnet.

  “I mean, it’s so rushed and all. If this were a real marriage, we’d have invited hundreds of people and held it at a much fancier place.”

  “If this were a real marriage, my groom wouldn’t be Jonathon Witlocke.”

  My voice rises on a slightly hysterical note as I say his name. Jonathon Witlocke, the vacant pretty-boy voted “most likely to mis-spell his own name” in high school. Jonathon Witlocke, the reason they have to print instructions on shampoo. Jonathon Witlocke, whose favorite pickup line is, “Hey, I lost my phone number. Can I borrow yours?” I kid you not. He’s tried it on me more than once.

  “I honestly don’t know what you’re making such a big deal about. I’ve had much worse husbands than Jonathon.”

  I wince. Not many people brag that they’ve been married more times than they can count on one hand. At least my dad was her first.

  “No offense, Mom, but you’re hardly my inspiration when it comes to matrimonial advice.”

  “What are you talking about?” Her eyes widen in surprise. “I’ve walked down the aisle six times. I’m an expert.” She does a quick check in my car window’s reflection, as if to remind herself that she’s still a primo piece of husband-bait. Then she returns her attention to me, beaming her famous smile. Despite everything I know about her, I still want to bask in its warmth. “Anyway, it might not be so bad. You might decide you really like Jonathon, once you get to know him.”

  As we’re talking, a red Jeep screeches into the parking lot, spraying gravel everywhere. Jonathon leaps out of the driver’s side, and a friend of his jumps out of the passenger side. Jonathon’s wearing shorts, sandals, and an eye-searing neon blue polo shirt. His friend’s wearing a Salt Life shirt, and his hair is piled up in a man-bun.

  “Dude! It’s my wedding!” Jonathon yells to his friend.

  “Wedding high-five!” his friend yells back. They hold up their hands to high-five, and Jonathan’s friend snatches his hand away right as Jonathon tries to smack his palm.

  “Classic!” his friend shouts, and doubles over with laughter.

  I look at my mother. She looks at me.

  I raise my right eyebrow, which is a special talent I have. “Say what now?”

  “Right. I’ll see you inside,” she says brightly. She spins on her heel and powerwalks to the chapel.

  Jonathon leaps in front of the Wine Knot sign, which shows a married couple toasting each other with wine glasses.

  “Dude!” he yells. “Wedding selfie!”

  “Dude!” his friend shouts back.

  “Say dude one more time…” I mutter, clenching my fists. From deep within my purse, Aceto hisses.

  I left a very good CPA job at a liquor wholesalers, a nice apartment in Seattle, and my entire life there…for this. And I’m going to marry him. He will be my husband. I will be looking at that over the breakfast table every day for the entire summer.

  My stomach squeezes hard, and I regret my breakfast burrito. I regret a lot of things.

  Jonathon and his friend snap selfies front of the Wine Knot sign, and I sit and wait, because I don’t want him to see me yet. All morning long I’ve been fighting the temptation to head for the border, change my name and start a new life as a fruit vendor in Mexico, and one single word from Jonathon’s liable to push me over the edge. Especially if that word starts with a “D” and ends with an “ude”.

  Finally they hurry into the building. I close my eyes and count slowly to a hundred, stroking Aceto, feeling the battle-scars under his fur and the satisfied purr rumbling up from deep within him. I open my eyes and I’m still in the Wine Knot parking lot.

  And I can’t stall any more. I heave a sigh that I feel all the way to my soul, and fling my car door open to follow them. Then my cell phone rings.

  I wince. It’s Pamela. I consider ignoring it, but she’ll keep calling me. She and I have BESP – Bestie E.S.P.

  “Hello, crazy. You are not doing this,” she says when I answer.

  “How did you find out?”

  What a ridiculous question. This is Greenvale, population 50,000. It’ll be the talk of the town. Oh, and now that I think of it, I’m pretty sure the Witlockes notified the Greenvale Herald.

  “Oh my God. It’s true? You’re actually getting hitched to that himbo?”

  “It’s a long story. Involving, uh, suddenly realizing my true feelings, and, you know, opposites attract and…” I massage my temples with my free hand.

  She makes a loud sound like a buzzer. “Errr. The lie detector determined…that was a lie! We hung out Wednesday night. And you neglected to mention this to me? I’d think you would have led with that.”

  I lower my voice. “I’ll explain later. How about tomorrow? I’ll call you and we can get together for lunch or something.”

  “Are you sure? Wouldn’t want to interrupt your honeymoon.”

>   “Pamela.” I pour all the stress and aggravation of this morning into that one word.

  “Fine. I’m sure you have a good reason for this travesty,” she says resignedly. “I know a good lawyer who can arrange an annulment whenever you say the word,” she adds. “Me. I’m the good lawyer.” There’s a moment of silence. “Did I hear you say ‘the word’?” she asks hopefully.

  I grab my purse, and the gym bag where I stuffed my wedding attire, and slide out of the car. “Sadly, you did not. Also I’m not even married yet, so how could I seek an annulment? Love you, miss you, I’ll call you tomorrow and explain everything.”

  “Wait, what about your job back in Seattle? And doesn’t Jonathon travel around the West Coast, doing his wine salesman shtick for the Witlockes? Are you guys moving to Seattle together?”

  I start walking across the parking lot towards the wedding chapel. “No, I’m staying here and so is he. He can work for his family from here. And I took a four month leave of absence.” I just told my boss that two days ago, and he was not delighted.

  “Will they hold your job for you for that long?”

  “Probably not,” I admit. “But I’m a very good accountant, if I do say so myself. I’ll find another job. Okay, I’ll call you tomorrow. Or tonight, maybe even. Bye.”

  “Well, I’d say congratulations but I’d be lying. Good luck, I guess.” And she hangs up.

  As I’m walking, I look down into my purse to where Aceto is comfortably resting on top of my wallet and makeup bag. He blinks up at me and utters a questioning meow.

  “I know what you’re thinking, and I don’t have any choice,” I inform him.

  He makes a sound that comes out like, “Wow.”

  “I know, right?” I nod in agreement.

  Then I run into what feels like a linen-wrapped solid wall, and I look up, startled.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t the blushing bride.” It’s my old nemesis, Donovan Witlocke, his voice a deep sexy rumble laced with mockery. “And if you’re not blushing, you should be.”

  I haven’t seen him in years, but I never cease to marvel at – I mean resent – how beautifully that skinny, shaggy-haired boy filled out. He’s got the shoulders of a linebacker, a jaw that would make Superman weep with envy, and his upper lip is a perfect Cupid’s bow. The familiar musky scent of his cologne sets my nerves aflame.

  What is he even doing here? He lives in Los Angeles, where he runs his massively successful company, Futuristics Robotix.

  And now, on this day of all days, here he is. Of all the people I would not want in attendance at my fake wedding, Donovan Witlocke takes up the top five spaces on the list.

  I arrange my features into a mask of indifference. “Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite half-Wit.”

  “Half-Wit?” He shakes his head chidingly. “Not your best work, shortcake.”

  Ugh. This again. Yes, I’m only 5’3”, but everyone’s short next to Donovan.

  I shrug. “Can’t deny it. I’m a little distracted today. Also, the best insults are fueled by pure, passionate hate. I guess I’m just not feeling that inspired by you.”

  Anger blazes in his green eyes. The fact that my insult hit its mark lights a tiny flare of satisfaction inside me. At least I can make him feel something. He leans in towards me, and his voice rumbles up from his chest in a threatening growl. “I’ll just have to work on giving you some inspiration.”

  I stifle a shiver. Donovan’s a viciously successful businessman. He’s known as “the wrecking ball” for a reason. Why must I always poke the bear?

  “And no, I’m not here for your wedding. This whole thing’s a train wreck and I may be a” – he raises his hands and does air quotes – “‘butt-breath ass-face’, but I am smart enough to steer clear of train wrecks.”

  I frown, trying to remember the reference. Then it hits me. “Fourth grade? When you put a frog in my locker and literally made me pee my pants right before assembly? I had no idea you’d taken my response so very, very hard. I’m sorry about the hurt that’s stayed with you all these years, Donovan. Can I offer up some money for your therapy fund?”

  “Wasn’t hurt,” he says sourly. “I just have a very long memory.”

  His cool green gaze pins me, and I wonder if he’s thinking of the time that my friends and I put itching powder in his gym shorts, or the time we put dead fish under the seats of his BMW. That last one came the day after he suckered me into believing we had reached a truce and he’d take me to prom – then ghosted me and showed up with another girl. Yes, I do sometimes need to learn the same lesson twice.

  “You are not actually, seriously, pretending that you aren’t here to attend my wedding.”

  He shoves his hands in his pockets and smiles. “I’m not pretending, no.”

  “Right,” I scoffed. “It’s pure coincidence that your happy ass flew in from California just in time for my wedding, and you are in the same parking lot as the Wine Knot wedding chapel at the same time I’m getting married. I believe that, and I also believe in fairies. What are you planning to do, stand up at the crucial moment and say ‘I object’?”

  The minute I blurt that out, I wish the ground would open up and swallow me – because a small, desperate part of me wishes it were true.

  Okay, maybe not so small. All my life, I’ve been the caretaker. I’ve fixed things. I’ve been on the receiving end of my mother’s hysterical phone calls as yet another man left her, after yet another rushed marriage fell apart, and spent hours talking her down. I’ve dropped everything, left jobs and boyfriends behind, to come flying home to my family’s rescue as their farm finances sank deeper and deeper into the red. I’ve crunched numbers and schmoozed the bank and somehow magically gotten loans granted. I’ve kept the farm and my aunt’s vineyard going against all odds. Just this once, today, I want someone to take care of me. To save me from this utter disaster.

  “Actually,” he inclines his head at the electronics store in the shopping center adjoining the parking lot, “I’m in town to help my family upgrade their equipment. And I’m here at this particular location because my laptop died and I need to grab a replacement.”

  “Oh.” I’m mortified. “I mean, obviously. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go. That train isn’t going to wreck itself.”

  Well, at least he didn’t mention anything about my ex-fiancé, Simon. Simon’s the reason I left town at twenty-two, and left behind the wine-making business for good – after getting my degree in viticulture and enology. When our engagement was announced, Donovan sent me half a dozen ominous text messages – out of the blue, I don’t know how he even got ahold of my number – saying, “Do not marry him. He’s bad news.” And I didn’t listen. I had to find out the hard way.

  The only decent thing Donovan’s ever done in his life was to refrain from saying “I told you so” when it all came crashing down.

  Shaking my head, I stalk towards the wedding chapel. The building is designed to look like a cream-colored stucco Mediterranean-style villa, with red barrel roof tiles and artificial swags of grapes over the entryway. It’s located at the small in-town vineyard where visitors can stomp on grapes during the season and take wine-making classes all year long. Since it’s not owned by either of our families, it’s been selected as neutral ground.

  Standing in the foyer, I glance off to the right through the big double doors that lead to the main hall where the ceremony will take place.

  There are only twenty chairs set up in front of the altar, draped in white linen adorned with yet more swags of grapevine.

  The Witlocke and the Ribaldi families are standing side by side, with huge, forced smiles on their faces. I don’t see Jonathan anywhere. I assume he’s in the groom’s room, changing into something a little less surfer bro. Or taking more selfies. His friend’s cheerfully chatting with the Witlockes, who are tolerating him with their usual pained, suppressing-a-toot expressions.

  Carrie Hastings, the reporter from the Greenvale Hera
ld, stands facing both families, snapping pictures. Understandable. Seeing both families assembled together without fists and hair extensions flying is rarer than Halley’s Comet.

  Still, her presence sends a crackle of unease rasping along my nerves. Her ex-husband is Marcus Hastings, of Hastings Real Estate, and he’s brokering the huge real estate deal that’s meant to save the finances of both our families. Their divorce was famously bitter, and she’s not going to be thrilled with anything that benefits him.

  Like this wedding, which is meant to help convince Ferguson Property Holdings that the Witlocke-Ribaldi feud is well and truly over. I watch her skeptically. She’s got dyed flame-red hair, a figure that rivals my mothers, and spite blazing from her exquisitely made-up brown eyes. Yep, she’s here to stir up trouble.

  My mother catches sight of me and hurries to my side.

  “There you are!” she says with a huge, bright smile.

  “Here I am,” I agree listlessly.

  “Sell it, sweetie!” she murmurs. She inclines her head at Carrie, and I force a big smile.

  “I’m selling, I’m selling. Have you seen Mia?”

  Mia was a high school friend of mine, and my family recruited her to be my maid of honor. Mia’s father owns the restaurant where my mother started working a month ago, when she flew back into town after the collapse of her latest marriage. Their family is also renting out an apartment to her.

  My mother’s gaze sweeps the crowd. “She’s around here somewhere.”

  “I need help putting my dress on.”

  Aceto makes a loud noise. “Naow.” I interpret it as, “No.”

  My mother’s eyes widen in horror. “Sienna. Please. He’ll ruin everything. Get rid of that thing!”

  I generally just go along with whatever my mother says, because she’s the type who will keep wheedling and insisting until she wears you down. There are times when I have to put my foot down, though.

  “Aceto accompanies me, or there is no wedding. You can hold him during the ceremony, but you’d better not lose him or I swear I’ll demand an immediate annulment.”

  “I’m not holding him. He hates me.” She sniffs. “Your uncle Vito can hold him. And you need to go find Mia. If you can’t find her, I’ll help you change.”