Falling for the Bridesmaid. Sophie Pembroke

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      Not that she was bitter. She knew why they hadn’t asked—because they’d been sure she wouldn’t want to do it. Wouldn’t want to have to deal with so many people, so many knowing eyes.

      And they were probably right.

      Will hadn’t thought about that as he’d told her where to find Rose’s black planner, though, and asked her to make sure everything kept ticking over for the annual Huntingdon Hall Benefit Concert while they were away on their honeymoon. Maybe he’d just been too caught up in the flush of true love to think about it. Or maybe he expected her to hand it over to some agency person, hired to cover Rose’s job.

      Maybe she should. After all, she knew absolutely nothing about how to organise a concert for thousands of people. Will had insisted that Rose had already done all the hard work, that there’d be practically nothing left for Violet to do.

      Because obviously otherwise they’d have found someone more competent to put in charge.

      Violet shook her head. She was being ridiculous. She hadn’t wanted to organise the vow renewal anyway. Or the Benefit Concert, come to that. She had other obligations. But now that Rose had told their dad she’d be stepping down from her job managing the PR and events for The Screaming Lemons once she got back from her honeymoon...well, someone would have to do it. And Violet couldn’t ignore the very small part of her brain that thought that person could be her.

      No. She had no experience, and no desire to deal with people who laughed at her behind her back all day long. She’d just stick to things she knew she was good at. Like arranging flowers, thank you very much.

      The flower displays she’d designed for the vow renewal were, she decided, by far her best displays yet. Lots of exotic blooms in deep jewel colours. Striking and memorable, just like her parents. Her flowers rocked, everyone said so.

      There you had it. Twenty-seven years on the planet, and that was all she could say about herself.

      Violet Huntingdon-Cross—kick-ass flower arranger, wannabe crocheter. Potential cat lady in waiting.

      No, that wasn’t all. That was just all that other people saw—and she was happy to keep it that way. She made a difference in the lives of young people and teenagers every day, even if no one ever knew it was her. After all, if word got around that Violet Huntingdon-Cross was manning the phones at the troubled teen helpline, their calls would skyrocket with people wanting to ask her about her own past, or just talk to a minor celebrity—and the kids she really wanted to help wouldn’t be able to get through at all. So she helped where she could. Even if she wished she could do more.

      Her parents did the same, helping out charities anonymously when they could. The only difference was, they also did enough charity work—as well as music and the occasional modelling gig respectively—in public that everyone assumed they already knew everything there was to know about Rick and Sherry Cross.

      But with Violet...well, Violet could only imagine what they were still saying about her. Probably the nicest was that she’d become a recluse.

      Still, that was a hell of a lot better than what they’d been saying about her eight years ago.

      Pulling her phone from her tiny clutch bag, she checked the time and then double-checked the email Will had sent her from Rose’s account with the reporter guy’s flight details. Thomas Buckley...that was his name. She must make an effort not to just call him reporter guy all the time. Although it never hurt to have a reminder that the press were press and always on the record, whatever they said. Not something she ever wanted to forget again.

      Time to go. She’d get changed out of her bridesmaid’s dress, grab the ridiculous name card Rose had left for her and be at Heathrow in plenty of time to grab a coffee before his flight landed. And, best of all, she wouldn’t be stuck in romance central another minute.

      Moving towards the side door to Huntingdon Hall, Violet paused as she caught sight of her parents, dancing in the light of the just risen moon. So wrapped up in each other that the couple of hundred people watching, who’d come all this way to celebrate with them, might not even be there at all. Sherry Huntingdon and Rick Cross were famously crazy about each other, but it wasn’t until Violet caught them in moments like this that she really believed the media hype.

      And that, she finally admitted to herself, was the real reason all this love stuff was getting to her. Deep down, she’d always believed that she’d just fall into a perfect relationship like her parents had, like both her sisters had now found too.

      Instead, she’d got something else entirely. Like anti-love. The sort of relationship that tore up your insides and made you someone else. After that, if she was honest, Violet wasn’t sure she’d ever have the courage to try again.

      Her phone rang in her hand and Violet answered it automatically, glad for the distraction. ‘Hello?’

      ‘I was under the impression that you, whoever you are, were supposed to be meeting me at the airport about twenty minutes ago.’ The American drawl made Violet’s eyes widen. The reporter guy. Except Rose’s email had him landing in an hour and a half. Dammit!

      ‘I’m so sorry, Mr...’ Oh, God, what was his name?

      ‘Buckley.’ He bit the surname out. ‘And I could care less about apologies. Just get here, will you? I’ll be in the bar.’

      And, with that, the line went dead.

      Picking up her skirt, Violet dashed for the garage and prayed no one had blocked her car in. She’d have to borrow one of her dad’s if they had. No time to change now, or even pick up that specially made name card of Rose’s. If she ever wanted to be relied on for more than flowers, she needed to not screw this up. And since the bad impression she—and by extension her family—had made on the reporter guy was already done, she needed to find a way to fix it. Starting with getting to Heathrow as fast as humanly possible, before he started drafting his story. She knew journalists. The truth seldom got in the way of a good story, and once they thought they knew all about a person it was almost impossible to convince them otherwise.

      And Violet had already earned the Huntingdon-Cross family enough bad press to last a lifetime.

CHAPTER TWO

      TOM PUSHED HIS way to the counter, dragging his suitcase behind him like a weapon. A coffee shop. What the hell kind of use to him was that, especially at this time of night? He needed a drink—a proper one. But that was arrivals for you—never as good as the departures lounge. After so many years travelling the world, you’d think he’d remember that. Except he was usually being collected straight off a plane these days, and got whisked through arrivals to some hotel or another without even clocking his surroundings.

      He’d just have to hope that whoever the ditsy woman Rose had assigned to pick him up was would check her phone and see his text telling her to meet him here instead.

      Staring at the menu above the counter with bleary eyes, Tom tried to figure out his best option. He’d already consumed so much caffeine in the last two weeks that his muscles appeared to be permanently twitching. Add that to the distinct lack of sleep, and he wasn’t sure another shot of the black stuff was quite what he needed. Of course, what he needed was a big bed with cool sheets, a blackout blind and about twenty-four hours’ solid СКАЧАТЬ