Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Is that possible?
The man I want you to investigate is Marcus Wellington III, and my daughter is Lily Marshall. They’re planning to get married in five months at an exclusive resort in Breckrenridge, Colorado. I’m sure I could get you invited to the wedding by claiming you were an old friend, or something of the sort. Would that work?
Please get back to me as soon as you can.
Martha Marshall
I read it twice, something nagging at the back of my mind. I wasn’t sure I recognized the names, but something about the letter was setting off warning bells.
"Hey, Derek?"
"Yeah?"
"Run a search on Marcus Wellington III."
He pulled out his phone, fingers blurring across the screen. Then he whistled low. "Damn. Old money. Like, really old money. Getting married in December at some fancy resort in Colorado. Lucky bride. Hm.” More typing and a few clicks. “Actually, maybe he’s the lucky one. That bride looks like a supermodel, but more down to Earth. Like the girl next door on steroids. Sheesh. No wonder he wants to tie the knot."
My blood ran cold as I saw the photo on the page Derek had pulled up.
Marcus Wellington III and his fiancée, Lily Marshall, smiled up at me. But it was the second picture that caught my eye. Lower down on the page, there was a photo of a slightly younger version of Lily with her sister beaming at the camera. The caption below said Lily’s own sister was planning the wedding.
Of course she was.
And of course I recognized the face of her sister. Her sister was Emma Marshal. My Irish Flower, as Derek liked to tease.
Fuck.
7
EMMA
The Timber Vale Lodge looked like something out of a fairytale—if fairytales had valet parking and rooms starting at two thousand dollars a night, at least.
I stepped out of my rental car, immediately grateful for the heated driveway keeping the snow at bay. Between the puffy, snow-coated trees, the mountains blanketed in white, and the chill in the air, I knew I was definitely not in San Francisco anymore. Thankfully, the sun was bright and warm in a way that cut through the cold a little.
I’d been warned, but I was learning first hand about altitude adjustment as well. We were around nine thousand feet high, and even lifting my carry-on out of my Uber’s trunk had me winded. Supposedly, it could improve in as quick as a day, or it could take months.
Yay. As if I need any help feeling unathletic.
A group of guests glided past in designer ski wear, all smiles and happy faces. Meanwhile, I was pretty sure my nose had turned an attractive shade of red from the cold. My only “heavy” jacket was definitely not rated for this kind of cold, either. I had considered upgrading before the trip, but the good ones cost too much for my budget, which was currently fueled by very small wedding planning. I did occasionally pick up a few extra dollars doing freelance photography gigs, but those weren’t anything I could count on.
"Miss Marshall?" A uniformed attendant appeared at my elbow before I even approached the main steps leading up to the lobby. "Welcome to Timber Vale. May I take your bags?"
"Only if you promise to give them back!” I joked.
The attendant stared at me until I cleared my throat awkwardly.
“Sure,” I said quietly, handing over my carry-on and suitcase.
The man headed off with my bags, leaving me to lift my eyes to the resort itself. It was hard not to feel intimidated by the massive log and stone structure looming before me. It managed to look both rustic and obscenely expensive. Thick, natural wood beams and countless architectural details covered the outside of the lodge. Somewhere above, smoke curled from multiple chimneys into the crystal-clear mountain air.
An actual honest-to-god sleigh with horses stood near the entrance, apparently waiting to take guests on rides through the surrounding winter wonderland. Because of course it did.
Some deeply buried, definitely romantic and fantasy-land version of me squealed a little bit. I suppressed it as much as I could.
Fantasies set people up for disappointment, Emma. You know that.
Before “the wedding wrecker” and the subsequent Irish disaster, I probably would have already asked if I could sit in the sleigh or pet the horses. Instead, I let out a weary sigh and averted my eyes, heading for the main entrance.
My phone buzzed. Maggie.
"Are you an ice cube yet?" she asked when I answered. “Are you absolutely freaking out because your sister’s wedding is only like… two weeks away? Or is it one?”
"I'm here,” I said, laughing softly at her barrage of questions. I followed the attendant with my bags through carved wooden doors into a lobby that took my breath away. An ornate stone fireplace dominated one wall, while antler chandeliers cast warm light over leather chairs and plush sofas. A full wall of windows gave a sweeping view of the snow-capped peaks and one of the ski slopes outside. I was already daydreaming about curling up in one of the comfy chairs with a good book so I could drink in the ambiance—if planning the wedding of my life didn’t keep me too busy, at least. "It's..."