Charlotte’s oldest brother, Grant.
Fucking great.
That asshole is the one who spots me first, glowering at me with murder in his eyes. Charlotte sees me next, unmistakable relief on her face when our gazes connect.
“Perry! Finally! Everyone, the groom is here!” Mother cries, and everybody goes into swift motion. A woman with bright red hair comes over to me and grabs my arm, tugging on it as she glares at me.
“Hurry! You need to get into position!”
“And who are you?” I ask as she half walks, half drags me over to the arbor where Charlotte and her dickish brother are standing.
“I’m Miranda. Your wedding planner.”
Turns out Miranda is a bossy bitch, pushing me around and complaining about my lateness and how I’ve screwed up the entire evening’s schedule. Ignoring her, I walk up to Grant, his expression barely restrained fury as he watches my approach.
“Thanks for helping out,” I tell him, my tone flippant.
I could give a shit about what this guy thinks about me. He’s a prick.
“You’re lucky you showed,” he murmurs, his tone dark. Menacing. “If you hadn’t, I would’ve hunted you down and strung you up by your balls in the middle of Times Square.”
A shudder moves through me at the thought.
“Hey, it’s not my fault I was late. I texted Charlotte and let her know traffic was awful.” Not sure why I bother trying to explain myself to this guy. He’s not listening to me. In fact, he walks away mid-conversation, leaving me standing there talking to no one.
Jesus.
Miranda has already hustled Charlotte away, and I watch as they walk over to Reginald Lancaster. The wedding planner arranges them so they’re standing side by side, their arms hooked together and my mood diminishes when Reginald obviously snaps at Miranda.
The wedding planner is completely unruffled by his outburst—I’m sure she deals with people exploding on her every day. But I note the way Charlotte’s face pales. She doesn’t like it when her father yells.
I don’t either.
Those Lancasters—they’re a fun bunch.
Winston makes his way over to where I’m standing, stopping directly in front of me. “You didn’t get my calls?”
I pull my phone out, checking it quickly before I hold it out to him so he can read the screen. “I don’t have any missed calls from you. Not from anyone.”
“That’s odd.” Winston scowls. “Your fiancée was very worried about you.”
“Please,” I scoff, shoving my phone in my pocket. “She’d probably be glad if I didn’t show. Then she wouldn’t have to go through with this.”
I’m joking.
Sort of.
“I don’t know about that.” Winston glances around, his voice lowering. “She was visibly upset when you didn’t make an appearance and that wedding planner forced her to start the rehearsal without you. I think Charlotte believed you might’ve run out on her.”
Really?
I remember her telling me about that one guy, and I immediately feel like shit. Did she actually think I’d leave her the night before our wedding? I may be a dick sometimes, but I’m not that much of a dick.
My almost-bride has abandonment issues, I know this. Her father is the worst. Her brothers aren’t much better. The guys she’s been with—and I really doubt there have been many—all seem like a bunch of assholes.
Well, only the one. He did a number on her.
The bar is already set pretty low, but I know I can be a better man for her. I am the better man. Despite how our situation started out, I want to be there for her. Protect her. Take care of her. Make jokes when she’s sad so I can put a smile on her face, knowing I’m the one responsible for that.