A Beaumont Christmas Wedding. Sarah M. Anderson
am I going to get to replace you? Out of the two hundred people who’ll be at the wedding and the six hundred who’ll be at the reception, you know how many I invited? My parents, my grandma Lina, my uncle Larry and aunt Penny, and my parents’ neighbors. Eleven people. That’s it. That’s all I have. And you.”
Whitney didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want to do this, not after last night. But Jo was one of her few friends. Someone who didn’t care about Whitney Wildz or Growing Up Wildz or even that horrible Christmas album she’d put out, Whitney Wildz Sings Christmas, Yo.
She didn’t want to disappoint her friend.
“Honestly,” Jo said, “there’s going to be so many egos on display that I doubt people will even realize who you are. Don’t take that the wrong way.”
“I won’t,” Whitney said with a smile. She could do this. She could pull off normal for a few weeks. She couldn’t compete with that guest list. She was just the maid of honor. Who would notice her, anyway? Besides Matthew, that was...
“And you’re right. It won’t be like that last fund-raiser.”
“Exactly,” Jo said, sounding encouraging. “You were the headliner there—of course people were watching you. Matthew only acted like he did because he’s a perfectionist. I truly believe you’ll be fine.” She pulled into a parking lot. “It’ll be fine.”
“All right,” Whitney agreed. She didn’t quite believe the sentiment but she couldn’t disappoint Jo. “It will be fine.”
“Good.”
They got out. Whitney stared at the facade of the Bridal Collection. This was it. Once she was in the dress, there was no backing out.
Oh, who was she kidding? There was no backing out anyway. Jo was right. They were the kind of people who didn’t have huge social circles or celebrities on speed dial. They were horse people. She and Jo got along only because they both loved animals and they both had changed their ways.
“You’re really having a wedding with Grammy winners and crown princes?”
“Yup,” Jo said, shaking her head. “Honestly, though, it’s not the over-the-top wedding that matters. It’s the marriage. Besides,” she added as they went inside, “David Guetta is going to be doing the music for the reception. How cool is that?”
“Pretty cool,” Whitney agreed. She didn’t recognize the name, but then, why would she? She wasn’t famous anymore.
Maybe Jo was right. No one would care about her. She’d managed to stay out of the headlines for almost three years, after all—that was a lifetime in today’s 24/7 news cycle. In that time, there’d been other former teen stars who’d grabbed much bigger headlines for much more scandalous reasons.
They walked into the boutique to find Matthew pacing between rows of frothy white dresses and decorations that were probably supposed to be Christmas trees but really looked more as though someone had dipped pipe cleaners in glitter. The whole place was so bright it made her eyes hurt.
Matthew—wearing dark gray trousers and a button-up shirt with a red tie under his deep green sweater—was so out of place that she couldn’t not look at him. She wouldn’t have thought it possible, but he looked even better today than he had the other night. As she appreciated all the goodness that was Matthew Beaumont, he looked up from his phone.
Their eyes met, and her breath caught in her throat. The warmth in his eyes, the curve to his lips, the arch in his eyebrow—heat flooded Whitney’s cheeks. Was he happy to see her? Or was she misreading the signals?
Then he glanced at Jo. “Ladies,” he said in that confident tone of his. It should have seemed wholly out of place in the midst of this many wedding gowns, but on him? “I was just about to call. Jo, they’re waiting for you.”
“Where’s the wedding planner?” Whitney asked. If the planner wasn’t here, then she and Jo weren’t late. Late was being the last one in.
“Getting Jo’s dress ready.”
Dang. Whitney tried to give her friend a smile that was more confident than she actually felt. Jo threaded her way back through racks of dresses and disappeared into a room.
Then Whitney and Matthew were alone. Were they still almost flirting? Or were they back to where they’d been at dinner? If only she hadn’t fallen into him. If only he hadn’t recognized her. If only...
“Is there someone else who can help me try my dress on?”
“Jo’s dress requires several people to get her into it,” he said. Then he bowed and pointed the way. “Your things are in here.”
“Thanks.” She held her head high as she walked past him.
“You’re welcome.” His voice trickled over her skin like a cool stream of water on a too-hot day.
She stepped into a dressing room—thankfully, one with a door. Once she had that door shut, she sagged against it. That voice, that face were even better today than they’d been last night. Last night, he’d been trying to cover his surprise and anger. Today? Today he just looked happy to see her.
She looked at the room she’d essentially locked herself in. It was big enough for a small love seat and a padded ottoman. A raised dais stood in front of a three-way mirror.
And there, next to the mirrors, hung a dress. It was a beautiful dove-gray silk gown—floor length, of course. Sleeveless, with sheer gathered silk forming one strap on the left side. The hemline was flared so that it would flow when she walked down the aisle, no doubt.
It was stunning. Even back when she’d walked the red carpet, she’d never worn a dress as sophisticated as this. When she was still working on Growing Up Wildz, she’d had to dress modestly—no strapless, no deep necklines. And when she’d broken free of all the restrictions that had hemmed her in for years, well, “classic” hadn’t been on her to-do list. She’d gone for shock value. Short skirts. Shorter skirts. Black. Torn shirts that flashed her chest. Offensive slogans. Safety pins holding things together. Anything she could come up with to show that she wasn’t a squeaky-clean kid anymore.
And it’d worked. Maybe too well.
She ran her hands over the silk. It was cool, smooth. If a dress could feel beautiful, this did. A flicker of excitement started to build. Once, before it’d been a chore, she’d liked to play dress-up. Maybe this would be fun. She hoped.
Several pairs of shoes dyed to match were lined up next to the dress—some with four-inch heels. Whitney swallowed hard. There’d be no way she could walk down the aisle in those beauties and not fall flat on her face.
Might as well get this over with. She stripped off her parka and sweater, then the boots and jeans. She caught a glimpse of herself in the three-way mirror—hard not to with those angles. Ugh. The socks had to go. And...
Her bra had straps. The dress did not.
She shucked the socks and, before she could think better about it, the bra. Then she hurried into the dress, trying not to pull on the zipper as the silk slipped over her head with a shushing sound.
The fabric puddled at her feet as she tried to get the zipper pulled up, but her arms wouldn’t bend in that direction. “I need help,” she called out, praying that an employee or a seamstress or anyone besides Matthew Beaumont was out there.
“Is it safe to come in?” Matthew asked from the other side of the door.
Oh, no. Whitney made another grab at the zipper, but nothing happened except her elbow popped. Ow. She checked her appearance. Her breasts were covered. It was just the zipper....
“Yes.”
The door opened and Matthew walked in. To his credit, he didn’t enter as if he owned the place. He came in with his eyes cast down before he took a cautious glance around. When he spotted