She knew that the label was already planning on doing an “art” shot to hide her bigger body. She knew what an “art” shot was. It was going to be a close-up of her hair or face and not much else to hide the fact that she was no longer a size zero but a size ten. Fat, according to everyone in LA except for Wesley, who only cared about whether she was building muscle and putting the right things in her body.
Oh, Wesley. Why couldn’t he love her enough to give her a chance?
If he couldn’t love her, how could he possibly expect her to love herself? She shoved her arms into her coat and headed out the door. Time to go celebrate someone else’s happy ever after. Funny how she was the most successful out of her sisters and yet was the only one that couldn’t seem to find love.
***
(Very Early) The Next Day
Gretchen stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep.
Today, she was getting married.
Today, she was going to be one half of Mr. And Mrs. Buchanan.
Today, Hunter’s secret would come out. It had to. It was their wedding day. And she would have to deal with the consequences, one way or another.
And if it didn’t come out . . . well, she’d have to deal with the consequences of that, too.
She looked over at the love of her life. He slept, face on the pillow next to hers, his hand between them as if ready to touch her, or shelter her if she needed it. The scars on his face were shadows in the moonlight, making him look haggard, but to her, he was beautiful.
She loved him. And she was utterly terrified. Terrified that maybe she was making a mistake and his secret would be as awful as she dreaded. Terrified that her wedding was going to be a monstrosity of Christmas and whatever else she’d thrown in there. Terrified that something awful was going to go wrong after a year of planning and obsessing.
Terrified that he’d get to the altar and decide that actually, no, he wasn’t interested in marrying a loudmouth, not-all-that-put-together redhead. Because living together was one thing. But marriage? Marriage was a big deal.
And they had no prenuptial agreement. She’d been the one that suggested it, because she didn’t want him to think she was after his money. He’d scoffed at the idea, and when she’d brought it up again, he’d gotten angry at her. So she’d let it die, but now she worried.
If he married her, he had to really, really want to marry her—warts and all—because she’d be entitled to a crapload of his money once the ring was on her finger. And, well, that made her nervous. What if he changed his mind? What if he resented that she hadn’t pushed harder?
What if, what if?
She slid out of bed as carefully as possible so she wouldn’t wake Hunter. It didn’t work; his fingers immediately brushed over her arm. “Gretchen?” His voice was a sexy, sleepy mumble that made her quiver all over.
“Gonna start the bread,” she told him. “I have to have it in the proofing drawer for a while so I need to begin early.”
His thumb grazed over her skin in a gentle caress. “You okay, love?”
“Yep! Just thinking about baking.” She leaned over and gave him a quick kiss. “Go back to sleep.” By the time she had her slippers and robe on, Hunter was already deep asleep again. She felt a surge of love for him—and then she felt the anxiety return. Time to go pound some dough.
An hour or so later, she had six bowls full of dough rising for panettone loaves, a coffee in hand, and her mind still wouldn’t turn off. She felt dangerously out of control—like the calm before the storm that was going to hit later. Her stomach was full of dread and she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was going to go wrong. Something always did, didn’t it?
She took her coffee and headed to her private study down the hall. It was the closest study to her favorite kitchen, and she kept her recipes and doodles in the room. She also kept Igor’s favorite bed in there, and he was curled up, sleeping, when she went in. Gretchen went to her cat and absently stroked his velvety ears.
Her wedding gift was here. The painting she’d had Sebastian, one of Hunter’s friends and one of the groomsmen, commission was finally finished, and she gazed at it, full of worry. The painting itself was amazing—it was an oil portrait of her, on her stomach on a bed of satin with the sheets artfully hiding her nudity. Sebastian had somehow managed to make her look flirty and sexy instead of the frizzy mess she normally felt she was. Her hair had a soft, tousled flip to it, and the look in her eyes was come-hither as she gazed out of the portrait.
Gretchen worried it didn’t represent her. And maybe it wasn’t enough of a wedding present. She was marrying a fricking billionaire. He was used to lavish gifts. He had ten cars of his own and at least that many houses. A frisson of worry skittered down her spine. The man could buy whatever he wanted; would he be expecting something more for their wedding-slash-Christmas than a portrait of her painted by his buddy?
Uh oh. Was she giving him the adult equivalent of a homemade present? Because she’d had his friend do the picture?
Was she being a narcissist by giving him a picture of her?
Oh god. What if it wasn’t enough of a present for Christmas? Like maybe it covered the wedding part of the day but not the Christmas part? Why did she have to slop her wedding onto Christmas like some sort of idiot? Why couldn’t she have waited until mid-January? Or February? Did it matter?
Except . . . things had dragged on for so long that she was desperate. She wanted to marry Hunter and she worried that the more it got delayed, the more it gave him a chance to change his mind about her.