“Okay, well, I obviously can’t do that one,” I say, holding my arms out toward my sister.
Killian thinks about it for a moment. “I think you can,” he says.
“Not a chance,” I reply. “I am not hosting a celebrity wedding.”
“Now that I think of it…” Anna retorts, her mouth twistedin concentration. “Everything for this one is already done. They have their own wedding planner, and it’s going to be quite simple. Not many guests. A very private affair.”
“You can’t be serious,” I say.
With that, Anna turns around and picks up a brown leather-bound binder off the counter. Then she thrusts it against my chest with a smirk on her face. “Actually, I am serious, and I think you could do it.”
“What the hell made you change your mind?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Killian has a point. This could be a good experience for you. It would let you see just how much goes into these events and how much the guests love them. Barclay brings people joy again, andnotin the same way it did when Killian lived here.”
He chuckles mischievously behind her.
“You really think this a good idea?” I ask. “You want me to deal with the guests and manage the entire event. You wantmeto be the face of Barclay Manor?” I ask, gesturing to my unkempt hair and shaggy beard. My sister tilts her head and ruffles my hair with a motherly gesture.
“The Declan I remember used to love to be the life of the party. The Declan I remember used to be happy. He used to smile. He might have even believed in true love. You might not remember that, so maybe this will jog your memory. Do we have a deal or not?”
My big sister stares up at me with her spine straight and her head held high, a look of fierce determination on her face. I mean, how can I say no to that?
“Fine,” I mutter flatly as I take the binder from her. “Joke’s on you.” I laugh as I start to flip through it. “Because if I fuck this up, nobody will want to have their wedding here anyway.”
Chapter Three
Declan
The sound of tires on gravel shakes me from my dreamless sleep. I force my eyes open, and as the light of the room cracks through my lids, I stare across the dusty studio at a blurry pile of green bottles strewn across the floor. With a groan, I roll to my back.
Just then, I remember that I stayed up far too late and drank far too much last night.
“I’m a daft idiot,” I mutter to absolutely no one. I only binge drink when I’m under a lot of stress, and seeing as how I am about to host an entire bloody celebrity wedding at my house, I’d say the stress levels are pretty high.
The sound of a car door slamming outside jolts my eyes open wide.
Oh, fuck.
They’re here.
My head wobbles and aches as I bolt off of the bed in my studio, climbing to my feet and waiting for the oxygen to reach the top of my head. Or wherever the fuck it belongs. In a mad dash, I tear off my clothes, replacing them with what I assume are clean ones, giving them a quick sniff before throwing them on. I kick over the green bottles as I rush to the door, padding quicklydown the hall to the lavatory.
Another car door slams in the distance as I wash my face and quickly brush my teeth.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’m late.
Glancing down at my phone, I see that it’s nearly one in the afternoon. I’m going to lose this bet before it even starts. My head is still pounding, and my stomach lurches as I rush out of my room, semi-presentable, and down the stairs toward the entrance of the house.
After Killian moved out and my sister renovated the manor for events, we sectioned off the eastern portion of the house so that I would have a place to live separate from where random strangers, guests, and employees would be meandering. When there are no events going on, I have the entire place to myself, save for a few of the staff who stick around most of the time.
Once I slip into the central part of the house, I hear voices outside of the wedding guests who have just arrived. It sounds like an American man and the familiar soft mumblings of what I assume is a British man.
After quickly fixing my hair, I pull open the main door of the manor and greet my new guests.
I can do this, I can do this, I can do this.
Nerves and anxiety lay claim to my insides, fueled by a terrible hangover and the fact that I haven’t entertained or been the least bit social in a very, very long time.
