Sparrow

I didn’t even pretend to look like I knew what a vintage Valentino was. Why would a girl from my tough South Boston neighborhood know anything about couture? Ask me about coupons and how to sneak into the subway for free, and I’d tell you all about it. High fashion, though? Yeah, not for me.

I rolled my eyes and walked into the bathroom to wash my hands. If I had nicked my finger, I wouldn’t want to infuriate Brennan by staining the costly rental dress. The counter was littered with hair products and makeup, as well as creams, spa essentials and my cell phone. I jumped when the phone bleeped with a text.

Eying the group in the other room, I eased the door mostly shut.

Lucy: Still not gonna make it to class today? Boris is teaching us how to make stock. x

Me: Sorry. Caught a bug or something. Been throwing up all night. Text me the recipe when class is over.

Lucy: You got it, babe. Hope you feel better.

Me: Have a feeling the worst is yet to come. x

I put the phone down and prayed, for the millionth time that day that Lucy would be too busy to read the society page tomorrow. Troy Brennan was the kind of guy to show up in the local news for all the wrong reasons. He was trouble—hot trouble, flash-fire-on-the-stove hot trouble—and I knew that his wedding would likely be spread all over the local news like salmonella from a dubious food truck the minute he said, I do.

And me? I’d never attracted too much attention. My social life was as active as a dead turtle. I didn’t have many friends. Those I had I’d kept oblivious to my shotgun wedding. I was pretty frightened of the groom, embarrassed with myself for agreeing to do this in the first place and too confused to deal with their potential (and understandable) questions.

Sadness pierced my heart when I turned on the faucet. My fingers brushed my engagement ring under the stream of running water. It had a diamond the size of my fist at the center, and two, smaller ones on each side. The band itself was plain, a thin platinum shackle, but the weight of the bling—literally, figuratively, freaking mentally—screamed nouveau riche to the sky and back. It also yelled money, power, and look-at-me pretense.

But there was one thing it didn’t even whisper—my name.

Me, Sparrow Raynes. Twenty-two. The child of Abe and Robyn Raynes. An avid runner. A tomboy. A lover of blueberry pancakes, hot chocolate, sweet summer air and unapologetic boyfriend jeans. That kid. The girl who sat in the first row of every class and fiddled with her lunch box during school breaks because no one wanted to hang out with her. The woman who never cared about fashion. The poor chick who thought money was overrated, glitzy cars equaled small dicks, and that happiness was Irish stew and Kitchen Cutthroat reruns under the covers.

This ring belonged to someone else. A Real Housewife of Whatever-suburb. A trophy bride of certain tastes and status. A girl who knew who Valentino was and why his dresses were so goddamned expensive.

Not. Me.

I turned off the faucet and took a deep breath, running my fingers over my incredibly stiff hair.

“Just deal with it,” I prompted myself quietly. Marrying a wealthy man who was known as one of the most sought-after bachelors in Boston was hardly considered a punishment. “Not your choice, but roll with the plan.”

I closed my eyes and shook my head. First-World problem or not, the last thing I needed was for him to take care of me. A soft knock on the bathroom door made me swivel my head in its direction. Sherry’s face, plastered with makeup and a fake smile, peeked through the cracked door.

“Mr. Brennan’s here to see you,” she announced in her syrupy-sweet, insincere voice.

“It’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding,” I gritted out, clenching my fists together and allowing the monstrous ring to dig into my flesh. The pain was a welcome distraction.

“Trust me, it’s even worse luck to piss off your future husband.” I heard his iron-cold tenor cutting through the air outside the door.

I took a step back, hugging myself protectively. The door swung open, and he stepped inside, looking so much bigger than life and any of the pep talks I kept drilling into my head.

He wore a formal black three-piece suit and leather wingtips. He owned the small bathroom, sucking all air and my presence out of it. Suddenly, I felt even smaller than my already tiny frame. His icy glare peeled my walls of defense, exposing me for what I really was—a sweltering ball of nerves.

“Unfold your arms so I can see you,” Brennan ordered sharply.

I did as I was told, not out of respect, but out of fear. My arms hung at my sides as I gulped hard. He’d never looked twice at me before. Not in the eighteen years we lived in the same neighborhood or in the last ten days. This was the first time he’d acknowledged my existence this personally. The day of our wedding.

“You look beautiful.” His tone was detached.

I knew the dress was spectacular. Phrases like “mermaid silhouette” and “Queen Anne neckline” flew in my direction when I first tried it on at the bridal shop. Not that I chose it myself. Joe, the stylist, got his orders directly from my dear future husband. So did Sherry and the hair stylist whose name I couldn’t remember and even the woman who chose my jewelry for the event. I had no say about anything when it came to this wedding. Just as well, as I wasn’t exactly Bridezilla. I wanted this wedding like a bad case of gonorrhea.

“Thank you,” I finally managed to reply and despite my simmering rage, felt oddly compelled to reciprocate with, “You look nice, too.”