We Are Us

Chapter 31 New York City

Three Months Later

“You’re meeting with the wedding pla

And your mother. “Yes. What do you think, do I look okay?” I shift anxiously in my Jimmy Choo shoes, as beautiful as they are uncomfortable, watching his face for any sign of disapproval.

I haven’t forgotten his parent’s unequivocal objection to our engagement. And although I understand their perspective—their only son proposing to a girl they barely know, in front of the girl who’s already like a daughter to them—but it still chafes. I am determined to win Mrs. Stockton over.

My dress is probably the least of my concerns though. After all, Tucker bought everything I’m wearing and most of the clothes now hanging in my closet. Not long after we moved in together, he’d insisted on reenacting that scene in Pretty Woman—the one with Julia Roberts trying on clothes and Richard Gere either approving or rejecting each outfit.

It’s not as much fun as they made it look. I felt like a ma

But Tucker’s fiancée, Poppy soon-to-be-Stockton, does and can. And that’s who I am now. Because of Tucker, I’m becoming the woman I’ve always wanted to be.

I wear pretty dresses to glamorous parties.

I live in a home filled with beautiful things.

I drink coffee, not wine, from a mug without a single chip.

I am building a life with a man who loves me. A man who will never abandon me.

And… when the director of TeenCharter called with the news that they were expanding into New York City and looking for a programming coordinator, I was able to give notice at the marketing company where I was in the management training program and take a significant pay cut to do something that actually makes a difference in people’s lives.

Now, Tucker’s lips curve into a smile and he brushes a stray lock of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on my neck. “You look beautiful,” he says. I kiss him as a wave of relief washes through me. Not quite enough to drown my nerves, but enough to propel me out of the closet and into a cab.

I want our wedding to be above reproach. So perfect that no one will have any excuse to criticize Tucker’s choice of bride. Which is why I asked his mother to help plan our wedding. The best way to silence someone’s objection is to make them a part of the process. Cecelia immediately hired Xenia, Manhattan’s premier wedding pla

We sit in the formal dining room, though the trays of finger sandwiches and assorted crudités arranged on the sideboard go ignored.

“Let’s discuss locations, shall we?” Xenia’s voice is vaguely European, although I can’t pinpoint the country.

I’ve been poring over bridal magazines and stalking wedding websites. I have a notebook full of notes with me and a Pinterest board ready to show them. “I was thinking maybe Central Park. Or the Rainbow Room at Rockefeller—”

Cecelia interrupts. “My son will be married at the Metropolitan Club, of course.”

My face flushes with embarrassment. How could I be so stupid? I hadn’t even considered the private, old money social club on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Sixtieth Street, originally founded in the late 1800s by J.P. Morgan and a few other prominent industrialists, whose names are well known to this day. Vanderbilt, Whitney, Roosevelt.

According to Tucker, the men of his family have been members of the Metropolitan Club for over one hundred years. When he brings me there, it’s easy to imagine a time when elegant horses would have trotted along a cobblestoned Fifth Avenue and turned onto Sixtieth Street, coming to a halt outside the Sanford White designed building. With its tall Corinthian columns and intricate wrought iron gates, it’s a throwback to a different era, the kind of place I never would have known existed if not for Tucker.

Not just anyone can have a wedding at the Metropolitan Club. Exclusive and elegant, it’s the perfect place.

Thank God Cecelia is here. Who knows how many mistakes I would have made on my own?

Xenia makes a note in her Hermes portfolio. “Of course. Any thoughts on the menu?”

“Oh. Um, yes, I—”

“I’ve already arranged to have a private tasting with the chef, but we’re thinking lobster, Kobe beef, and duck as the proteins.”

“Lovely. How about the date?”

“Tucker and I—”

At this, my future mother-in-law turns to me, her hand hovering over my forearm. “I’m sure you both believe a long engagement is best, right?”

I nod shakily. At this point, I don’t trust myself to say my own name. And if Tucker takes issue with it, I’ll tell him the delay is due to scheduling rather than his mother’s insistence.

She flips through her calendar, murmuring things like “that’s the month we’ll be in Gstaad, we’d hate to miss the Grand Prix in Monaco, we’ll be on the yacht for much of the summer.” Finally, she taps a manicured fingernail on a page at the very end of her agenda, eighteen months away.

“What do you think, dear?”

I swallow the heavy knot of uncertainly in my throat. “That’s perfect.”

Later, when I share the wedding details with Tucker, he only frowns for a moment at the far off date before looking at me with open admiration shining from his eyes. “Come here,” he says, pulling me into his arms.

I exhale a relieved sigh, nestling into his embrace.

Tucker lowers his mouth to my ear, his breath sending a shiver down my spine. “I can’t wait to make you mine, forever.”