The Wedding Game Read online

  OTHER TITLES BY MEGHAN QUINN

  All her books can be read on Kindle Unlimited

  GETTING LUCKY SERIES

  That Second Chance

  That Forever Girl

  That Secret Crush

  BRENTWOOD BASEBALL BOYS

  The Locker Room

  The Dugout

  The Lineup

  The Trade

  The Change Up

  The Setup

  MANHATTAN MILLIONAIRES

  The Secret to Dating Your Best Friend’s Sister

  Diary of a Bad Boy

  Boss Man Bridegroom

  THE DATING BY NUMBERS SERIES

  Three Blind Dates

  Two Wedding Crashers

  One Baby Daddy

  Back in the Game (Novella)

  THE BLUE LINE DUET

  The Upside of Falling

  The Downside of Love

  THE PERFECT DUET

  The Left Side of Perfect

  The Right Side of Forever

  THE BINGHAMTON BOYS SERIES

  Co-Wrecker

  My Best Friend’s Ex

  Twisted Twosome

  The Other Brother

  STAND-ALONE TITLES

  The Modern Gentleman

  Dear Life

  The Virgin Romance Novelist Chronicles

  Newly Exposed

  The Mother Road

  BOX SET SERIES

  The Bourbon Series

  Love and Sports Series

  Hot-Lanta Series

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2021 by Meghan Quinn

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542025195

  ISBN-10: 1542025192

  Cover design by Caroline Teagle Johnson

  To my wife, for putting up with our very own DIY wedding, and to our bridesmaids, for being warriors with glue guns

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  THADDEUS

  First things first: this story isn’t about me.

  Well . . . technically, it is about me, but it isn’t about me.

  It’s about my brother, Alec Baxter. Ever hear of the gorgeous bastard? He’s the top divorce lawyer in New York City.

  Cunning, devilishly handsome—just like me—has big hands, and scowls at almost any mention of a hot dog. Not a fan—he doesn’t get it, never will.

  He’s my best friend, my partner in crime, the guy I look up to, and my one and only hero . . . despite talking to him maybe every three months, barely seeing him on holidays, and waiting weeks just for a simple response to a text message.

  Sounds like a one-sided brother-ship, right? Kind of is, but hey, that’s okay. The man is busy. And he spent most of our childhood making sure I wasn’t completely scarred by our parents and their inability to shield their children from their awful marriage. They really had a habit of airing out their grievances like dirty panties on laundry day.

  I can still remember Alec charging into my room whenever our parents started going at it, then leading me down the fire escape of our Park Avenue apartment and taking me to the bakery down the street. We would share a cannoli and just stare at each other, both knowing what was happening a mere block away but never talking about it.

  But enough with the sob fest—that’s not what this story is about. No, it’s about the complete and utter betrayal I’ve suffered at the hands of the aforementioned brother. My own kin, my own blood, my hero . . .

  He may be my best friend, but he’s betrayed me in every way possible.

  Hefty words, right?

  Fighting words.

  Well, I speak the truth.

  What happened? Let me give you a little prelude to the disaster that my life has turned into.

  It all started when I found out my beautiful fiancée, Naomi, is pregnant. I had to make some hard decisions, and the wedding of my dreams—yes, my dreams—had to be swapped out for a wedding on a budget. I needed to save for a home, not the event of the century.

  It was a tough pill to swallow. I may have hyperventilated into the drawer of my office desk a few times as I tried to come to terms with it all.

  But then one day, after a good breathing session into beautifully stained mahogany, I thought of something: freebies.

  I’m a corporate-event planner for Golf Galaxy, Manhattan’s premier golf range and party center for executives. For all your corporate-event needs, please contact Thaddeus Baxter.

  I rub elbows with the wealthy on a daily basis, and I figured, why not take advantage of that. Ask around, see if I can find any perks from my job.

  Unfortunately, all the asses I’ve been kissing for the past few years want nothing to do with me. Can’t possibly see why. I’m charming—slightly dramatic, perhaps—but I can make the best margarita when pressed to, and I’ll even shake my maracas when handing it over. And when I say maracas, I mean my burly balls. Ahem, my nutsac.

  An absolute delight of a gentleman. That’s me.

  So, once again reduced to a deeply depressed state, I found myself hunched over my computer—leftover margarita from an event in hand, scanning through wedding websites—when I saw it.

  The answer to all my prayers.

  It was as if God had parted the clouds and, with his lightning-striking finger, booped me on the nose and pointed me in the right direction.

  The Wedding Game was casting.

  TV’s favorite wedding reality show was looking for couples to take on the challenge of creating a wedding on a budget. Tulle, roses, bunting, tea lights, tuxes—all there, ready to be pulled together into the best wedding ever.

  Sign me up.

  But being in the spotlight of every bridezilla’s dream wasn’t my main reason for filling out the application.

  You can bet your belly button–caressing tits there was a prize.

  You’ll never guess what it was. I’m not even going to give you a chance to figure it out.

  It wasn’t your typical Sandals destination honeymoon with all-you-can-eat buffets.

  Nope. It was a GD penthouse in New York City.

  Penthouse!

  The dream of all dreams.

  Before I even read the fine print, I had the application fill
ed out and ready to send.

  So what does this have to do with the kind of betrayal that would make the Game of Thrones cast blush?

  The number one rule of The Wedding Game: you have to have at least one family member on your team. Given my childhood’s emotional baggage, there was only one person I could rely on.

  Alec.

  And that, my friends, is where the betrayal comes in.

  Don’t believe my brother could be so coldhearted as to deceitfully ensnare his own flesh and blood?

  Guess again.

  He did.

  Just see for yourself . . .

  CHAPTER ONE

  LUNA

  “Look out, she’s coming in hot . . . with the glue.” I chuckle as I squeeze my glue gun, releasing the smallest dollop of glue before applying a bead to a vest I’ve been working on for the past twenty-four hours.

  I’m not normally one to glue-gun beads. I like to sew them in like the proper crafter I am, but when your favorite waiter down at the singing diner begs you to jazz up his vest on short notice for his first solo performance, you break the rules.

  “Ouch!” I yelp when the glue singes my already-calloused fingertips. You would think at this point in my life I would have no nerves left in the tips of my fingers, but apparently there are still some in there. “You little beaded bastard,” I whisper to the vest as I sit back to evaluate my work.

  Not too shabby for a quick glue job. I still have some gold beads to add around the collar, which I’ll need my special glasses for, but before I snap those on, I need a tiny break.

  I lean back in my chair and grin when I see what time it is. Six thirty means only one thing: The Crafty Duo is on.

  Eeep!

  After locating the remote in record time, I flip the TV on and change the channel from Bravo (my roommate Farrah’s favorite) to the DIY Network. Farrah and I have been best friends since high school. We have one giant thing in common—a passion for expressing our creativity, Farrah being in fashion—but that’s pretty much it. In every other way, we’re polar opposites. I tend to try to bring joy to every aspect of life, while she can be rather aggressive but also outgoing. The great thing about our relationship is we can take my “glass half-full” attitude and mix it with her “glass half-empty” one and offer a full glass of life to the world when we’re together. So when we both decided to move to New York City, we couldn’t think of better roommates than each other.

  The show comes on, and the theme song rings through the living room. I shimmy along while I prepare myself for the next round of beads.

  I love crafting.

  Actually, that’s a lie: I don’t just love it. I live for it.

  You know the saying “jack of all trades, master of none”? Well, that’s me, except I’m the jack of all trades, queen of every one.

  Need me to crochet, knit, needlepoint, sew? I’m your girl.

  Looking for someone to bead, bedazzle, jewel, mold? Call me up.

  In search of a seamstress, an embosser, a lettering expert? Hey, right here! *Waves*

  I am multifaceted, talented in every way, and I have creativity spilling out of my pores, begging to be used every day. It’s why I own one of the top Etsy shops in the world, why I’m the first crafter under thirty to win a Webby for my outstanding YouTube channel, why I can afford an apartment in Manhattan, and why I’m highly sought after to bedazzle showtime vests in a matter of twenty-four hours.

  I slip on my glasses and, like a grandma, flip over the magnifier that’s attached so I can get a much closer look at the work I’m doing.

  This is a typical Friday night for me: hunched over my craft desk, glasses strung around my head, TV on in the background, tea at my side. I don’t get out much, I definitely don’t date much, and I sure as hell can’t remember the last time I saw a naked man, but that’s okay, because I’m thirty, not really flirty, but I’m glittery and thriving.

  “Are you getting married in the next few months? Are you crafty? Do you have what it takes to plan a wedding on a ten-thousand-dollar budget in New York City?”

  I know that voice.

  I crave that voice.

  My head pops up from the vest, and I lift my glasses to focus on the TV.

  It’s her. The goddess of all crafts.

  Heart eyes pour from me as I take in the one and only beautifully talented Mary DIY.

  You know how Martha Stewart took the world by storm in the nineties? And then Chip and Joanna Gaines came along and enthralled us with shiplap and barn doors before conquering every Target in the country? Well, Mary DIY is the next trend. She rose from her humble beginnings as a Michaels employee, where she used her employee discount to try out every form of crafting there is. Since then, she has built an empire around her YouTube channel, Mary DIY.

  She’s creative and talented, and I like to think—late at night, when my fingers are numb from needlepoint—that we’re best friends and frolic together in meadows of twine and lace. I know if we ever meet that we’d get along so swimmingly that we would exchange phone numbers and text each other funny crafting memes.

  (I might have some saved in my phone . . . can never be too prepared.)

  Despite Mary DIY being my soul sister—though she doesn’t know it—that’s not what has me turning up the TV. It’s The Wedding Game.

  “We’re looking for fun, unique couples willing to put their relationship to the test while we put you through a slew of challenges to see if you and your family can create a beautiful wedding, under budget. America will vote for the winner, and the grand prize is a penthouse in the heart of Manhattan, the perfect place to start a family after the ‘I dos.’”

  “Holy . . . hell,” I mutter, my heart racing, my mind swirling with ideas. “Cohen needs to apply.”

  I pace the compact distance of my apartment, waiting for my brother and his fiancé to arrive, repeating my talking points over and over in my head.

  This is the opportunity of a lifetime.

  You can skip the courthouse wedding and actually have the wedding you’ve always dreamed of.

  With my help, you can win.

  You can get out of Queens, live near me, cut the commute.

  You can start that family you’ve always wanted . . .

  I can feel it in my bones: I was meant to see that commercial. And all the hand lettering I’ve been practicing has to have been for a reason.

  I just have to convince Cohen first.

  Yes, convince. Let’s just say my big brother keeps his feelings to himself, and he definitely doesn’t like attention.

  But I also know his deepest desires when it comes to being a family man, getting married, and having that magical wedding that people talk about for years to come.

  But because he’s in construction and his fiancé is a public school teacher here in the city, they decided to cut out the cost of a wedding and just get married in a courthouse.

  Ugh, a travesty. Especially since I know that when my brother gets a shot of tequila in him, he unhinges his perpetually stiff shoulders and actually lets loose.

  Knock. Knock.

  My head whips to the door and anxiety washes over me like a tidal wave, drowning me in shaky breaths.

  Steal yourself, woman. This is just your brother.

  My brother, who deserves this more than anyone, who’d win with my help. I have no doubt that I could create a wedding that not only America would love, but one that would reflect the strong, loving relationship that my brother shares with his fiancé, Declan.

  With a deep breath, I open the door to find the two most important men in my life standing on the other side.

  “Hey, sis,” Cohen says, stepping up and giving me a hug and a kiss to the top of my head. “How are you?”

  I squeeze him back, loving how the top of my head just reaches the bottom of his chin, which makes for the perfect hug. “Great.” I step out of his embrace and quickly wrap my arms around Declan, squeezing him just as tightly.

  I can still re
member the day Cohen came out to me. It was a windy, rainy day in Connecticut, on the coast where our parents would take us to vacation. The wind was so harsh that it felt like the house was going to blow away. Lightning flashed and thunder roared like a war in the sky just outside our window, and in the midst of it all, while playing two-person Uno, Cohen paused, looked up at me, and said, “Luna, I’m gay.”

  I was twelve; he was sixteen.

  I blinked. His eyes welled up with tears.

  I set my cards down. He set his down.

  I pulled him into a hug. He cried on my shoulder.

  I rubbed his back. He held on to me like a lifeline.

  I don’t remember most of what I rambled in response, but I do remember saying “I love you so much” over and over again until he stopped crying and pulled away, eyes puffy and red.

  He told me he was too afraid to tell Mom and Dad. I told him that no matter what, I would stick by his side—I would be his rock.

  Cohen was gay. I never expected it. I never envisioned having that conversation with him, but in that moment, I knew I would do whatever it took to make sure the worry etched on his brow would never stop him from having the life he deserved.

  When he told our parents, I held his hand.

  When they blinked a few times, I squeezed his hand tighter.

  When they wrapped him up in their arms, I held on to him as he cried into my shoulder.

  When they told him they would love him no matter what, I gave him a tiny “I told you so” nudge.

  When he decided to move to New York City, I followed closely behind, with Farrah on my heels.

  And when he introduced me to Declan, I pushed my brother to the side and welcomed the handsome Chinese American schoolteacher with a heart of pure gold right into my arms.

  “How’s my favorite fifth-grade teacher?” I ask now, my mind returning to the present as I pull away from Declan.

  “Good. I only had to break up one fight today during recess, so I call it a win.”

  I usher them inside and shut the door. I watch as Cohen—like always—takes in my apartment, shaking his head.

  “When are you going to hang pictures instead of ribbons on your wall?”

  As everyone knows, Manhattan apartments aren’t very spacious, at least not the affordable ones. So when Farrah and I were looking for a place to live, all we cared about was scoring two bedrooms in a decent area. The rest we could figure out.