Page 20 of Parker

Chapter fifteen

Parker Fashion House, Glasgow

Joel

Boyd is sitting, drumming his fingers on the boardroom table, his lips curled back in disgust. In one week, my mother has upset every man my father relied on. I’ve loved watching her do it. Now she is out of her cage, there will be no shutting her back in.

He stopped arguing with her around an hour ago. They all did. Every contract, deed, and document has been inspected by her sharp eye this week. The men in this room are shitting themselves.

Yesterday, she removed two of their colleagues from the building after discovering they had been taking bribes from potential tenants. Fifty years of service to Parker Industries between them, and they’re gone.

Imelda’s voice resonates around the room, her confidence ballooning every day.

“Listen to me, all of you. My husband is dead. How things were done when he was your boss will be different from how I will ask you to do them. If you don’t enjoy having a woman in charge…

” She shrugs her shoulders, then points to the door. “Leave now.”

The only chink in her armor I’ve seen came a few days ago. She’d summoned us all to the boardroom, but when I arrived, she was alone. Standing at the window with a photo in her hand. It was of her and my father in their younger years, smiling, arms linked like teenagers.

She turned as I approached, then slipped the photo into her pocket.

“I spent decades standing behind a man,” she said, her voice cool but brittle. “Now I’m leading... and I miss the silence of being unnoticed. Sometimes what you dream of isn’t what you think it is.”

Before I could answer, the others walked in, and the meeting began like nothing had happened.

***

As I look in the mirror, my mother stands behind me. My suit is crisp in navy blue, Nicky’s favorite color, and the pale pink shirt and tie soften the sharp lines. I have shined my shoes, tweaked my hair, and re-checked every detail of my outfit is exactly as my bride-to-be wants.

“Will you not reconsider, Mother, please?” I ask again.

She shakes her head sadly. “I appreciate this has all happened quickly. That love for you is something very different from what it is for me. But my mother not being at my wedding will be something I regret for years to come. I’m begging you to think about it. ”

She dusts an invisible speck from my shoulder, standing to my side so we can look at each other in the mirror.

Her eyes are red from the tears she shed this morning, begging me not to go through with this so soon after my father’s death, four months ago.

But nothing will change my mind. Nicky is the woman I want to be married to.

“Joel, you’re my only child, but I will not stand by and watch you make this horrendous mistake.

This girl is not the one. What you are feeling is not love, but attachment.

Be realistic—she’s a recovered convict who has snagged you.

Dragging you down the aisle makes perfect sense in her world, not yours. ”

“No,” I hiss. She recoils from me. This is the first time I’ve seen her vulnerable side since she stepped up within the business. “I’ll not explain myself again. Suit yourself. See you at work on Monday.”

“I’m sorry you’re not able to honeymoon,” she mumbles. “I’m complicating things, and I need you with me.”

Her words temper my anger slightly. Her reservations are completely understandable—my relationship with Nicky has moved fast—but I’m saddened she doesn’t understand or can’t move to accept my decision to marry her.

I knew she wasn’t heartless. Just terrified.

Of loss, of headlines, of me making a mistake I couldn’t take back.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “Nicky and I have years to go on romantic holidays. The two nights in the castle hotel will be perfect. Thank you for your generosity with the gift and for giving Nicky a chance in our business.” With regret, I give my mother one last hug before walking off to become a married man.

The short notice for our wedding limited our ability to find a local venue available on a Friday.

The trees are losing their leaves, and the rain falls outside —a normal fall morning in Glasgow.

A park in the city's suburbs nestles the registry office.

From the outside, it looks like nothing more than a government office.

We chose here because of the gardens; they are beautifully filled with masses of plants and trees. At this time of year, the tones of gold, orange, and brown will give us a stunning backdrop for our photographs. If it ever stops raining.

Outside the registry office, Ebony stands just beyond the line of arriving guests, phone in one hand, clipboard in the other. She wears impeccably tailored trousers, a high-neck blouse, and a coat that probably cost more than most of the guests’ outfits combined.

“No flash inside the building,” she says, voice brisk but polite. “We want soft candids, not tabloid glare. Capture emotion, not intrusion.”

I watch her work from a distance. She isn’t just here in a professional capacity.

This was personal. Her presence is part control, part containment.

She is spinning this marriage as a human-interest victory.

Parker heir finds redemption through love.

Former convict bride becomes corporate Cinderella.

It is classic damage control. Ebony hasn’t missed a trick.

She catches my gaze and nods, barely. Approval? A warning? I can’t tell. But she is already turning back to the camera crew before I can figure it out.

Whatever this wedding means to me, it means something else entirely to her. And knowing her, she already has the headline drafted.

Boyd walks beside me, stiff in his matching suit. Not that I consider him my best friend, but candidates for my best man were thin on the ground. My family trusts Boyd; he has guarded our lives for decades.

Male friends are not something I have an abundance of.

The boys I drank with in the past, city boys, have distanced themselves since my sobriety.

They will be here today with their partners to watch me get married, but our boys’ nights out are long gone.

It saddens me, but I must accept that for me to stay sober, reducing my contact with them is a necessity.

10:30 a.m. Only thirty minutes for my bride to arrive, if she is on time.

From the few months we have known each other, I’ve learned so much I love about her already. Nicky is fiercely loyal to her friend, Sophie, who’s her maid of honor today. She had a challenging childhood, and her mother’s lack of support causes her a lot of pain.

Like my own, her mother will not be attending our day, unable to put her opinions to one side and permit herself to come.

Since her release from prison, Nicky has been trying tirelessly to find employment with no success.

No employer wants to take a risk on her, even though she can prove she has conquered her demons.

While locked up, she completed a business degree, learned French to a conversational level, and worked on her own personal issues. I find her tenacity breathtaking.

My mother disliked the idea of Nicky working at Parker Fashion, but finally agreed, saying she could at least keep an eye on her.

When I told my future wife, she thanked me in every meaningful way she could. My cock twitches, excited by the memory of her riding me as her sweet juices flowed down my shaft. Later , I chastise myself. The last thing I need in the middle of my wedding ceremony is a raging boner.

Our guests congregate at the entrance to the registry office, everyone dressed to the nines. My old friends have turned out in support. Nicky sadly has few people to call friends, so the guest list was largely mine. Those who aren’t here out of loyalty came to be nosy and report back to others.

“There’s the old dog there,” my friend Cole shouts.

We attended university together and shagged our way through the dorms of Glasgow.

He strides over and slaps my shoulder in greeting.

He looks like the same arrogant fuckwit he was all those years ago, sharply dressed with enough wit to match.

“Now, mate, I can’t wait to see this girl.

Is she so good in bed that you had to marry within months to keep her?

Or have you knocked her up already?” I give him a tight smile.

The joke lands somewhere I don’t want to follow.

Not today. “See you on the other side.” He grabs my hand in celebration.

***

Everything in the small room is as we requested. The walls are plain, and an unembellished wooden desk sits at the bottom of the aisle. Twenty chairs are decorated with white covers and pale pink bows for our guests. Rose petals decorate the floor. Simple, understated, but romantic.

The celebrant smiles and waves for Boyd and me to join him at the front of the room.

As I take my position, he talks me through the ceremony while the guests take their seats.

The room buzzes with excitement as we wait for my bride to arrive.

The seconds on the clock seem to slow with each tick.

At 11:12 am, the organist signals that my lady has arrived and plays the wedding march for her entrance.

Sophie appears first, her soft pink flowing dress falling to the floor.

The chiffon sways as she walks toward me, the simple V-shaped neckline accentuating her slim figure.

In her blonde bob, she wears a band of pink roses with a classic pearl pendant at her throat.

She smiles at me, and I respond with the same.

The aisle and the room’s entrance are offset. Nicky has no one to give her away. She will make the journey to being my wife on her own. Excitement fills me as I spot her standing in the doorway. She looks phenomenal.

Crystal sparkles are scattered throughout her dark curls that are pinned high.

As she walks across the pink petals, her full-length lace dress skims every curve and then flares slightly from her knees.

The neckline is high, with sheer lace covering the exposed skin on her chest and arms. She arrives at my side, and I take her hands in mine.

I’m relieved to see her make-up is natural.

She hasn’t painted over her looks. The woman standing before me is the woman I love. And I can’t wait to make her mine.

***

My foot to the floor, my red flying machine weaves through the country roads, heading for our destination. After the ceremony, we had a meal with our guests at a local restaurant and then left to begin our romantic weekend retreat.

I can’t wait to get my wife on her own and naked. Since I said I do, my hands have not left her body. The need to be touching her is all-consuming.

Knox Castle sits on the edge of a private loch, nestled in the highlands of Scotland.

As castles go, it’s small and intimate. It’s at times like these that I appreciate my family’s wealth, as being able to reserve the whole place for the weekend with staff is something most can only dream of.

The driveway to the castle meanders through acres of manicured gardens.

Nicky beams at me as she points out various flowers and wildlife.

Arriving at the property, we stare wordlessly around the grass area in front, where no less than thirty highland stags are relaxing in the evening sun.

Their horns are long and jagged; their shaggy coats look rough and warm.

Some raise their heads to watch our car arrive, but most ignore us as if we aren’t even there.

“Do you think they will attack us?” Nicky asks, her eyes wide with nerves.

Reaching over, I take her hand as I pull the car to a stop at the front door.

“I’ve never seen a deer in real life.” Her eyes meet mine before dropping away, her upbringing so different.

“They wouldn’t be here if they were dangerous,” I assure her. “My family have spent months in remote parts of the highlands. No one has ever been murdered by a stag.”

She giggles, her worries placated for the moment.

A small man appears at the top of the stone steps to the front door. He’s dressed in traditional Scottish tweed, a green and brown tartan plaid over one shoulder, with short tartan trousers called trews and cream socks up to his knees.

He bounces down the steps with a huge smile plastered across his face. His rosy cheeks and riot of dirty-blond hair stuffed under a tweed bonnet give him an almost caricature appearance, like someone you would expect to see being depicted as Scottish in a children’s cartoon.

I smile at my wife in reassurance as we step out of the car onto the gravel, and it crunches under our shoes.

“Good evening, sir and madam,” the little Scotsman says in a thick accent, which I find hard to follow. “Welcome to Knox Castle. I’m Hamish, and I will be your butler for the weekend. Anything you need at all, let me know and I will attend to it.”

“Thank you, Hamish,” I respond. “Could you park our car, please? And take the cases to our room.”

“Of course, sir.” He smiles. “Mrs. Cotter, our head housekeeper, is inside, ready to show you around.”

Taking Nicky’s hand once more, I lead my new wife up the stairs toward our magical weekend as my phone beeps with a message. Ebony.

PR sorted. Story and photos online. What a fantastic day. This looks good for us.

I almost smile. Almost. With Ebony, every ribbon comes with a string. And I don’t see her as part of us in this marriage, even if she does.