At the Billionaire’s Wedding Read Online Free Page A

blame yourself. There was no way you could have known that a humble domestic appliance like a hairdryer could cause so much trouble. I’m sure it won’t take more than a day or two to recover.”
    Great. She hadn’t burned the house down, but the way Harry the Handyman was carrying on she’d done the next worst thing.
    Since Arwen set a high premium on doing things right the first time, apologizing for mistakes was one of her least favorite activities. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I hope this won’t happen if one of your hotel guests makes a similar mistake.” Being mad at herself made her bitchy and being bitchy made her more mad at herself.
    “Not at all. Everything’s new over there, as you will see when I give you a tour after lunch. You’ll feel much better after some food.” He smiled with friendly condescension. “Let me fetch you an English hairdryer so you can get ready. I’ll be back in a tick.”
    “Don’t bother.” Her hair was a lost cause unless she washed it again. And lunch sounded wonderful, even if she had to eat it with this hunky oaf. Her stomach rumbled, though she wasn’t quite hungry enough to crave cauliflower. Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding on the other hand… “How long do I have?”
    “We usually have lunch at one.” On the way out the door he turned. “I’ve never met a girl called Owen before.”
    “You still haven’t. It’s Arwen.” She spelled it out.
    “Ah, the elf. You look more like a pixie.”
    She acknowledged the remark with a perfunctory shrug. Some days she wished Tolkien had never lived.
    “I suppose you’ve heard that before.”
    “Two or three hundred times.”
    “Rule number one: if you want to be original, never joke about people’s names.” He gave a wicked little smile that made her stomach flip. “I shall be very serious when I call you Elf.”

    Almost her unruffled self—there wasn’t anything to do about hair that had gone haywire in the English climate—Arwen joined Nanny and Harry for lunch. She’d have expected a meal served in a formal dining room by a butler, but supposed that wasn’t offered when the owner wasn’t in residence. She was tickled to discover that even a casual meal at the kitchen table in company with the cook and the handyman merited fabulous old china and silver, huge starched linen napkins, and vintage Bordeaux served in crystal fine enough to shatter at a breath of wind. She sipped carefully.
    While the wine was a treat, she was appalled to discover that cauliflower in a thick white sauce was the main course of the meal.
    “Delicious, Nanny darling.” Harry, who was consuming the stuff hungrily, caught her sideways glance and winked. “Cauliflower cheese is her forte,” he explained.
    Unwilling to insult Nanny’s notion of haute cuisine, or hurt her feelings, Arwen swallowed some of the nauseating concoction while answering questions about what exactly a wedding planner did.
    “We hope to have lots of weddings here,” Harry said. “We should pick your brain.”
    “How much I do depends on the bride. Sometimes a girl has been planning her own event practically since the cradle and my job is to make her dream a reality, usually within the bounds of an impossible budget.”
    “Is Miss Sparks like that?”
    “We went to high school together and she was always pretty laid-back. She knows what she wants, but she isn’t unreasonable. Still, when you’re engaged to a billionaire, your standards are different from a professional woman who needs to squeeze every drop of value out of her hundred grand. Not that I blame my clients,” she added hastily. “Weddings are expensive.” She could have said a lot more about the demands of outrageous Bridezillas who could leach all joy out of a wedding planner’s job. She put on her best tough businesswoman expression, developed to browbeat recalcitrant caterers, florists, and banqueting managers. “This afternoon I would like an in-depth tour of Brampton House