by Hayleigh Sol
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
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Copyright © 2021 Hayleigh Sol, All rights reserved
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Prologue
When I first met Aaron Daley, the new transfer student from our rival high school knocked me off my feet. Literally.
Garbed in his catcher’s gear—shin guards, padded chest protector, face cage pushed up on his forehead—he was laughing over his shoulder at something one of his teammates had said and failed to see me in front of him. Despite the absurdly huge diorama depicting the D–Day beach landing at Normandy I’d been carrying for my World History class. Since my center of gravity was already considerably shifted, his squat frame dropped me like a wrecking ball.
He did lunge to help me keep the project from being completely destroyed, which we managed to do—at the expense of my knees. They hit the concrete outside the boys’ locker room. Real hard.
The pain was instantaneous and brought stinging tears to my eyes, but I was more concerned with checking the diorama, with its action figures in two different colors to represent the two sides of the conflict, the Higgins boats I’d spent hours molding out of clay, the model airplanes I’d strung on fishing line at the top of the open box, and the shifting sand I’d “borrowed” from a playground for the beach. Some of the sand was sliding into the ocean but, overall, everything was intact.
Using the high sides of the 4’x4’ box, I started to push myself up from the ground when a hand gripped my arm. The boy who’d knocked me over was trying to help me up, tripping over apologies as he did so.
“Are you okay? I’m really sorry I didn’t see you there. Oh, shit. Man, your knees…”
I followed his gaze down, frowning when I saw the grit mixed in with the blood.
Great, now I have to figure out where to put my stupid humongous project while I clean up in the bathroom.
No way in hell did I trust any of the monkeys I went to school with to leave it outside unattended.
Hands on hips, I looked at the baboon responsible for my current predicament. “Watch my project so I can go clean up, okay? It took me all freakin’ weekend, so don’t let anyone mess with it.” What I didn’t say was that my father had promised to help me with the project that would count for twenty percent of my grade but, as had become Dad’s habit since moving out a few months back, he’d stood me up.
The baboon’s eyebrows raised at my bossy tone but he nodded his head.
“Thanks,” I mumbled grudgingly before I walked to the girls’ locker room nearby. Luckily, school was out for the day, so I didn’t have to race to beat the bell. I did need to get a move on before Mr. Disben left his room for the day; there was no way I was carting this thing back tomorrow morning.
I’d done the best I could for my knees with school–grade soap and scratchy paper towels, sighing over the mess that would look awful for Winter Formal in a few weeks. I didn’t have a date but I was going with my best friends and had already picked out a short–skirted Stella McCartney knockoff I couldn’t wait to wear as we busted some major moves on the dancefloor.
Too bad my knees looked like they’d been attacked by a cheesegrater.
When I headed back outside, I got a real look at the jerk who’d wielded the grater. In all that gear, with his hair sticking out oddly from the mask he’d shoved up on his head, I thought he looked like a big, stupid baseball dork.
Until he saw me coming, ducked his head, and smiled sheepishly.
Fine, so maybe he was a little cute.
“Hey, I really am sorry about bumping into you like that. I tried to push some of this sand back on the beach…I think it actually looks okay.”
I peered over the edge of the open box. It really did look like my project wasn’t the worse for our collision. “Yeah, it should be fine. Um, thanks for watching it for me. I’d better go turn it in.”
“Wait, I’ll come with you.” I’d picked up my diorama and walked several feet in the direction of the building that housed the history and economics classrooms when he jogged up to me. My brow must’ve been furrowed in confusion over his presence because he chuckled. “Gotta make sure nobody else takes this baby—or you—down. I’m Aaron, by the way.”
His dark brown eyes reminded me of an eager puppy’s—not that my parents had ever let me have one, despite years of begging when I’d been younger—and I forgave him for my knees without another thought. It was kinda sweet that he wanted to walk with me.
“Bailey. You went to Central before this, right?” I shifted the box in my arms and caught his half–smirk out of the corner of my eye.
“Yeah, transferred here this semester. You’ve heard of me, huh?”
Ah, now the smirk makes sense.
“My brother’s Dustin Sullivan.” He was a senior this year and the varsity baseball captain. “He mentioned a new guy on the team and you’re the only one of the jockstraps I don’t recognize.”
The smirk dropped and I stifled a snicker. Boys and their overinflated egos. Especially the jocks.
We reached the door to Mr. Disben’s class. “This is my stop,” I said, then tried to figure out how to open the door without fumbling my project.
“Let me get that. Can’t have you dropping that thing now; I feel like I’m invested.”
I huffed out a laugh and thanked him. Then I said hello to one of my favorite teachers as the door slammed shut behind me. Mr. Disben showed me where to set the beast down, then came over and inspected it, making me beam with pride as he complimented the authenticity of the model bomber planes I’d found. We chatted for a bit before I left, heading in the direction of the back parking lot where I’d left Mom waiting in the car.
Swinging through the door, I nearly ran into the padded–up catcher again, shocked to see he’d waited. I was surprised again when he fell into step with me. He’d removed his dorky face mask and chest pad and my entire body took notice. Dude was cuter than I’d thought. A little shorter than I liked in a guy, but taller than me by a few inches. His dark brown hair was a near match for the shade of his eyes and the old
descriptor, tall, dark and handsome darted through my mind. Two out of three wasn’t half bad.
“So, you’re Dustin’s sister. Do you ever come to the games?”
I shrugged, happy to be free from the cumbersome weight of my project. “Sometimes, yeah.”
“Cool, maybe I’ll see you there.”
We walked in silence until he turned to the locker room with a “see ya” and I headed for the parking lot. I did end up going to the baseball game the next weekend, Emma by my side as part of her tennis coach’s mandate to show support for fellow athletes. Holly joined us at the bottom of the fourth inning, either because she was bored at her aunt’s house or—bleck—wanted to creep on my stupid big brother. Subjectively, I could see he was a good–looking guy, but I knew him too well to imagine any girl wanting to date him. Especially one of my best friends, who’d known him nearly as long as I had.
“Dusty’s looking good out there. Do you know if he’s taking anyone to Winter Formal yet?”
I gave Holly the look. “Probably his girlfriend.”
“Aw, man, they got back together?” I nodded, maintaining my beady–eyed stare. I’d already tried to discourage her interest by listing my brother’s many faults. Repeatedly. Short of telling her our friendship would be over if she went after my bro, I didn’t know what else to try. I could only hope her interest would wane as it tended to do with alarming frequency when it came to boys.
Emma’s nudge got my attention and all three of us dutifully participated in the wave. “Hey, who’s that guy trying to get your attention down there?”
I followed her gaze and saw the catcher—Aaron, my traitorous hormones reminded me—waving and smiling. Until my brother shoved his shoulder from behind and scowled in my direction. While I protected my friend from her crush on my lame big brother, he protected me from his friends and teammates.
It was just one facet of our weird older brother, younger sister dynamic.
Despite Dustin’s intimidation tactics, which he lost interest in deploying soon enough, Aaron and I became friends. Friends who gave each other crap but laughed at the other’s smack–talk every time.
Holly insisted he liked me, which our other bestie, Lisette, had confirmed by asking a mutual friend. At one of our regular sleepovers, Maya and Simone encouraged me to make a move. Not that either one of them had any suggestions on the specifics of making a move. Nor would either have done the same with a boy they liked.
Hypocrites.
By the time summer break rolled around, two things had happened. I’d become an expert on baseball stats—much to my chagrin—and Aaron and I had started dating. We made our couple status official when we went back to school in the fall and, after a Homecoming dance I’d never forget, I told my five best friends I was pretty sure I was going to marry Aaron Daley.
Chapter 1
My last appointment of the day was one I was looking forward to. Particularly after having spent the past two hours answering questions and dispensing my special brand of advice to a woman who hadn’t listened to a single word I said.
That kind of client—one who paid for my consulting services but refused to follow my suggestions—was par for the course in the upscale boutique I leased on Santana Row, known as the Rodeo Drive of Silicon Valley. Society matrons, tech tycoons, and social media influencers came to me for a guiding hand in selecting clothing, shoes, accessories, even hairstyles, that showcased their assets and downplayed their flaws.
Knowing you looked good made you feel good. It gave you the confidence and a strut in your step that made others pay attention. Not just to your appearance—that was only the surface of what I did—but to the words and ideas you had to offer. It was human nature to admire and respect those we found more attractive. Numerous research studies had found this to be true. Attractive people were more confident, happier, they were paid better, and they were seen as being more intelligent and trustworthy.
And that was why I could afford my very expensive lease in the most fashionable shopping center south of San Francisco. With my unique background in psychology, kinesiology, and fashion styling and merchandising, I’d developed an eye for the styles, designs, and brands that brought out the best in individual body types and, perhaps more importantly, personalities.
After college, while working as a personal shopper at one of the higher end department stores, I found I had quite a few repeat clients—the kind of clients who lived in the obscenely wealthy neighborhoods of Atherton, Los Altos, and Pacific Heights—practically begging me to start my own business. Eventually, and with extensive research, I’d done just that.
The only hitch was that the majority of my clients were used to running their mini empires or had become so accustomed to minions kowtowing to their every whim that they didn’t always accept my guidance as readily as you’d expect of someone paying for it. Sometimes, I had to dish out the tough love. My job was a delicate balance between flattery and firmly steering people away from ingrained habits and preferences.
On a good day, I looked at it as a challenge. How long would it take to win this client over? To see that smile in the mirror when we got them into the right dress or suit and they knew they looked like a million bucks. Although, in this climate, a billion might be the more accurate marker.
Today, I was tired of playing the game. I just wanted to go home, pour myself a glass of wine, and sink into a foamy bubble bath. But that would be after I’d seen my last client, Tracie Newberg, who’d become a good friend in the time I’d been working with her. Like me, Tracie had a middle class background but she’d found herself here in Silicon Valley because of her skills, even though she didn’t quite fit in with this crowd. Or want to.
After some financial app she’d written had become the “next big thing”, it only made sense for her to relocate to the heart of the tech industry. I didn’t understand the details of what she’d created, but Tracie had become a major player in her field seemingly overnight.
To those who really knew her, the woman had worked long and hard to get to where she was and she deserved all the perqs she was enjoying—or forcing herself to enjoy—now. She took lunch meetings at fine restaurants, attended networking events disguised as charity fundraisers with thousand–dollar–a–plate dinners, and she’d hired a stylist—yours truly—to curate her professional image. Tracie would’ve been happiest in a hoodie and jeans, tinkering with tricky lines of code or knitting a multicolored scarf, with a sappy Hallmark movie on in the background.
With a light jingle from the bells I’d hung on the front door of my shop, my last client of the day swept inside. Her outfit was classic Tracie: an old t–shirt whose faded letters proclaimed, Byte Me, red Converse on her feet, and—
“I thought we agreed you were going to donate those shorts.”
She glanced down at her cargo khaki shorts, two sizes too big for her, and looked like a little kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Until an evil grin crept across her face. “Nobody would take them.”
“Trash, then.”
Her smile spread. “Wouldn’t that be bad for the environment? Adding to the already overburdened landfills?”
I shook my head at her, thinking my environmentalist bestie, Maya, would laugh and agree. “At least promise me you only wear those nineties rejects to come see me or for coffee runs.” She came farther into the shop and hugged me. “Actually, with the high–profile man in your life, you probably shouldn’t even wear them for coffee.”
For a heartbeat, her smile slipped a notch and she looked a little green. Uh–oh, boyfriend trouble.
This was precisely why I avoided the opposite sex, unless they were clients, or for the increasingly rare one–night–only hookup. Leave it to a guy to take a confident, intelligent, talented woman and make her feel like she was somehow lacking. I’d seen it with Ma
ya’s last boyfriend and, a lifetime ago, I’d even allowed it to happen to me.
Focusing on the things that made you feel good about yourself—career, knitting, crossfit, whatever made you feel like a badass—those were the things that would get a gal past whatever crap a dude had put her through. I’d take Tracie out for a drink tonight instead of indulging solo in my bubble–bath vino and have her forgetting about that loser in no time.
“So, tell me about this major event you need me for so desperately. Another gala? A museum opening, what?”
She took a big breath and sank into one of the tufted chairs I’d placed back by the fitting rooms. Her pleading eyes met mine as I sat in her chair’s mate.
“A wedding.”
“And who’s the poor sap who agreed to chain herself to one man for the rest of her life?”
Tracie’s swallow was audible. “That’d be me.”
I was speechless.
“I’m getting married, Bailey. I need you to help me find a dress—more than one, I guess, with the engagement party, bridal shower, rehearsal, brunch…”
Tracie trailed off. She didn’t look like the stereotypical beaming and blushing bride; she looked like she was in shock.
Join the club.
“Oh, and most importantly, I’d really love for you to be my maid of honor.”
A hand gripped mine. My blurry vision was clearing. “Bailey…Bailey, are you alright?”
Blinking rapidly, I could make out Tracie kneeling on the vinyl laminate floor—the one I’d installed myself over a weekend, thankyouverymuch—as she held my hand and peered up at me with a concerned expression. I nearly giggled at the parody of a proposal pose we were in. And I wasn’t a big giggler.
“I’m sorry, I must be dehydrated. Or hungry or something. Did you, the only other woman I’ve ever met who’s as anti–marriage as I am, just tell me you’re getting married? What the hell happened? Is he pregnant?”
Tracie sat back in her chair and laughed. “I know you know that’s not how biology works.”