by Lila Monroe
He smiles, and even my cold, broken heart has to melt a little at the adoration in his gaze.
I soften. “Then we’ll make sure this anniversary is perfect,” I assure him. “If you put together a list of all the locations you want to use in the treasure hunt, I’ll get started on those clues.”
“Thank you!” Malcolm gets to his feet. “I’m the worst when it comes to gifts, but this is so special, I want her to be blown away!”
No pressure.
“I’ll be in touch,” I tell him, shaking his hand and saying goodbye. I turn around, ready to sit back down and get to work, but my table has already been stolen by a surly-looking teenager.
“Excuse me!” I protest. “I’m sitting here!”
“You’re standing.” The teen girl stares back at me.
“This is my table!” I tell her, my voice rising with pent-up frustration. “Look: my coffee, my notebook, and my damn stale unrewarding bagel!”
The girl backs away, looking nervous. “Sure, I mean, whatever.”
I sink back into my newly reclaimed seat with a sigh. Great. So much for keeping my shit together and moving on from Dylan like nothing ever happened. Now I’ve reached “public meltdown in a coffee shop” levels of pitiful.
And even a stale bagel can’t save me now.
I stare at my notebook, trying to focus, but I’m feeling about a million miles from swoony and romantic right now. I’m not sure which part is worse: that I still miss Dylan something bad, or the fact that he’s probably gallivanting around the city with Jasmine, not giving me even a second thought.
Except . . .
I flip to the back page and slide out the folded up square of paper that’s been burning a hole in my bag all week, ever since it arrived in the mail. An innocuous brown envelope, sparing no hint of the time bomb hidden inside. A check, from Griffin LLC.
Pay to the order of Poppy Hathaway.
Fifty thousand dollars.
He did it. He really did it.
I don’t know why I was expecting anything else, but still, when I opened the envelope, it felt like my chest was getting ripped open all over again. And staring at the slip of paper, I feel the burn all over again.
Payment for services rendered.
That’s one way of putting it. I did my job, after all: delivered Jasmine, swooning into his arms. But the fact that Dylan thinks I even care about the money is the biggest “fuck you” of all time.
I just cared about him.
Someone jostles me again, narrowly avoiding pouring hot coffee all down my neck. I tuck the check away and grab my stuff. I don’t know how I’m going to get my head back in the romance game, but camping out here trying to avoid third-degree burns isn’t going to help. If I had an office . . .
I think again of my dream space across town, or even any place with walls, a door, and no surly teens ready to snatch my table out from under me.
Fifty thousand dollars would pay for a pretty sweet setup. A chair. A desk. A fancy coffee maker. Not to mention getting those student loans off my back, and—gasp—some luxuries, too . . .
I let myself daydream for a moment, rolling around on the bed of cash, but it’s not for real. I couldn’t use that check and prove Dylan right.
Could I?
I feel a knot of indecision twist in my gut. After all, he’s loaded, and he clearly couldn’t care less about me. For all I know, that fifty G’s is the equivalent of the brush-off bouquets he’d have me send to all his old flings, when he’d finally decided it was time for them to get flung.
My phone buzzes, breaking through my thoughts. A message from Betsy.
All set for tonight?
It’s the rehearsal dinner, which I’ll be attending as a guest—and also backup, in case anyone has problems reading the toasts I’ve been working on all week. My own dreams of true love may have crashed and burned, but Betsy and Hank deserve their dream wedding, full of tender words.
Can’t wait!!!! I text back, adding approximately three exclamation marks more than I feel.
Looking forward to your costume! Betsy writes.
Costume?
Oh crap.
I’d forgotten they’d decided on a dress code for dinner. We’re all supposed to come in outfits inspired by our favorite birds. Which is the most miserable one? I wonder. Vultures? A sullen swan?
And where, exactly, am I going to find a feathered headdress at 5 p.m. on a Friday night?
* * *
Luckily, April has a stash of decorative peacock feathers at the floral shop. We glue them around the collar of a little cape-like jacket, give my trusty Little Black Dress a quick Febreeze, and apply enough concealer to make myself look almost perky before I dash across town to the address listed on the invitation.
The Griffin Hotel.
“You’ve got to me kidding me!” I exclaim, coming to a stop outside. There are five billion hotels in New York City. Couldn’t they have picked another one? Hell, even a Motel 6 on the New Jersey Turnpike would be better than this.
“Poppy, darling!” I turn to find Hank and Betsy climbing out of a cab. “You look fabulous!” Betsy exclaims, taking in my outfit.
“So do you two,” I say, dazzled. Hank is wearing a gold lamé waistcoat with a dark-green jacket and black suit pants, while Betsy is resplendent in a bright-pink feathered cocktail dress.
“Can you guess?” she beams. “He’s a goldfinch, and I’m a flamingo!”
“I love it,” I smile, trying to put my trepidation aside. Betsy links her arm through mine and sweeps into the lobby of the hotel.
“Now, I’ve tried to rustle up some prospects for you,” she begins, her voice confidential.
“Betsy, no!” I protest—even as I scan the lobby, braced to see Dylan sauntering through. “I don’t need fixing up with anyone.”
“Of course you don’t need a man,” Betsy agrees. “But they can certainly be a fun diversion, don’t you think?”
Hank chortles beside us. “Does this mean I’m diverting?” he asks.
Betsy grins. “Exceptionally. So, Poppy, what would you say is your upper limit, age-wise? Hank’s cousin, Arthur, is a very spry sixty-five.”
“Uh, that’s a little high.” I try not to laugh.
“Are you sure? He plays tennis twice a week, and his two ex-wives didn’t clean him out entirely,” Betsy says, looking hopeful.
Hank takes her hand. “Give the poor girl a break,” he says, winking at me. “She’s far too young to be weighed down with an old codger like us.”
“I rather happen to like your old codger,” Betsy smirks.
Now that’s an image I need to block from my mind.
“Are we in the restaurant over there?” I blurt, trying to hurry us across the lobby.
“Yes, we have the private room,” Hank replies. “Isn’t this a lovely hotel? We had one of our very first dates here,” he adds, with an affectionate look at his wife-to-be.
“Which turned into breakfast and our second date,” she adds, squeezing his ass.
So much for blocking those images.
I catch sight of a tall, dark-haired man across the room. Instinctively, I duck down, out of sight behind a floral arrangement, almost crawling on the floor in my efforts to stay hidden.
“Are you quite alright, dear?” Betsy pauses, looking confused.
“Uh huh!” I squeak. “Just . . . getting a closer look at the floor tile. Fascinating!”
I peek out from behind the lilies. The man turns. It’s not Dylan.
I exhale in a whoosh.
False alarm.
I slowly straighten up, feeling foolish. Why am I freaking out like this? I’m an adult, aren’t I? Capable of having a dinner in possible proximity to him without totally losing my mind.
“Let’s get you a drink,” Betsy says, ushering me on. “You look like you need one.”
One. Or three. Or five.
I grab my wineglass as soon as I sit down and manage to make it through dinner without
any more floor-crawling incidents. The food is amazing, of course. The service, impeccable. Everyone is having a wonderful time, and even my toasts bring the crowd to tears—delivered, of course, by Betsy and Hank’s friends, before the mouthwatering dessert is wheeled in. I almost want to find fault with something, but I can’t. The man knows how to run a damn hotel.
“So how do you know the happy couple?”
I wince at the question, coming from the man seated beside me. Scottie is one of Hank’s buddies from his bird-watching club; youngish, nervous—as he eagerly told me the minute we sat down—and definitely single.
“I’m . . . friends with Betsy.”
Rule #1 of being a Cyrano: Never take credit for your work.
Well, I guess there are two rules now. Rule #2: Don’t fall head over heels for your client, either.
“Hank says you’re a writer?” Scottie asks. “I love to read. Mainly nonfiction, can’t get enough.”
“Really?” I murmur vaguely, refilling my wine.
“In fact, I’m currently reading this book about the change in vulture populations in India,” Scottie says, enthusiastic. “Did you know that because cows are sacred there, they give them certain painkillers before slaughter? It’s poison to the poor vultures. The population is in freefall.”
I blink. “Umm . . . Fascinating?”
“Perhaps I can tell you more at the wedding tomorrow.” Scottie beams at me. “You don’t have a date, do you? We can sit together!”
Oh Lord.
“I . . .” I scramble for an excuse, but I’ve had too much wine to come up with something plausible and kind. “I . . . Excuse me, just a sec.”
I push back my chair and retreat to the safety of the ladies room. I duck into the white-marbled space and catch my breath—and sight of my reflection in the mirror.
I look just about as lovelorn as I feel.
Is this my fate now?
Being fixed up at every function. Watching happy couples everywhere beam their romantic bliss. Smiling and lying through my teeth that I don’t mind at all, I just haven’t met the right person yet.
Feeling like I’m always going to be alone.
A sob wells up in my throat, and I swallow it back. I manage to make it back to the dinner, and I offer my congratulations and goodbyes to Betsy and Hank.
“I’ll see you bright and early!” Betsy beams. “Hair and makeup will be there at nine.”
“Whatever for?” Hank jokes affectionately. “You’re perfect just the way you are.”
Betsy blushes. “Well, we’ll just have to out-do perfection! I’m only getting married once, after all.”
“I should hope so.” He grins.
“I’ll be there,” I agree. “Have a great night!”
I hurry from the room before they can see my real mood—and rush straight into a solid body coming the other direction.
“Sorry—”
I put my hands on his chest to steady myself, a split second before I glance up and find myself looking into a pair of blue eyes that make my heart stop.
Dylan.
I gulp. Why does he have to look so damn handsome? He’s wearing a perfectly cut suit that hangs off his perfectly chiseled body, bringing out the color in his perfectly smoldering eyes.
Then I realize my hands are still feeling up his chest. I drop them quickly to my sides, flushing.
“Hi.” Dylan’s expression is impossible to read.
“Hi,” I echo, feeling unsteady. And it’s nothing to do with that wine. Even though I’ve been braced to run into him all night, I suddenly feel completely unprepared.
“Nice feathers.”
I cringe. Of course this happens when I’m looking like an extra from Sesame Street. “I was just . . .” I gesture uselessly behind me. “Rehearsal dinner.”
“Oh.”
Dylan pauses, and it looks as if he wants to say something. And so do I. I still feel guilty about the things I said to him. Sure, we shouldn’t be held responsible for words spoken in angry breakup mode, but still, I didn’t mean them. I know there’s more to him than just the commitment-phobe playboy. I know he’s a good man at heart. “Listen,” I blurt, but before I can speak another word, a gorgeous woman joins him, barely glancing up from her phone.
Like, really gorgeous.
“Ready?” she asks, still tapping at her screen.
My heart twists.
“Sure,” Dylan replies. “I was just . . .” He looks back at me, and I use every last ounce of self-control I have to flash a hopefully-carefree smile.
“You go ahead,” I say brightly, backing away. “He’s all yours.”
I turn on my heel and power-walk away, my head spinning. Is he seeing her? Has he already moved on from Jasmine? Somehow, the thought hits even harder than before. Losing out to the girl of his dreams is one thing, but if Dylan is back dating random supermodels, what does that say about me?
Nothing good.
I’m standing on the subway platform when I suddenly reach a decision. I have to scramble up the stairs again and skid down the other side to take the uptown train, instead of heading home, but my determination grows, until I’ve practically power-walked all the way back to my dream office.
There’s still a “to rent” sign in the window, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Except, of course, the building is quiet and dark.
I go hit the buzzer for the building manager’s apartment. And again, and—
“What the hell are you doing back here?” He opens the front door, scowling.
“I’m here to rent the office!”
“It’s ten o’clock at night,” the man exclaims.
“Yes, but I can write you a check right now,” I insist, power still surging in my veins. Or is that the wine? Either way, I’ve made my decision. If I’m going to hurl myself over this particular cliff, I need to do it tonight! “First, last, security deposit. Look,” I add, feeling bad for him. “I’m sorry to be so annoying, but look at it this way: once we sign the papers, you never have to deal with me again! And wouldn’t you prefer that day to come sooner, rather than later?”
I flash him my best winning smile and cross my fingers.
“Fine,” he finally relents. “Can we get this done before the commercial break is over? I don’t want to miss any clues, those CSI guys are on the right track.”
“Yes!” I cry, thrilled. “Just show me where to sign!”
He goes to get the paperwork, and barely four minutes later, I’m standing alone in the empty office space with the keys in my hand, and a faintly nauseous feeling in my gut. Did I really just sign over an ungodly amount of money, assuming my business would grow enough to offset the expense?
You’re in the big leagues now.
I look around the space, a smile spreading across my face. Walls, and floor, and everything I always dreamed about! The new home of Cupids Anonymous—your helping hand in love.
I pause. OK, maybe I need a different slogan, since people might get the wrong idea about what, exactly, my helping hands will be doing. But that’s beside the point.
The point is: I’m moving on. Striding boldly into my future, no matter how much my heart aches to turn the clock back with Dylan.
Dylan . . .
I reach into my wallet and pull out that check. Fifty thousand dollars. It’s a lot of money. The most I’ve ever held in my hands in my whole life. It could be the start of a whole new chapter in my life here, the leg up to make big things happen for me.
I take a deep breath and rip it up.
The pieces fall like confetti onto the bare floors. And I feel . . . great. Well, not exactly “flipping cartwheels” great, but determined. Clear-eyed.
I don’t need Dylan to make things happen for me—I’m going to do it myself. And sure, I’ll have to take the hard route now, but I’m used to the hustle. I’ll make it work, somehow.
Without him.
I take another breath, remembering his eyes, and his chest, and the way he smelled when
I was crushed next to him. Then I put the heartbreak aside, and I call Natalie and April.
“Come meet me,” I tell them. “And bring champagne!”
24
Dylan
Three hours. That’s how long it usually takes me to get over a woman. Long enough to down a stiff glass of bourbon, throw on a clean shirt, and head out to find a new distraction.
Three weeks, four days, six hours and . . . roughly thirty-eight minutes. That’s how long I’ve been stuck, thinking about Poppy. Ever since the night things suddenly went off the rails, I can’t get her out of my mind.
No matter how hard I try.
It’s not like I don’t have enough on my plate to be dealing with. The opening of Griffin Lake is shaping up to be a massive success. All those social media influencers we invited to the soft opening have been tweeting, posting, and tagging their trips like crazy, and reservations are already booked solid through the rest of the summer. I’ve been run ragged keeping up with things, but it doesn’t matter how many late nights I pull at the office—or out on the town—it doesn’t shake the tight feeling in my gut.
Or the creeping sense that I’ve fucked everything up.
“Mario Bros and beer?” Kyle snorts, finding me in his basement. “What is this, freshman year?”
“Are you going to bust my balls, or are you going to play?” I hold out a handset. Kyle collapses onto the beanbag beside me, kicking aside the Lego pieces scattered all over the floor.
“What happened to my man cave?” he sighs, looking around the basement. There are toys and books everywhere, and a six-foot pink fluffy bear sitting behind us in the corner.
“True love and the joys of fatherhood,” I reply.
“Oh yeah, that.” Kyle starts playing, but my head isn’t in the game. “Dude,” he laughs, “Are you even trying?”
“Don’t start.”
“I mean, I can bring Jamie down here to play . . . maybe he’s more on your level.” Kyle smirks.
“Thanks for the support.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Are you still moping over whatshername?”
“Poppy,” I reply through gritted teeth. Now I know he’s fucking with me.