by Cindy Kirk
It was so far from a “win” that Greg had to choke back the first thoughts that came to mind. “Tara, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but the bridal industry isn’t like anything else in retail.”
“And you’re an expert on retail and bridal?”
Her cool rebuff put him on guard. “Not an expert, but I’ve watched my mother and her friends run this business for years, and it requires a certain level of insider knowledge. I’m a lawyer, you’re a 3-L, and we both know we don’t take classes in silk and shantung in law school.”
“Really?”
She hiked a brow his way, and something in that arched brow told him that if he was shooting pool with Tara Simonetti, she’d be pocketing the eight-ball before he got half his stripes played.
“Is your mother’s staff here?”
He grimaced and clapped a hand to the back of his neck. “No. One has eight-week-old twins—”
“Oh, I love twins!” Tara couldn’t possibly be inventing the look of joy she shot his way. “Boys, girls, or a mixed set?”
“Boys. As I was saying . . .”
“Fraternal or identical?”
He had no idea. Why would he ask that? Why would she ask that? He started to bring the question back around to the matter at hand, but she put up a hand to pause him. “So she’s out for a while, I take it.”
“Yes.”
“And who else works here?”
“Jean, she’s marvelous, but her father’s ill and she’s got to have a few weeks to take care of him. He’s a great old guy.” He shrugged because Jean’s dad had been good to him for the twelve years she worked here. No way could he begrudge her time with him, even if it left them in a lurch.
She glanced around the roomy store, puzzled. “That’s it?”
“No, of course not.” Two people could never run a thriving bridal business. The idea was ridiculous. “There’s Kathy, she’s been the assistant manager for years. She’s the greatest lady.”
“Is she in the back?” Tara moved left and peeked around a corner, then turned back with a questioning gaze.
“Norovirus.”
“Ouch. So she’s out for—”
“A couple of days, most likely.”
“Which leaves you. Unless you’ve got other employees?”
“We’re in a bind, but honestly, Miss Simonetti . . .”
“Tara.” She corrected him as she flipped her head forward and down, the mass of hair tumbling halfway to the floor. He stared as she wound it into a twist, tucked it up and under, then wove a pencil through the hair, creating an old-fashioned and very professional knot just above the nape of her neck.
And a very pretty neck it was.
“Greg, you don’t know me. And I’m going to bet you don’t know bridal all that well, because the minute I saw your name I recognized it. Anyone who’s followed mergers and acquisitions would realize you’ve been too busy dissecting companies to have much wedding experience yourself.”
Was that a backhanded compliment or a clever dig? He wasn’t sure. “While that’s true, I—”
A young woman appeared at the entrance and peered in through the glass.
Tara glanced toward the door. It was the stroke of ten, Saturday morning. The first customer had arrived.
She smiled and offered a challenge. “Let me have a try with this one. If it’s a total bust, you win. I’ll leave and go flip burgers to earn food money.”
“And if you do well?”
“Then we settle on wages and compensation at the end of the day.”
“Compensation? Don’t wages qualify as compensation, Tara? Because they do in the corporate world.” He said it as a challenge, but he had to admire the way she tossed the barter out there, as if she had bargaining rights.
“I was thinking along the lines of a cheesesteak from Sonny’s and a Rita’s frozen ice. I’m planning to be hungry by five.”
She turned and greeted the first bridal group as they stepped through the inner door. Taking her jacket and theirs, she hung them in the closet to the far left. She let him enter the bride’s information into the computerized system while she walked around the cavernous bridal room to his right.
She slipped on a pair of dark-rimmed glasses as she surveyed the displays, and his heart about fell out of his chest.
The tucked-up hair, well-done makeup, and “I’m smarter than you thought” glasses made him draw a deep breath.
She said she was a 3-L, a third-year law student, across town at Temple. That meant she’d be leaving in a few months, going back to wherever she came from, her law degree in hand. But if looks could sell wedding gowns?
Tara Simonetti would get a solid commission check come February.
Smokin’ hot with the greatest eyes known to mankind.
The phrase summed up Greg Elizondo, with his dark, wavy hair, deep brown eyes, thick brows, and rugged jaw. At about five-ten he wasn’t huge, but he carried himself huge, which explained the legal kudos surrounding his work a few blocks away in Center City.
You’re not interviewing for a date, sweetums. You want a job, and if you get the job at the end of the day? Crushing on the boss would be a stupid action on your part. Savvy?
Tara savvied, all right, and she had a list of solid reasons to avoid ladder-climbing lawyer types, so she nudged the handsome owner into a mental closet labeled “hands off” and examined the walls of gowns surrounding her. Silk brocade, embroidered hems, Swarovski crystals, draped bodices, and ruched side-sweeps.
Tara Simonetti was pretty sure she’d died and gone to heaven.
First, Greg Elizondo’s mother was pure genius at organization because each gown was tagged with a number that corresponded with area tags coded for each designer. If someone wanted a Maggie, she knew where to go. If they were after an Angelo, the chart showed Tara where to find it. If she had questions that needed to be looked up on the computer, she called on Greg to do that, and he seemed more than happy to help.
Still, by one o’clock she realized she was nearly an hour behind, and that wouldn’t bode well for the later appointments. Just when she thought she’d run into major time-crunch danger zone, an older woman with a pencil stuck behind her ear marched into the bridal area as if about to lead a delegation into battle. Or—and Tara hoped this was the correct assumption—she’d come to help.
The middle-aged woman stuck out her hand to Tara. “I’m Maisy and I do alterations here. I don’t want to brag, but if it’s a tricky fit or sizing, I’m first to be called. Now today, for instance?” She offered a brisk smile to the customers gathered around the first dressing room. “Greg called to see if I could come in to help.” She folded her hands across her ample middle, and Tara had a feeling that when Maisy meant business, she meant business. “I’m not one bit good at selling anything, but when it comes to moving gowns and dressing girls, well . . .” She clapped her hands together to show a job well done. “I can handle that with the best of them. And . . .” She stared at Tara as if groping for a name.
“Tara.”
“Tara here can tell you the ins and outs.”
Tara nodded agreement but then wanted to hug the older woman when she went on. “Normally we’d have a little more time to do things. We lost our owner not too long ago, so it’s been a tough holiday season for the Elizondo family.”
Instant sympathy marked every single face in the two groups of people.
“But with the new season on us . . .” Her tone said everyone should sit up straight and listen. They did, Tara included. “We’re pulling everybody back to work, and we’re determined to make this the best bridal season Elena’s has ever seen.”
The gathered shoppers adopted a “rally around the flag” attitude with gusto. Sisters and bridesmaids jumped in to help, and Tara became more like a sideline coach than a proper bridal consultant. With Maisy’s help, she locked in several sales before bride number four walked in the door at one thirty.
Hello, Bridezilla.
Tara recognized th
e symptoms from the score of magazine articles she’d read about not being Bridezilla. Obviously this bride—Aislynn—hadn’t read the articles, or didn’t care. With a single glance, Tara put a mental check mark in both columns.
“I don’t do princess anything,” Aislynn announced with an authority more at home in a boardroom than a bridal showcase. “And I’m not a bit froufrou. My style”—she paused with purpose, elongating the word as if it had multiple syllables while aiming a chilled look at Tara’s skater skirt, loose blouse, and bolero jacket—“is Hepburn elegant splashed with Hepburn chic.”
“Perfect,” Tara exclaimed, ignoring the condescending once-over because she thought this outfit was super cute. Take that, Bridezilla. “I love both Hepburns too.”
Tara’s quick take on the bride’s riddled request lightened Aislynn’s expression, a definite plus. “Katharine’s humor made her movies some of my all-time faves,” Tara continued, “and Audrey’s fragility?” She sighed. “Breathtaking. So why don’t we start with Dona Dona’s Vintage line?”
“You have the Vintage gowns in?” Aislynn appeared impressed, and Tara was willing to bet that not much impressed Aislynn. “I thought only select stores were allowed to carry that collection.”
“Stores in classic, vintage, and/or historic locations got the nod for the Vintage line because the backdrop complements the gown. You won’t find these in malls because Dona Dona decided a classic gown needed a similar setting and Elena’s is the only shop in the greater Philadelphia area allowed to carry them.”
“Aislynn, aren’t you glad I made the appointment here instead of at the mall? This is perfect!” Aislynn’s mother preened from the side.
“New York has plenty of shops, Mother. Well staffed with amazing designer connections.” Aislynn trained an impatient look on her mother. “But I wanted you happy, so I’m spending my last free Saturday for the next month here at”—she pursed her lips as if saying the words proved distasteful—“Elena’s place.”
Maisy almost growled. She didn’t, but Tara recognized the temptation because she felt the same way. She thrust two gowns at Maisy, excused herself, and went to the front desk to grab a new wedding folder from Greg. He angled his eyes toward the grumpy bride, then dropped his gaze to hers.
Those eyes. The kind a girl could get lost in. Lashes that should be considered wasted on a guy, but on him?
Not wasted at all.
Strong facial planes, a hint of dark stubble already dusking his chin, and the cleft in that chin? It matched the little wrinkle in his forehead, and they were both to die for.
“What’s up with her attitude?”
His question brought her straight back to the task of the day: winning a job in this bridal shop. She scrunched her brow. “Classic ‘it’s all about me’ type. Every bridal operation gets a few, and we treat them like we do any Very Special Customer.” She drew a bright pink heart on the outside of the folder and tapped it lightly. “With lots of tender, loving care.”
Greg noted the pink heart and grinned. “Great idea.”
“Thank you.” She took the folder back to the sales floor while Maisy pulled a few more dresses. By the time the late-afternoon appointments arrived, Tara had pulled over sixty dresses, which meant she’d re-hung almost as many.
Greg did the paperwork for the sales, relieving her of that task. Maisy showed her how to get accurate measurements to assess the best possible size to order, and by the time the last young woman left the shop at 5:05, she’d booked three bridesmaid parties totaling sixteen people. On top of that she’d sold three stunning wedding gowns, had info on the other three, and met Greg’s grin of approval with a matching smile.
“I’m amazed,” he confessed as he turned the key in the lock. “I thought we were doomed.”
“Well, it wouldn’t have gone so smoothly without Maisy.” Tara turned and gave the older woman a spontaneous hug. “That meant everything, having you here to help get the girls dressed while I was jumping from room to room with the bridesmaids.”
“Not our normal method of operation,” Greg admitted. “Mom always liked each bride to feel like they had our undivided attention from start to finish. That was her hallmark, and she made it work.”
“Which is fine when there’s enough help on hand,” Maisy reminded him, and the strength of Maisy’s tone suggested she liked to speak her mind. “But we’ve had times in the store where folks drop in without an appointment, and your mother knew to spread herself thin as needed. Sales are the bottom line, and she would have been proud of how well Tara did today. How long have you been here, dearie?”
“One day.”
Maisy pretended to clean out her ears. “You don’t mean that, surely. I’ve been off for a few weeks because December is slow. You started today?”
“On a bit of a challenge, yes.” She turned back toward Greg. “So what’s the verdict, boss? Did I meet the challenge? Do I have the job?”
“You crushed it.” He bumped knuckles with her and handed over an old-school application. “Fill this out and we’ll talk hours. Is your final semester class schedule light like it usually is for third-year law students?”
“To the point of boredom, yes, so I’ll fill this out and return it on Monday. Did you book appointments for next week?” she asked. “Because this is the season for girls to be out shopping, planning summer and fall weddings. We don’t want to miss the opportunity to strike while the iron’s hot. Who knows how many girls found engagement rings under their Christmas trees? Bridal stores thrive on locking in those winter and spring sales.”
“I did book appointments, actually, although I berated myself every time the phone rang.” He tipped his head, watching her. “How do you know this stuff?”
She exchanged a look with Maisy that said all women knew this stuff, but cut him some slack because he was a guy. In Tara’s book it was okay that most men didn’t know this kind of thing.
On top of that, she loved weddings. She loved the gilt, glitz, and glamour right alongside the simple and the vintage and—
Everything.
The planning, the implementation.
She’d married off her fashion model dolls on a regular basis years ago. The advent of bridal reality shows mushroomed her dream into something bigger and bolder. While she was busy making top grades in her law classes, her heart was planning seating charts and floral arrangements for friends.
She loved it. Being here, immersed in the wonderful world of weddings at Elena’s Bridal, was a dream come true, but a temporary one because in four short months she’d become a law school graduate. Her duty then was to return to her hometown in upstate Pennsylvania and help serve the people of Kenneville, a pledge she made long ago.
But for now she’d revel in the joy of being Tara Simonetti, bridal consultant extraordinaire.
An amazing woman.
Greg wasn’t thinking about Tara’s looks, although they fit the bill.
And he wasn’t weighing up how well she did today, bouncing from customer to customer, remembering names, occupations, wedding details, then gathering that wellspring of information into locked-in sales with a final total of over ten thousand dollars. And that was without the bridesmaids’ dresses and the accessories.
What truly astounded him was her appetite.
She wolfed down a Philly cheesesteak, an order of cheese fries, and a Rita’s lemon ice with barely a pause except to talk about wages and hours.
She was incredible. Focused. And hungry.
He thought back to his third year of law school and cringed. The lighter course load meant too much partying. And he’d still done well. He didn’t remember being short on funds or hungry, though, which meant he should have appreciated his mother more than he already did.
“I’ve seen truckers eat with more finesse.” He nudged her shoulder as she finished the last bit of lemon ice and was glad when she laughed, un-insulted.
“I was hungry. I’ve learned to camel-pack food because when I get caug
ht up in a project or a job, I forget to eat.”
Greg couldn’t imagine forgetting to eat because food was, well . . . food. And delicious. But something about Tara made him think that maybe she didn’t forget food as much as she pushed the thought aside as unaffordable. That realization seemed to fit her profile. Driven. Tough. Short on funds.
But at ease with herself and her body, unlike most women he’d met lately. Tara liked herself, and that was a refreshing change.
“So what are you doing tomorrow?” She swiped a napkin across her mouth, tossed it away, and looked up at him.
“You asking me out?” He grinned because the thought appealed to him instantly.
She made a funny face that said, Um . . . no, and he found himself wishing she’d at least considered the idea. “Not in this lifetime. Never date the boss: sage advice from where I’m standing. But the store will be open on Sundays starting next week. It’s closed tomorrow, and if I can take the afternoon to go through things, I can familiarize myself with the dresses, the manufacturers, the layout of the files. I can also see who’s got spring weddings coming up, because those girls need to be reminded to make their fitting appointments, try on their veils, double check for shoes and accessories. Did you know that some of the more savvy manufacturers are designing dresses with deep pockets?”
He didn’t know that and wasn’t sure why it was significant. “And that’s important because—?”
“A bride needs to have things on hand on her wedding day. A purse is a terrible inconvenience. A maid of honor with an emergency bag is wonderful, but just when you need her help, she’s dancing with the best man’s brother, so if the bride has pockets”—she patted the right hip of her jacket—“she’s got a miniature arsenal at hand. Pretty solid.”
“I never would have thought of such a thing,” he admitted, but the thought of a bride facing a whole long day with nowhere to put anything made her logic sensible. “I can see where it would come in handy. But I’m going to bet those mermaid dresses don’t have pockets. There’s barely room in them for the bride.”