How to Look Happy (Unlucky in Love Book 3)

by Stacey Wiedower

  As soon as she's rushed away, Todd says, "About Thursday?"

  "Yes?" My voice is guarded, though my heart is fluttering again at the thought of the Sweeties project. I'd almost forgotten about it, and now I can't imagine spending hours in close quarters with this man in only two days.

  "Do you want me to be there at 9:30, or did you say nine o'clock?"

  I realize I've been holding my breath again, and I exhale in a gush. What did I think he was going to say? "Um, nine is what I had in mind. I'd like to get started as early as possible."

  He's a night owl, and I'm up an at 'em. Just one more impossibility between us.

  Not that there's an "us." I tell myself these thoughts are ridiculous. He's shown no interest in me beyond the currents of electricity that exist only in my imagination.

  We walk back to the studio in relative silence, though he does stretch an arm out to stop me when I almost step out in front of an oncoming cyclist—my brain is so muddled up by him that I'm barely in this time and place. As we reach the front doors of Greenlee Designs, I turn toward him on the sidewalk and say, "Well, thanks for dragging me out for lunch. Without you, I probably would've forgotten to eat."

  "Is that a frequent problem for you?" His smile is wits-scrambling.

  I smile back. "It's better than dieting."

  "Well, let's make sure it doesn't keep happening," he says. "Any dinner plans this Friday night?"

  What??

  I've read him wrong yet again. My heart is beating a thousand miles an hour, and my stomach has dropped to the sidewalk. "I…" I pause. "I don't think…" I shake my head, trying in vain to make my brain wrap around a coherent answer. And then I remember.

  "Um, yeah," I say. I glance up at him. "Actually, I do have dinner plans this Friday night. I have a date."

  It's for the best, I think, even if my date is only with Brandon. Todd and I could never work. And besides, we're working together. The last thing I need is for something to go wrong on the project Thursday and for Chick to find out I'd hired a guy I'm dating. The grapevine in this town is wrapped too tight.

  Todd looks a bit taken aback. "Oh, okay," he says, shrugging. "Maybe another time then."

  "Sure. Another time." I give him a vague smile and pull open the door, though my heart still feels like it's trying to beat its way out of my chest.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Blue-Eyed Monster

  Thursday just isn't my day.

  First, my phone battery dies in the night, which causes my alarm to not go off, which causes me to wake up late. Second, after plugging it in and checking email while brushing my teeth, I learn that one of the backers pulled out of the bicycle-factory project, which means that Amanda's and my model units are on hold until further notice. And then third, as I'm speeding to the bakery to make up for lost time, I get pulled over on Peabody and get a ticket, which makes me even later. That's two tickets and a car accident in less than a week, which probably means a hike in my insurance premium, not to mention a date with traffic court.

  It also means that after my self-righteous declaration to Todd that I want to "get started as early as possible," he beats me there. In fact, everyone is waiting on me by the time I arrive—even Annalise, who, to my great irritation, bats her big, ice blue Russian eyes at Todd every moment she gets the chance.

  Todd and I don't talk a whole lot, at least not about anything that's not related to hanging art. "A little more to the left." "No, how about this one there?" "Make sure you put two hooks on that one." Really titillating conversation.

  Before our lunch Tuesday, I'd been planning to bring up his text about going to Jersey Boys together, to find out if he was kidding or if he really does want to go. But I'm sure, now, that he'll never ask me to do anything with him ever again. He friended me on Facebook after our lunch, but I'm not reading anything into that. When I checked out his profile I saw that he has 1,247 friends, which means I'm not special—he's just popular.

  My melancholy attitude isn't helped by the fact that after the installation I have to go by Brewster's house to talk to the stone guy about the fireplace surround and check the progress on the built-in bookshelves. Aubrey couldn't tell me whether or not Brewster will be home, which makes me nervous. Maybe I'll just skip this appointment. I can get an estimate by phone for the fireplace or line him up to meet with Aubrey. The thought cheers me infinitesimally.

  Todd has just returned from carrying his supplies out to his truck, and Chick is sweeping up the corners of the study room when my phone starts chirping for about the fifteenth time this morning. I glance at the screen and groan aloud.

  "Hello?"

  "Jen?" It's a lightly accented male voice—a voice I've grown highly accustomed to.

  "Hi, Nestor," I say as brightly as I can manage.

  "I think we've changed our minds again about the tile for the accent wall," he says. "We've decided to go with the Calacatta and not the Carrara. And instead of the herringbone we want to do subway."

  "Have you been looking at Pinterest again?" I say, keeping my voice light as I chide him. "I really think you'll be happy with the Carrara herringbone. And it'll save a significant amount of money, especially when you consider that the order's already been placed, and there's a twenty-five percent restocking fee on custom orders."

  He pauses just long enough for me to feel hopeful. But no luck.

  "Nooo," he says, dragging out the word. "That's okay. We'll go ahead and pay the upcharge to change the order. I'm one hundred percent sure that we want the Calacatta."

  You were one hundred percent sure you wanted Carrara, I think, though what I say is, "No problem, then. I'll call the tile vendor and change the order." My face is hot from my frustration. We're already running behind because Nestor keeps changing his mind, and the domino effect of the delayed tile means we'll be adding at least another week to the overall project. And that's just the bathroom.

  "You're a peach," Nestor says, grating on my nerves even more.

  I'm grateful for the work. I'm grateful for the work. I'm grateful for the work. The mantra has even more meaning now that the Rasmutin project is on hold. Especially if I keep doing stupid things like bashing into moving vehicles and racking up speeding tickets.

  "You all right?" Todd asks as I hang up the call, snapping me out of my internal monologue.

  "Oh, yeah." I laugh lightly, shaking my head. "Just issues on a project." Issues on every project.

  "You're a busy woman." The way he's looking at me sends a quiver down my spine that starts at the base of my neck and travels down until I can feel it in my toes.

  "Too busy for my own goo—" I start to say, but just then Chick and Annalise walk over, and Annalise skips to Todd's side.

  "It looks fabulous, ladies. And gentleman," Chick says, nodding to Todd. "Great work." Her voice sounds as chipper as I feel glum. I swear I've never seen Chick Emerson in anything but a great mood, even when her shop is literally under water. For some reason, this makes me feel even worse.

  I glance in the direction where their eyes are all trained, and Chick is right. The art wall looks absolutely fabulous. The wall behind the brightly colored canvases is a pale, ethereal yellow that glows against the mint stripe in the floor and makes the art pop off the wall. I imagine Annalise will have a hard time keeping up with the demand this installation is sure to put on her studio.

  Speaking of Annalise, I glance over and see her gazing up at Todd, her left arm laced through his. "This is so beautiful," she says. "You're an artist too."

  Never mind that I did the layout and gave the orders, I think bitterly. And then I feel bad for taking anything away from Todd, who really did do a nice job with the installation.

  To my horror, the next thing she says is, "Ready for lunch?"

  Todd nods and then glances over at me. "Are we all wrapped up, boss?"

  I shake my head numbly. "Yeah, looks like we're good to go. Thanks for your hard work today. This room really looks amazing."

&n
bsp; He smiles and looks like he's about to say something else. Then he seems to change his mind. "Well, have a nice weekend," he says. A veiled reference to my date tomorrow night?

  "Thanks. Have fun at lunch." Ooh, I couldn't stop myself on that one.

  And on that note, Annalise pulls at the arm she's still attached to, and together they leave the room.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Summer Haze

  By the time three o'clock rolls around on Friday, I'm wiped. I spent all morning troubleshooting at the Santiagos' house. The painters brought the wrong colors for the master suite—they didn't get the change order after Nestor decided to go back to the original palette I suggested instead of copying a tone-on-tone, color-blocked scheme he'd found on Houzz.com. I swear if I could install a firewall on that man's computer that blocked him from all DIY or home-related websites, I'd do it.

  Before I got there the painters already had a first coat on two walls in the bedroom, so I had to stop them midstream and send them back to the paint store, which is setting us back another day, minimum. Not to mention what all these errors and changes are doing to the project budget…

  After leaving the Santiagos' McMansion, I drove to the bakery for a fluff and a final walk-through before Saturday's soft opening. And then I headed back downtown to meet with Amelia at her office. She's in town for a few days for meetings, and she emailed me about getting together to start talking ideas. She and Noah close on the house in a little over three weeks.

  After spending all day with the Santiagos, I'm so thankful to be working with Amelia—who's decisive, with great taste—that I could cry. We're doing the nursery first, and I can't wait to get started. Plus, while Amelia's aesthetic leans to rustic and homey, Noah's is minimal and modern, meaning it'll be fun to find a bridge between the two. With the house's Craftsman bones, I'm envisioning crisp millwork and clean lines with a rustic-industrial edge.

  "Yes!" Amelia says when I frame it that way. "That is exactly what I have in mind."

  I figure that's a good note to end the week on, so once I've closed my project files and we've finished talking, I ask Amelia if she wants to join Carrie and me for a drink. She laughs and pats her stomach. "I think that'd give everybody something new to gossip about."

  I smile. "A nice glass of water, then, while we all sit at the bar?"

  Amelia and Noah have been back in the tabloids lately thanks to the release of the latest movie based on Amelia's books. She's had to appear at press conferences and red carpet events around the country with Colin Marks, her ex-boyfriend, and the media's been having a field day with her engorged stomach and Colin's plastic smiles—reading into every expression on the actor's face and describing him in terms like "woeful" and "brave."

  Meanwhile, Amelia confided, Colin has moved an Argentinean model into his sprawling home in the Hollywood Hills, and she thinks they're serious. Privately, she said, he isn't hung up on her at all. But he's not above milking it for the publicity. Even her own publicist has said the tension between them, invented or not, makes for good press for the movie franchise.

  "Ready to go?" asks Carrie, poking her head around the door frame of Amelia's office, her purse dangling from her right shoulder.

  "You two go on," Amelia says. "I've got a few things to wrap up on this Kimballs deal before I can get out of here."

  With Amelia's involvement, Katie's firm is bringing in all sorts of new business, and that's been evident in recent weeks from Carrie's mood. She no longer seems as stressed or exhausted, which is a relief.

  I glance at Amelia. "I'll get in there to measure as soon as you take possession," I say. "In the meantime, I'll work from pictures. And I'll get the furniture and fabrics for the nursery on order right away."

  She smiles. "That sounds absolutely perfect."

  I shake my head and smile back. She looks serene and healthy and radiant, the picture of the pregnancy ideal. Between Amelia and Ellie Kate, my own neuroses about my ticking time bomb of a biological clock are getting harder to suppress. And Brianna. I can hardly forget about Brianna. I wonder briefly how Jeremy is holding up.

  Jeremy. Thinking about him and Brianna makes me think about Brandon, which makes the muscles at the base of my stomach tighten with nervousness. Now that the night is here, I can't believe I've agreed to go out with him again.

  That's one reason for this emergency happy-hour session with Carrie—I need moral support and girl time to face this night, at least with any dignity.

  She and I head out, and ten minutes later we're seated along the short edge of the bar at South of Beale. The place is quiet and still relatively empty, since technically the workweek hasn't ended yet. Nathaniel isn't tending bar today, which is kind of disappointing—there's a new bartender we've never met before, and though he seems nice, the "Cheers" vibe we usually feel in this place is lacking. Nobody knows our names.

  But that's okay today, since the pep talk I need isn't one I want overheard.

  With hardly anybody in here, the music seems louder than usual. It's a Death Cab for Cutie song I haven't heard in, like, two years. I sip at my sangria as I listen to the lyrics, then say, "I think I'm not going to shave my legs. Then there's no way I'll be tempted to sleep with him again."

  Carrie half-laughs, half-chokes on her Pimm's Cup cocktail. "Again?" she says when she can speak. "You didn't sleep with him the last time."

  "Yeah, but it would've happened. It's not my fault that he couldn't get it up." I glare at her. "You'd better agree with me on that, at least."

  She falls into another fit of giggles. "That definitely could not have been your fault," she says. "You looked hot. He's an idiot." She takes another sip of her cocktail. "I bet he's been kicking the hell out of himself."

  "That's sort of what I'm afraid of," I admit. "That tonight is some kind of heroic do-over for him. We've had so many starts and stops, I don't think I can take another one. I definitely should not have agreed to go out with him again."

  I'm thinking about Todd and how it could have been him that I was out with tonight instead of Brandon. Now who's the idiot? I'm picturing Todd—his messy hair and his beat-up jeans, his laid back drawl and his aimless odd jobs.

  The mental images leave me feeling confused. Todd is entirely wrong for me, and yet I can't help but think that if I were meeting him tonight, I'd be at home shaving my legs, feeling the opposite of how I feel right now. I ponder that for a few seconds as Ben Gibbard's high, melancholy voice wraps itself around me, fitting the moment.

  Todd doesn't gel with the image of my life that's always been painted so clearly in my head. I can't imagine him taking root in one spot, staking himself to a career and investing in a white picket fence while I set up house and decorate my own sweet nursery.

  I doubt he wants to settle down, and I especially doubt he wants kids. Nothing about my life and his life are a fit. And yet, here I am sitting in this bar, on fire at the thought of him while a man who does fit every image I've ever pictured of success—designer suits, weighty title, nice car, golf on the weekends, and a lake house or beachfront condo down the road—is picking me up in a little more than two hours, presumably wanting me to want him.

  "Did you hear me?"

  "What?" I shake my head, zoning back in to the happenings in the bar around me. The place has started filling up without me even noticing, and now the seats beside us are occupied by two guys in jeans, untucked shirts, and fashion glasses—advertising, or maybe architecture.

  I'm wondering if they're gay when the one closest to me notices me looking and winks.

  "What's up?"

  I nod at him and say, "Not much," and then turn back to Carrie. Apparently not.

  She's watching my exchange with Pseudo-Hipster Boy in amusement. "I said, Why are you going out with him then?"

  I think about that, drawing in a deep sip of my blueberry-lemon white sangria. I love SOB's late-summer bar menu. I love this time of year, period. Everything in the world seems on the brink of change. What
ever bloomed in the spring is closing up, reseeding, and preparing for the season ahead. I feel like I'm entering a new season, too, though I'm not sure why—or why I'm resisting it so hard.

  "I don't know," I say finally, setting down my nearly empty drink and looking into Carrie's eyes. They're narrowed and filled with something like worry as she studies me. "I don't know why I accepted his friend request in the first place. He was a dick to me in high school." I grasp the stem of my glass between my thumb and index finger and start spinning it around on the glossy bar top. "I've never, for one single second, wished I had him back," I say after a long moment. "But I've never wished for revenge either." I pause again, my eyes trained on the new bartender as he shakes up a drink with one hand and garnishes a glass with the other. He's good. I glance back at Carrie. "So really, nothing positive can come of this thing with Brandon."

  I feel as if I've just had a major revelation, but for the life of me, I don't know what it is.

  "I think you've gotten lost," Carrie says.

  I look up at her, my eyes wide and miserable. "How has this happened? A few months ago everything was so mapped out. If only Jeremy hadn't screwed everything up, we'd be talking about my catering menu and scheduling the fittings for your bridesmaid's dr—"

  "I don't mean Jeremy," she says, interrupting me. "You were lost before Jeremy broke up with you. In fact, I think Jeremy breaking up with you might be the best thing that could possibly have happened. It woke you up."

  My mouth opens and then closes again. There's a part of me that wants to be offended, but another, bigger part of me that knows she loves me, and she's right. And that part of me is pissed.

  "I don't think I'm there yet."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean I'm not ready for any more 'This is for the best' speeches. Because right now, it all just sucks. Not having my fiancé anymore or my wedding to plan—it sucks. Having to worry about who likes me or not or who's going to marry me or not or whether any of this will happen before I'm too old to have kids or not—it all sucks."