How to Look Happy (Unlucky in Love Book 3)

by Stacey Wiedower

  But then I remember Aubrey, and I clamp my lips shut again.

  Candace is still chuckling.

  "Thanks," she says, knowing I'm full of it. "And don't worry," she adds. "I'm not letting any of this mess take you down with it. I've made sure the firm has been able to foot the bills for your work and Quinn's. Rachael, I'm afraid, hasn't been billing enough to worry about."

  I'm washed with a new sensation of relief, even stronger now that I have confirmation from Candace herself that my clients' money is safe. I sink to the ottoman, feeling like a deflated balloon.

  After another long moment, she adds, "I'm afraid I can't say the same for your continued employment. You're going to need to find a new place to conduct your business. Greenlee Designs won't be servicing clients much longer." Her voice is drenched with so much sorrow and pain that I finally allow the pity I've been pushing off to settle onto my shoulders.

  "I'm sorry," I say simply.

  "I know," she replies. "You've been a good employee, darling. A real asset for the firm. If only I hadn't been too proud to see it."

  To my own shock, a tear tips off my lower lashes and slides down my cheek. "That means a lot to hear," I say. "Thank you."

  There doesn't seem to be much more to say, so I'm trying to figure out how to extricate myself from the conversation when she adds, in a tentative voice, "And Jennifer?"

  "Yes?"

  "I'm sure this goes without saying, but can we please keep all of this between us? I'll pull the others together soon to announce an exit strategy once I form it."

  My mind turns to my godforsaken Facebook post, which feels one hundred times more vindictive now that I know the motivation behind Candace's betrayal. Of course, I never meant to harm her…or even post it in the first place. Still, I'm sheepish when I answer.

  "Absolutely," I say. "You can trust me to not breathe a word."

  "I know I can, darling. Thank you."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  A Fitting Partnership

  I fall asleep on the couch that night with the TV on, Simon curved into my side. After hanging up with Candace, I was too spent to move—even to call Carrie, the one person I will share Candace's revelations with.

  I wake up at 4:30 with a jolt of leftover panic from my tense afternoon and from the intensity of this week in general. I move to my bed—luckily before Candace called I was already clad in pajama pants and glasses, my contacts out, so I'm able to crawl right under the covers—but sleep eludes me.

  I have another big day ahead.

  For one thing, I'm meeting Calliope Redwing to walk through the law-firm space and get a grasp on the scope of the project. For another, I have to contact Amanda and find out if she's interested in tackling the Redwing project along with me. Her partnership offer is a no-brainer now that I'm in immediate need of a home base for my work. I finally feel in control of my career again, but I'm still not interested—yet—in going it alone.

  Plus, I want to take a vacation. I've always wanted to see England, and the thought of visiting Adam and Jane and Braxton in person makes me feel almost giddy. I start planning in my head, mental Post-its with notes about side-tripping it to France for a quick buying trip (can't totally take the drive out of me; it's just built-in) and seeing if Mom and Dad or maybe Mom and Christine and Eleanor are up for joining me. We could make it a girls' trip.

  Thinking about London inevitably makes me think about Todd and his sound advice that I'll "never get that time back." That makes me think about the last item on my agenda today, and in my mind, it's the biggest.

  Tonight is the grand opening gala at Sweeties. Todd will be there with Annalise.

  And I'll have to watch them together and make small talk with them and pretend like I'm not head over heels for the man whose advances I repeatedly snubbed.

  Because I am.

  Head over heels, that is.

  Every time I think of him—which is quickly becoming all the time, even with everything else going on—I get all bubbly and fizzy and teenager-y inside. I haven't felt this way in years…maybe even a decade. I'm sure I never felt this way about Jeremy. Jeremy and I, we just made sense. We looked so good on paper, even in the beginning, that I let that fill my vision and turned it into something resembling love.

  Not that I'm in love with Todd. I quickly reason with myself. That's ridiculous—I barely know him.

  It's just that, there's something magnetic in him that's pulling at me wherever I am. I've been resisting it, but after all I've been through in the past few weeks, I really can't remember why. Too worried about "how things would look," I guess.

  Go figure.

  Willing myself to forget about him, to erase the image of his clear blue eyes from behind my heavy lids, I drag my weary body to the bathroom and flip on the light and then the shower. It's still pitch-dark outside, and no sane person begins work before the sun peeks out from the horizon, but still.

  I've got a lot to do. Might as well get started.

  * * *

  "Well, there we have it," Amanda Jossamon-Barnes says. She looks pleased as wedding punch.

  As well she should be. I'm doubling her business in one fell swoop. Bringing on a huge new client after my meeting with Calliope at Jameson, Jameson & Pflug. We hit it off so instantly that I knew even before she told me that I'd landed the job.

  Bringing on an international celebrity with Amelia and Noah—Amelia called this morning to tell me she'd received emails from Elle Decor, Lonny, and Architectural Digest after word got out about the closing of her home purchase, all wanting to be first to unveil her new digs. As soon as the public records released on the real estate transaction, they were instantly tweeted…the world we now live in.

  Thanks to Amelia, my work is going to be published. Really, truly, internationally published. And I've yet to even start the job.

  "There we have it," I repeat, smiling back at her. Amanda is warm and open and gregarious—the stellar opposite of my former boss and, I have a feeling, all the makings of a great partner. It's going to take some getting used to, this idea of being a boss instead of having one.

  Which reminds me…

  "Oh yeah, one more thing."

  "What's that?" Amanda asks, still smiling.

  "I can't agree to any of this unless I can bring Quinn Cunningham along with me. And if there's room, I know a wonderful office manager who's already well-connected with all of your suppliers."

  My mind flits to Brice, wondering if I should lump him into the deal, but I have a sneaking suspicion he's going to hang on to Candace's coattails, wherever they land her next.

  Amanda is nodding, slowly, her eyes wide. "I think that's only fair," she says. She glances around us, taking in her small shop, which is set back into an urbane strip center, and I do the same. Floor-to-ceiling windows flank the entry, allowing passersby to glimpse window displays outfitted as full rooms, with clean-lined furnishings and bold accessories that reflect the relaxed contemporary aesthetic Amanda and I share.

  Deeper into the space, walls are hung with original art for sale by Memphis artists. Other walls are lined with shelves weighed down with samples of fabrics, wallpapers, hardware…the familiar trimmings of our world and a backdrop that already feels like home. Round tables, like the one Amanda and I are seated around now, fill small alcoves throughout the space, which opens onto a central reception desk, a larger worktable, and finally a private back office.

  "We might need to expand one of these days," she says, still looking around. And then she swings her gaze back to me. "You know, the bay beside us turns over a lot. Maybe we'll be able to snag it too." Her eyes are sparkling, and it's hard not to share her enthusiasm, especially hearing her already use the word "we."

  "First things first," I laugh. "I'm too busy to even think about doing anything other than going over the paperwork and moving in."

  "Ooh, I'm so excited." Amanda claps her hands together the way my niece Charlotte does when she spots a Disney princess. When
we both stand, she reaches toward me and pulls me in for a hug.

  As she releases me, I giggle.

  "What is it?" she asks.

  "It's just that, you're not what I'm used to." The idea of hugging Candace is as foreign and, if I'm being honest, as repulsive, as the idea of hugging Meryl Streep in character for The Devil Wears Prada.

  "No disrespect intended here, but I hope you mean that in a good way."

  I grin along with her. "I mean that in a very good way."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Life Is Sweet

  I step through the frosting-pink front door of Sweeties and am immediately embraced by the warm glow of the space and the fuzzy-sweet aroma of baked deliciousness. A soft buzz of conversation seems to start at the heart of the bakery and vibrate into every nook and corner.

  I glance around to orient myself.

  Chick is impossible to miss. She's holding court at the center of the main room, perched on her marble cashier's counter with her legs crossed and her feet swinging in front of her. Her hair is freshly coiffed and colored, hot pink tonight, and styled in a tall bouffant. Her vintage dress is classic Chick, with a sky blue background printed all over with frosting-mounded cupcakes. She's even wearing an apron, simple and white, with a single layer of frill lining its edge.

  If I could have designed her for the event, this is exactly what I would have come up with. I shake my head and smile, though my insides are trembling from nausea and fatigue. I keep my eyes zoned in on Chick, afraid to look left or right.

  As for me, I chose a classic, scoop-neck, '60s-cut number in mint, almost the same shade as the floors and with a flowy circle skirt that reminds me of the dress Baby wears in the final scenes of Dirty Dancing. After my meeting with Amanda, I got a wild hair to go shopping, stopping at my favorite Midtown boutique and finding the perfect dress, of all places, in the window display. If I have to face…I gulp, unable to even think his name…him tonight, on a date with Annalise, I'm at least going to do it looking hot. Carrie came over and fed me wine and encouragement the whole time I was getting ready for this evening.

  Still, I don't feel hot. I feel—well, I feel as if I might collapse at any moment. I tried to slip in a nap before Carrie arrived, but I couldn't come anywhere close to sleep. I'm wearing more makeup than usual to hide the gray circles under my eyes.

  "Jen!" Chick has spotted me, and she's gesturing wildly for me to join her in her flood-lit circle of admirers.

  I float across the room on my strappy silver heels, my smile pasted on and behind it, trembling teeth. Is he here yet? Is he with her? Have they seen me?

  When I approach the front counter Chick reaches out for me, grabbing me by the arm and practically dragging me forward, and then she spins me around to face the group that surrounds her. "And here she is," she gushes. "The woman who made this place perfect, and the person who made tonight happen. Everybody, meet Jen Dawson, interior designer extraordinaire."

  There's a round of greetings, some hushed, some exuberant. I actually get slapped on the back by a tall guy in tan slacks and a navy sport coat who's like a cross between a football coach and an infomercial spokesman. The movement jars me forward, almost causing me to trip on my too-skinny stilettos. He's apologizing as Chick clutches my arm again, making sure I don't fall.

  But I barely notice, because I've spotted them.

  Annalise is holding court in the study room, amidst all of her work. Her pale blonde hair is loose around her shoulders tonight, and it shimmers in the room's soft lighting, created from dimmed recessed lights, work lamps scattered on tables, and spotlights trained on the art wall. The tables have been pushed back from their formal, workday arrangement to make space for guests to gather in the center, and that's where Annalise is now, talking animatedly to a woman on her left, her right arm wrapped around Todd's waist. A pang of longing starts in my stomach and radiates out through my core as I glance from her up to him…

  But then I realize it isn't him.

  The man whose arm is draped across Annalise's narrow shoulders is shorter than Todd and somewhat stockier, with hair as sunshine yellow as hers. In fact, as I squint to look closer, it appears to be bleached. He's dressed casually in dark jeans and a fitted, short-sleeved, black, button-down shirt that shows arms inked from biceps to wrist.

  He's a friend, I think. An artist friend who's here to support her work. I graze over the crowd around Annalise, searching for Todd. When I glance back at her, she's spotted me.

  She waves excitedly, and I watch, open-mouthed, as she excuses herself from the people she's talking to.

  She half steps, half skips through the wide opening between the study room and the main space of the bakery, towing her tatted-up friend along behind her.

  "Jen!" she says. "I want to thank you again for this opportunity." With her accent, this sounds more like zsees. "It is very exciting." She glances up at the blond man, who's still attached to her by a few interlaced fingers, which I'm watching with fascination.

  "I'd like to introduce you to my—how do you call it?—fiancé," she says. "Altan, meet Jennifer Dawson. She is responsible for zse beautiful wall of my work." She's positively beaming when she looks back at me.

  In disbelief, my eyes search out her left hand, and sure enough, it's sporting a petite bauble that sparkles when it catches the light. I glance up at her eyes, stunned, sure she wasn't wearing an engagement ring the other times I've seen her. Maybe because we were working.

  I force my jaw closed, suddenly realizing I must look like an idiot, and feel my lips pull back into a smile. "It's nice to meet you, Altan," I say. "Your fiancée is incredibly talented."

  Altan grins down at the top of Annalise's head and then slides a possessive arm across her shoulders. His accent, when he speaks, is very American, and very not-from-around-here. "Don't I know it."

  "Are you an artist too?" I ask him, mainly to place his accent.

  "Yeah, I moved down here with my brother, to go to school," he says, quickly pegging himself as a New Yorker. "I'm working on my master's in studio art, s'posed to finish next spring."

  "That's so great," I say. "Congratulations. To both of you." The relief coursing through my body is so palpable, my legs begin to shake. I reach a hand back to clutch the marble edge of the countertop.

  "You okay, girl? You look like you're about to chuck out of here," Chick says, hopping off the counter and gesturing for me to take her seat. As I hoist myself up, she reaches for a tray propped on top of a stainless-steel bakery case. "Here, have a cupcake."

  I laugh as she presents it to me because it's my very favorite flavor—something I don't think she knows because we've mainly discussed her tastes, not mine. Red velvet, swirled with a mountain of cream cheese frosting and dusted with sensuous flakes of dark chocolate. My mouth waters in spite of my shaky stomach.

  "Well, that's a nice sight," comes a new voice. My eyes on the cupcake, I didn't see him arrive. My heart leaps into my throat and starts beating in triple time. For a second I believe I might really pass out.

  Then Todd laughs his easy laugh, which washes over me like a soothing balm. I glance up to see him entering our circle with quick, sure strides. "Jen served up right here on the counter, with chocolate sprinkles to boot."

  He stops a couple of feet in front of me, cocking his head and smiling that lazy, half-mouthed smile that's more tantalizing than the mound of cream cheese that's threatening to slip out of my hands.

  He's dressed up tonight—no paint-spattered jeans or clingy T-shirt, which is almost a shame. Almost. His light brown hair looks freshly washed and tousled, and he's wearing a cornflower dress shirt that makes his eyes appear bluer, along with a charcoal-colored tie and a tailored sport coat. I can't find my breath to speak, let alone to deliver the wry comeback he probably expects.

  "Hi, Todd. Glad you could make it," Chick says in her chirpy voice, rescuing me.

  From the corner of my eye, I see her wink at me, and then she starts chatting with A
nnalise and Altan, subtly scooting them away from us. The rest of the crowd has folded into itself, people standing in scattered groups of twos and threes throughout the chain link of confectionary spaces.

  I watch her move away from us, my jaw slack. How does she know?

  I study Chick from the back, too nervous to even glance Todd's way. She knows people. That's how. I've never seen anybody taste the flavors of a room like Chick Emerson. No wonder she's the successful owner of a budding business franchise at age twenty-nine. I could learn from her.

  "Are you glad I could make it?" Todd asks, forcing me to turn my attention from Chick's profile, fascinating though it is. "Whoa, watch it!" He laughs, righting my cupcake, which is shifting sideways in my inattentive hands.

  When his fingers brush the sides of my mine, quivers of heat flash like flaming arrows through my body. My heart, already overreacting, feels like it could beat through the bodice of my dress.

  "Oops, you got a little…" He pauses, pointing at a glob of frosting that's smudged on the ridge below my left thumb. "Right there."

  "Oh!" I move the cupcake firmly into my right hand and lift my wrist, angling it to lick off the smear of creamy white frosting. "Oh, God. Mmm…" I say, unable to help myself. I close my eyes briefly, savoring the perfection.

  When I open them again, he's staring into them. "Well, damn," he murmurs, his eyes alight with something new, some fresh piece of information that seems to have clicked into place. Since I'm the girl with the honest face, I can only imagine what he's seeing as he looks at me. "I might have to try a little of that myself." His voice is lower now, husky.

  As I watch, his head moves a little closer, and I'm mesmerized by it. And then he's reaching to take the cupcake from my hands.

  "Oh, no you don't." I pull my hands back, in the process smearing more frosting on the inside of my left wrist and on the fingers of his right hand. Unthinkingly, I lift my arm and lick it off again, with the same reaction as before. Eyes closed, involuntary "Mmm…"