by Lauren Layne
“I don’t need a cab.”
“Oh,” she said, frowning, as though trying to figure out how to spin his gentlemanly gesture into something else. “Where are you going?”
He shook his head. “Too late for small talk, 4C. This chatty thing has to go both ways or not at all.”
“Not at all sounds great,” she said enthusiastically, stepping down from the curb to get into the cab.
Then, at the last minute, she looked up and caught his eye. “Hey. 4A.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m from Michigan. Specifically, Merryville, a little town you’ve never heard of and likely never will again.”
He studied her for a moment. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
She didn’t answer, starting to drop into the taxi when his fingers brushed hers where they rested on the top of the cab door.
“Hey, wait, you didn’t answer my most interesting question of the day,” he asked.
“What?” she asked warily.
He tried again with the slow, sexy smile. “Did you touch yourself this morning? And, important follow-up question, did you think of me?”
“Oh, for the love of— Good-bye, Josh,” Heather said, pulling her hand free and dropping into the cab and slamming the door shut.
He watched the cab pull away, feeling a stab of victory when she turned to look at him over her shoulder. Her head whipped back around the second their eyes made contact, and he barked out a short laugh.
Yup, Heather Fowler of 4C was going to be a challenge, all right.
Chapter Six
THE WEDDING BELLES KEPT two kinds of champagne on hand in the main office.
Good and really good.
Alexis had even taken a trip to the Champagne region of France in the company’s early days to be able to speak knowledgeably about the topic of all things bubbly. And she’d paid for all the members of the team, including Jessie the receptionist, to attend champagne-tasting class so they were able to identify both the diamonds in the rough and the overhyped brands whose tastes didn’t live up to their price tags.
In other words, the Belles only served the good stuff.
But apparently, none was good enough for Danica Robinson.
After expressing snobby disbelief that they didn’t have any Dom chilled, the celebrity reluctantly agreed to give the Krug Brut Rosé a try. It was a bubbly, layered concoction that Heather knew to be perfectly delicious, even to the most discerning of champagne palates, but Danica had merely wrinkled her perfectly shaped nose and pushed it away as if it had personally offended her.
It had been like that since the second the bride walked in the door. She didn’t like the lighting, the music was a touch too loud, and she didn’t appreciate being kept waiting on her busy schedule, when Heather had entered the room literally less than sixty seconds after Danica’s arrival.
Danica’s mother wasn’t much better. Although still an attractive woman, Mariah Robinson hadn’t exactly embraced the concept of aging with grace. While Heather was all for covering one’s grays and stocking up on antiaging serums, Mariah had taken it to a whole other level. Her duck lips, Botoxed forehead, and too-tight clothes were the sad cliché of a woman who thought being attractive only came in one form.
On the plus side, Mama Robinson didn’t seem to have a problem with the champagne. She was on her second glass.
“So you’re the one who put together the Monteith wedding,” Danica said, giving Heather a slow once-over that made her doubt her entire outfit and definitely doubt her decision to let her hair do its naturally curly thing rather than straighten it, as had been her original plan.
Heather was quite sure that Danica had never had a messy hair day in her entire life. Heck, the woman probably hadn’t had so much as a single flyaway hair.
Danica’s hair was long and sleek, falling in a chestnut waterfall down to the middle of her back with just the slightest amount of curl at the end to give it a sort of “I woke up like this” look.
She was wearing a flawless navy-blue silk jumpsuit that at once made Heather feel uncomfortably corporate by comparison.
Truth be told, she’d been uncomfortable the second she’d stepped into the Alexis-esque pencil skirt this morning. She’d expected that dressing like her boss would make her feel accomplished and confident, but mostly she felt like an imposter.
Even more annoying, she had the strangest sense that her annoying neighbor had known it. When he’d given her his usual manwhore up-and-down, she’d seen something akin to pity on his face.
Imagine.
Josh Tanner pitying her. A struggling musician feeling sorry for a successful wedding planner.
No, not a wedding planner. Not yet.
First she needed to nail this meeting.
Heather took a deep breath and gave a confident smile, hoping to reset the tone of the meeting.
Danica didn’t smile back, but somehow the slightly haughty expression made her even more striking. The woman—or whatever team made her look this way each morning—also had her makeup routine down. Heather had been around for enough bridal makeup sessions to know a master when she saw one, and Danica’s eye makeup was definitely the work of a master. She’d done some smoky, smudgy thing that drew attention to her round blue eyes without making it look like she had loaded up on the eyeliner.
The woman was gorgeous, from her shiny brown hair to her Jimmy Choo–clad feet.
The jury was still out, however, on what was on the inside.
“I was happy with the way the Monteith wedding turned out,” Heather said in a smooth, no-big-deal voice she’d heard Alexis use.
“Huh,” Danica said, taking a sip of the champagne she didn’t like.
“I’d love if you could tell me a little bit about what you liked about it,” Heather said, opening up her notebook.
They were in the Belles’ consultation room, a bright, airy conference room complete with a built-in champagne bar, all-white furniture, and gorgeous prints of some of the Belles’ biggest weddings over the years.
It was Heather’s secret wish that one of her weddings would end up among the oversized canvas prints one day.
Maybe this wedding.
“I liked that it was different, but not different for different’s sake,” Danica said, sitting forward in her chair and fixing Heather with an intense stare.
“Was that the one with all the green?” Mrs. Robinson (bet that made for some fun jokes) asked. “I didn’t like the green.”
“No, that was the Swafton wedding,” Danica said with a dismissive wave. “That wasn’t you, was it?”
“No, the Belles didn’t work that wedding,” Heather replied.
“Good. The green totally didn’t work. It made Hannah look sallow.”
“Not something you’ll ever have to worry about, dear,” Danica’s mother said, patting her daughter’s hand.
Danica lifted her slim shoulders in a little shrug. “I look good in most all colors,” she explained to Heather in a matter-of-fact tone.
“That’s great!” Heather said with false brightness. “It’ll make finding the right dress color easier.”
Danica gave her a snotty sneer. “I’m going with white. I should think that’d be obvious.”
Heather couldn’t help the little surge of smugness she felt at knowing something this snobby woman didn’t. “Actually, the nuances of the wedding white are a good deal more complicated than most people realize. There’s white versus ivory, yes, but then there are also multiple shades on that scale. Plus, when you start to play with textures, lace versus silk, et cetera, it can be important to know what works best with your complexion.”
“Oh.” Danica blinked. “Well, I think it’ll all work well with my complexion. And my figure, too. I may not even need alterations.”
Her mother nodded in agreement.
Seriously? Were these women for real?
“Actually, speaking of alterations, there’s something I wanted to discuss with you ladies,” Heather said as she stood and picked up the champagne bottle to refill each of their glasses. She noticed Danica didn’t protest despite her disdain for the fact that it wasn’t Dom Pérignon.
“Are you absolutely positive about this three-month timeline?” Heather asked once she’d sat back down.
“Why, can you not do it?” Mrs. Robinson pounced.
Easy there, tiger.
“Of course I can do it,” Heather said smoothly. “We’re absolutely committed to making our clients’ dream weddings come true within any timeline. But the Monteith wedding you mentioned was a fourteen-month timeline. To get that level of customization, it’s going to take—”
“Money isn’t an issue,” Danica interrupted.
Heather nodded in acknowledgment before continuing. “It’s going to be rushed. I won’t lie to you. There will be something wedding related to handle every day of the week. You may not be able to get your dream designer to put something together on that timeline, that sort of thing.”
Danica snorted. “I don’t think there’s a designer alive who wouldn’t drop everything to have me wear their dress. I have fifty million Instagram followers.”
“That may very well be the case,” Heather said in what she hoped was a measured tone that belied her increasing dislike for this person. “But that doesn’t change the fact that the wedding-planning process will be more enjoyable for you if you’re not making big decisions in haste.”
The stubborn expression on both women’s faces told Heather she was wasting her breath. Clearly beating Heidi Rivera to the altar was more important than their sanity.
Or Heather’s.
“Okay, then,” she said. “Three months it is. As I said, I’m confident we can get your dream wedding in that time, but one hurdle even your Instagram followers might have no sway over is the Plaza. Are you open to a non-weekend wedding, or—”
“No. It has to be on a Saturday,” Danica said, already shaking her head.
Of course it does.
“I’ve already called,” Heather said quietly. “They don’t have any Saturdays available until April.”
“April?” Mariah Robinson screeched. “That’s way later than we wanted.”
“Which is why I’m bringing it up,” Heather said calmly. “There are plenty of venues in the city that are every bit as beautiful and classic, and we’re sure to find an open date at one of them—”
“No. The Plaza,” Danica said as though she were a five-year-old talking to the mall Santa Claus and had zero doubt that he was the real deal and could deliver on her wish for a pink pony.
“Ms. Robinson—”
“Call me Danica,” she said, her tone indicating that this was a great privilege.
“Danica,” Heather said, her smile growing more and more strained by the minute. “I’ve of course put us on their waiting list, and they’ll let us know if there’s a cancellation, but we really need to have an alternate in place.”
Danica pulled her champagne glass toward her and downed half of it in one long sip. Somehow she made the gesture look classy and elegant. Heather suspected it was the hair. Women with shiny, straight hair could get away with just about anything.
Danica and her mother stood in unison, despite the fact that there’d been no words exchanged or even eye contact.
Annnd, the weirdness continues.
“I’m confident you’ll take care of it,” Danica said with a bright smile. “Unless you think maybe one of the other planners might be better suited for the job?”
Heather stood, her heart skipping a beat at the thought of handing this wedding off to Alexis or Brooke. They’d never take her seriously enough to promote her to full-fledged planner if her biggest client to date fired her on the first day. “No, of course not,” she said smoothly. “I’ll absolutely take care of it.”
You idiot. How will you “take care of” securing a Saturday reservation at the freaking Plaza in three months?
Heather ignored the voice of reason in her head. She’d deal with her later. If this were Alexis’s wedding, she’d make it work.
“I do have a few more questions about what you’re looking for,” Heather said, trying not to panic as Danica started looking around for her coat.
And by a few questions, Heather meant all of them. She hadn’t even started the questionnaire that the Belles opened each of their consultation with.
Mariah gave a derisive laugh. “Um, Helen, was it? Isn’t it your job to come up with the ideas?”
“It’s Heather,” Heather said through gritted teeth. “And yes, it is. But I want to make sure this wedding is your vision. Not my own.”
“You’ll handle it,” Danica said, moving toward the main reception area in her impossibly high-heeled suede Jimmy Choo boots. “I’ll be in touch for questions. Text is best, but call as needed for emergencies.”
Heather’s mouth dropped open. “You don’t want to be more . . . involved?”
“What for?” Danica said as she pulled on her white coat and tugged her long hair out of the collar.
“Well, for the dress, for starters.”
“Oh. Yes, of course, I’ll be involved for that. Set up some dates for next week and text me where to be. I’ll fit it in.”
Oh, could you fit it in? I’d be ever so grateful.
“All right,” Heather said slowly. “And as for the flowers, the colors, the cake, food, music, seating, ceremony, tuxes, bridesmaid dresses, honeymoon transportation—”
“All you,” Danica said sweetly. “I’ll want final approval, of course, but quite frankly I really don’t have time to be assessing the merits of different kinds of cake, you know? I’m more of a show up and have it be fabulous kind of girl.”
“Then fabulous is what you’ll get,” Heather said, trying to ignore the way her hands had turned completely clammy at the thought of putting together the biggest wedding of her career without the bride.
And based on what she’d seen so far, if the Robinsons weren’t happy with her choices, they’d have absolutely no problem tearing Heather’s career to shreds.
Publicly.
To all fifty freaking million Instagram followers.
Somehow Heather managed to keep her smile in place until the two women left, choosing to ignore the loudly uttered I can’t believe they didn’t have Dom as she closed the door behind them.
Heather turned slowly on her heel, her eyes searching and immediately finding Jessie’s. The adorable Belles receptionist looked torn between laughter and horror, and she wasn’t alone.
Alexis and Brooke stood nearby as well. Brooke had her hand over her mouth, and even the implacable Alexis looked a little wide-eyed.
“Sooooo,” Heather said slowly. “Did I hear that wrong, or are they thinking that I’m going to do this whole thing? Alone. And that I’m just to text her for her approval?”
Brooke’s hand slowly dropped from her mouth. “Look on the bright side. At least she won’t be a bridezilla?”
Heather gave her a look.
“Okay, she won’t be a hands-on bridezilla. The ones that try to control every little detail are way worse.”
“Are they?” Heather muttered as she rubbed her temples.
“Absolutely,” Alexis said. “This will work out. How often do we wedding planners get carte blanche to do whatever we want?”
“Never, and for good reason,” Heather muttered. “Everyone knows that an uninvolved bride is the kiss of death. What if I pick chocolate cake, and the groom’s allergic to chocolate? What if I pick a DJ when they wanted a live band? What if—”
“What if we open up a bottle of champagne, toss in some orange juice to make it before-noon appropriate, an
d have a brainstorming session over mimosas?”
“No, no,” Heather said quickly. “You guys all have your own work to do, and I can handle this. Really.”
“We want to help,” Brooke said quietly.
“I need to do this myself,” Heather said, just a little bit sharply.
She gave Brooke a pleading look to soften the rebuke. Please. I need to prove myself.
Brooke’s eyes narrowed slightly as she studied Heather, but eventually she gave a small nod. “Okay. But if you need anything . . .”
“I’ll ask,” Heather reassured her friend, even though she knew she wouldn’t be asking for anything. She would nail this wedding, all on her own.
She had to. She was so close to achieving her dreams. She had the apartment, the wardrobe, and in three short months, she’d have the job.
And if there was a tiny nagging part in the back of Heather’s mind wondering if she was missing something crucial, Heather ignored it.
Chapter Seven
OKAY, GUYS, THAT WAS good,” Josh said, pulling his guitar strap over his head and setting the guitar aside after the final chord he’d played to end the band’s latest song had faded away. “Really good.”
“Wait. We’re done?” Felix Mendoza asked from behind the drum set, an incredulous look on his face. “It’s only been, what, an hour?”
“Two,” Josh replied, looking at his watch.
“Boss has a date,” the lead singer said, making a lewd hand gesture. Of course, Trevor Cain could get away with just about any gesture and still have any woman he wanted. Such was the perk of being a kick-ass vocalist with one of those low, gravelly rock voices the women lost their panties over.
“I wish it was a date,” Josh said. “More like a curfew.”
“News flash, dude. You’re in your own home. Can’t have a curfew.”
“Yes, thank you for that bit of wisdom, Donny.” Josh clamped a hand on the shoulder of his high-
more-often-than-not bassist as he headed toward the kitchen.
“Seriously though, what gives?” Trevor asked, following Josh into the kitchen.