Take Me To The Beach
Page 91
Monica Murphy
Copyright © 2019 by Monica Murphy
All Rights Reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. All characters and storylines are the property of the author and your support and respect are appreciated. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Chapter 1
They call me “the fixer”. As in, I know how to fix everything.
Everything.
Okay fine, the mythical “they” don’t really call me that. I’m just joking. But what my coworkers do call me is “the bride whisperer”.
That, my dears, is factual. I definitely know how to talk to brides. Future brides. Bridezillas, crying brides, extra happy brides, anxious brides, vicious brides, sad brides. I’ve seen them all. I’ve handled them all.
And I know how to keep them calm. Reassure them that everything is going to be juuuust fine. Even when they’re in the middle of a huge crisis like picking out color choices and fonts, I’m right there by their side, telling them that they’re going to make the right choice. Trust me, there’s no secret to this. No particular approach you have to make or skill you need to learn. Just…
Be nice.
Listen to them.
Ignore their tantrums.
(Indulging bad behavior is a huge mistake)
Make them feel like they’re special and…
Voila. They’re happy.
Now, you might be thinking I’m a wedding planner, but I’m not (God no). I do play an important part in their planning process, though. Over the years, it’s become a real thing to use my services not just once, but twice. Maybe even three times, if we’re lucky.
What is it that I do, you ask? Well, I work at a stationery store. Sounds boring, I’m sure, but it’s not. It’s so not. And where I work isn’t just any stationery store either. It’s high end. Top of the line. If you have to ask, you can’t afford type stuff. We use the highest quality ink and paper. We sell beautiful stationery, cards and trinkets for the hoity-toity types who frequent the store and the vacationers who find themselves browsing for needless knickknacks. For the future brides and grooms, we sell custom save the date cards, wedding invitations and thank you cards.
Otherwise known as the trifecta.
If you aren’t aware, couples nowadays like to send out an invite to the invite, a la save the date cards, to let their nearest and dearest know about their upcoming nuptials. Some people think save the date cards are a waste of time and money, and I get where they’re coming from, I really do. If you’re on a budget, they can easily be stricken from the “must need” list.
But they’re cute. Plus, people are so busy. Like, your schedule has a schedule, you know? So you have to make sure that people are aware that your big day is coming up.
It’s important. Wait. No, it’s more than that.
It’s vital.
Okay, so I’m the first person you meet with at the Noteworthy stationery store (cute name, right?) when you make an appointment to look at invitations. Actually, I’m pretty much the only person you meet with, because that’s my department. I’m the save the date and wedding invite expert.
Normally, I don’t book appointments before the store opens, which is ten o’clock on the dot. But sometimes, people’s schedules don’t allow for them to meet me at ten a.m. Or two p.m. Or five p.m.
Some people want to make an appointment at…
Eight. In. The. Morning.
I’m not a morning person. I can be a little cranky (okay, maybe a lot). Just ask my roommate, Stella. In the early morning, she’d rather deal with anyone else, even her bossy big brothers who annoy the crap out of her, rather than me. I’m kind of a monster before I get my caffeine.
Luckily enough, Stella happens to work at a bakery/coffee shop her family owns. She’s the head barista during the morning shift. And on that very rare occasion when I have to meet a client early in the morning, she’s already got me covered.
Thank God for friends.
This very morning, I breeze into Sweet Dreams Café, waving at Stella’s dad Lorenzo, who’s working the cash register. He’s talking to one customer, making change for another, yet he still manages to greet me.
The man is a most impressive multitasker.
I head straight for the pickup counter, where I see my skinny vanilla latte waiting for me, my name written on the side of the cup in Stella’s familiar scrawl. Without hesitation I grab it, inhaling deeply before I take a sip. Just a tiny sip so I can savor it. I close my eyes for a second, maybe two, and when I open them, I find a guy standing there.
Watching me.
And he’s not just any guy. He’s cute. Wait, no. Not cute. He’s…hot. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Wearing a suit that fits him perfectly; I know just from looking at the fabric that it’s custom. Expensive.
He’s smiling at me. And I’m scowling at him in return because the caffeine hasn’t quite hit my bloodstream yet, so I’m not on top of my game.
“You looked like you were having a moment.” His voice is deep. Rich. His face…vaguely familiar?
I stand a little straighter. Take another sip of my coffee as I contemplate the man in front of me, because for some reason I still can’t come up with anything to say.
Listen, I always have something to say. But this guy. This gorgeous, well-dressed maybe-stranger, is leaving me a little…
Dumbstruck?
Huh.
“That moment you were just having. With your coffee,” he continues, gesturing at the cup I’m clutching in both of my hands, like it’s my baby. Which this morning—every morning—it is.
“She loves coffee,” Stella says from behind me.
Glancing over my shoulder, I give her a look, one that says shush.
“I can see that.” The amusement in his voice is obvious. He thinks it’s funny. The sacred moment I was having with my latte made him smile.
I wouldn’t mind coming up with other ways to make him smile.
Whoa. Where did that thought come from?
“What I want to know is, how did you get such special treatment?”
I blink at him like I’m an uncomprehending idiot. “Excuse me?”
“Well, I’ve been here for the last fifteen minutes. First, standing in line.” He gestures at the line of customers that trails out the door. “And now, waiting for my order.”
Guilt fills me. Just a tiny bit. Sweet Dreams Café is the most popular bakery and coffee shop in Carmel-by-the-Sea. All the tourists love it. All the locals love it too. It’s been in Stella’s family for generations.
“Yet you skip past the line, walk straight in here and grab your ready-made drink within a few seconds of your arrival. Do you have a Fast Pass?” A brow lifts, and I’m hit with a quiver. Like Cupid just drew back his bow and shot that arrow right in my heart.
Or perhaps that arrow struck me in, ahem, other places.
Who knew a brow lift could be so sexy?
“A Fast Pass?” I repeat. “Like Disneyland?”
“Yes.” He nods. Takes a step closer. Oooh, I can smell him. And he smells like he just emerged from the forest after rolling around in the raspy pine needles for the last twenty-four hours. “Like Disneyland. I didn’t know they offered Fast Passes here. How do I get one?”
“She’s my roommate,” Stella answers for me, and I throw her another glare, one that says, please don’t speak for me. I’m perfectly capable of doing this myself.
Stella’s not picking up on my vibe, though. She just keeps talking. “I make her a skinny vanilla latte every morning. This one is just a little earlier than usual,” she explains as she’s working that giant espresso machine like the awesome multitasker that she is.
Clearly she inherited
her talents from her dad.
“What a perk, that the barista is your roommate,” he says with a faint smile aimed right at me.
Huh. Maybe he’s Cupid. That smile is making my heart zing, and my heart rarely zings. I can’t remember the last time it zinged, and there’s no denying that other parts of me are zinging too.
“It’s pretty great,” I say weakly, taking a giant gulp of my latte. It’s brutally hot, and I probably just scorched the roof of my mouth, but this morning, this moment, is proving to be worth it.
He doesn’t stop smiling, which makes me think he’s either a) real friendly, b) extremely interested in me, or c) one of those attractive serial killers a la Ted Bundy.
Not that I think he’s actually a serial killer, but come on. Do you realize how hard it is to trust men? I find it very difficult. I’m in my early twenties and proudly single. I mean, yeah, sure, I’m looking for the one (who isn’t?). I’ve used dating apps and I’ve Tinder swiped more than a few dudes in my lifetime, but honestly, they weren’t good matches.
They never are, it seems. The one is also the impossible catch.
My mother says my expectations are too high, but this is the same woman who’s been divorced four times and is working on making her fifth marriage happen at this very moment, so I’m thinking her standards are too freaking low.
But who am I to judge?
My phone buzzes in my bag and I reach for it, blinking when I see what time it is. The buzz was the alarm I set for myself last night, reminding me I have to be at Noteworthy in approximately five minutes. And Noteworthy is exactly a six-minute walk from the café. When I’m wearing flats.
Of course, today I’m wearing heels. Extra high ones, nude-colored with a shiny patent leather sheen that sounds atrocious, but isn’t. They are very glamorous heels that have that Louboutin look without that red-bottomed price tag.
It’s going to take more than six minutes to get to the store in my faux Louboutins, and I hate being late. Oh God, I despise it. Why didn’t I set my alarm for ten minutes before my appointment? I’m such an idiot sometimes.
“Sorry, I have to go,” I tell the guy. Suit Guy. Vaguely Familiar But Maybe That’s Just Wishful Thinking Guy. Hot Guy. Smiling, Sexy, I Wish I Could Talk to Him More Guy. I turn toward the counter and wave. “Bye Stella!”
“Knock ’em dead, Caroline!” Stella calls as she’s frothing milk, her cheeks pink from the steam.
“Good luck,” he offers, even though he doesn’t know what I’m doing, or if I even need luck. I appreciate the gesture, though.
I offer up a quick smile of thanks at my new crush, then without another word I hightail it out of there, silently cursing my shoe choice the entire walk to Noteworthy.
The bride-to-be is already waiting for me when I arrive, pacing in front of the doors while chatting—loudly—on her phone.
“Please hurry. You don’t want to be late,” she says pointedly, her words dripping with ice. Her gaze finds mine, and she smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Oh finally. I believe she’s here. See you in a minute.”
Okay. I read an article in Cosmo when I was a teen about people judging you within three seconds of meeting you, and when it comes to meeting my future brides, it’s one-hundred percent true. I can usually tell what these brides are going to be like from that first moment, and I’m usually right.
I can tell this one isn’t going to be easy. She meant for me to hear what she said. That was a jab at my tardiness, and in her mind, it’s a strike against me. But I can’t go flashing my fake Louboutins at her and expect sympathy, because from where I’m standing, I can clearly see she’s wearing the real deal and that fills me with an uncomfortable surge of envy I don’t want to acknowledge at the moment.
So I decide to kill her with kindness instead.
“Hiiii.” I drag the word out as I approach the front doors with my keys, my lips curved into that perfect, I can’t wait to learn more about you smile. “You must be Tiffany.”
“And you must be…Carolyn?” She wrinkles her perfect, pert nose in a way I bet she thinks is cute.
Oh, and I’m fairly certain she called me by the wrong name on purpose.
“Caroline.” I stress the end of my name, approaching the front doors and sticking the key into the lock, turning it before I push the door open. I stand to the side, holding the door for her so she can enter the building before me. Even though the lights aren’t on, there’s enough natural sunlight coming in from the giant front window that we can see inside. “I’m so incredibly sorry that I’m late. Needed to get some fuel this early in the morning.” I hold my almost empty to-go cup up for her inspection.
She sniffs as she walks by me and enters the store, flicking her long, auburn hair behind her shoulder. She’s painfully beautiful, as in it pains me to admit that she’s so freaking beautiful, when I can sense she might have a black soul. But maybe I’m being too judgmental.
“Caffeine is bad for you,” she says as she turns on her heel to face me. “It’s like a drug, you know.”
The best legal drug in the free world, I want to tell her, but I don’t. Instead, I force that smile to stay on my face, flick on the lights and ask, “Is your fiancé able to make it to the appointment this morning?”
He’s the entire reason we’re meeting this early. In the initial contact email Tiffany Ratcliffe sent me, she said this:
My fiancé is a very important man who has an extremely busy schedule. I do hope you can accommodate us and meet at a suitable hour.
Their definition of a suitable hour was seven in the morning, but I countered with eight and Tiffany agreed. So this guy better show up or I’m gonna be pissed.
“He’s running a little late this morning,” Tiffany says as she slowly meanders around the shop. All the expensive trinkets and candles and white canvas printed with colorful, inspiring platitudes are in the front. Those are for the many tourists who wander in off the street.
The good stuff, my command center, is in the back.
“Hmm, running late. Something I can completely relate to,” I tell her, trying to make light of the situation, but girlfriend can’t even bother to crack a smile.
Determination steels my spine, and I drain the last dregs of my latte before I toss the cup in the nearby wastebasket. I will break her. I will make her adore me by the end of our business relationship.
“Do you have a book we can look at? With samples?” Tiffany asks, knocking me from my I will make you love me thoughts. Jeez, I sound like a stalker.
“Of course.” I gesture to the giant metal-and-glass table that I like to call my domain. There is a hard-backed binder sitting on said table that is stuffed full of save the date card examples awaiting her perusal. “Why don’t you have a seat?”
Tiffany settles her skinny butt in the chair and cracks open the binder, flipping the pages with quiet efficiency. I take the moment to go to my little desk tucked into the corner, grabbing a slim white folder from the stack of many slim white folders that are sitting in my outbox. I give these to every potential client. The folder is full of information to help them make their decisions, including past client recommendations that make me sound like a superstar.
I don’t mean to toot my own horn, but in business, it’s necessary. I have to convince these people I am the one they need. I am the only one who will make a difference, and who will deliver them the right product.
Sounds dramatic, but it’s true. In the wedding industry, we all do this. The best florist in town, the most magnificent cake baker, the photographer…we have to play up our talents.
“Here is some information for you,” I tell her as I sit in the chair across from Tiffany, sliding the glossy white folder in her direction.
She doesn’t even bother looking at it. She’s too busy flipping pages, quickly scanning the samples, wrinkling her nose before turning to the next one. Flip, scan, wrinkle, flip, repeat. I take her in quietly, trying to see what her absentee groom sees in her
. I do this a lot. Sometimes I can totally see the love radiating between the future bride and groom. Or the chemistry. Some of the couples I’ve worked with were muy caliente, if you catch my drift.
Considering the fiancé isn’t here yet—and where the hell is he?—I can’t help but think he must be a jerk. Like Tiffany appears to be. Most likely he’s a handsome jerk, because Tiffany is a beautiful jerk, with the gorgeous red hair and the golden-brown eyes and the perfect set of boobs and the heavily made up face that doesn’t actually look heavily made up at all. More like she’s merely emphasizing her assets—those big brown eyes, her matte red lips—and downplaying the negatives. Like the contouring on her nose, which totally slims it down, but not quite enough.
I’ve watched a lot of makeup tutorials on YouTube. I know of which I speak.
“Oh.”
Tiffany’s breathy exclamation pulls me from my thoughts, and I realize she’s staring at a page, a particular sample, with hearts in her eyes.
Seriously, don’t you wish emojis came to life? I certainly do.
“You found something you like?” I fold my hands and rest them on the table, eager to grab an order form so I can start filling it out. But she’s what I call a one-legger, as in someone who’s wanting to buy something as a couple, yet they come in all by themself. Meeting with only the future bride could be a mistake. She might need her fiancé’s opinion first before she can order anything.
Or his money.
Or his approval.
Yes, I’ve seen it all.
Even worse is the one-legger guy who shows up for the appointment. I mean, come on. We know who makes all the decisions on these kinds of things for the wedding. The bride.
Not the groom.
Speaking of the freaking late groom…
“I think I found the exact thing I want, but I probably shouldn’t make that final decision without Alex here,” Tiffany explains, her heart eyes never straying from the sample she’s fallen in love with.
“Maybe you should call him,” I tell her, my voice gentle. He needs to be here. The reason we’re here so freaking early is because of him. It’s downright rude that he hasn’t shown up yet. “He did confirm with you that he would be here this morning, correct?”