by Alina Jacobs
“You’re right,” I told the cat, feeding him another bite of food. “There’s no way I’ll ever in a million years be able to afford that. But that’s fine. We have everything we need. Maybe eventually I’ll save up enough for a Murphy bed set from Ikea, and you’ll have more room to run around.”
My phone beeped, and I set down the glue stick and tapped it, my stomach dropping as soon as I saw the name.
Mom: Hey dumpling! I saw you on Facebook in that video of the cheating bride. Looks like business is going well for you. Maybe you could send a little something to your mommy?
Mom: Don’t forget how much I sacrificed for you. I put my whole life on hold to raise you. You’re my retirement plan!
My stomach sank. I could not give my mom any more money. But I knew as soon as I saw the guilt-trippy text that eventually I was going to make a decision I was going to regret.
16
Evan
“You don’t have an office?” I asked Ivy when she showed up outside my door, toting an elaborate bouquet of flowers. There was a short, plump young woman behind her wheeling another cart holding more huge flower arrangements.
I took the bouquet in its glass jar from Ivy. “I was looking online at wedding bouquets, and it got me thinking that you should branch out, do something a little different. There are some made out of LEGOs, there are some that have little mini alcohol bottles in them—”
“Don’t you dare, Evan!” Ivy scolded. “This meeting is already threatening to go off the rails. You cannot start throwing wrenches in the mix.”
The florist looked between the two of us. Ivy straightened her back.
“Mr. Harrington, where would you like Amy and me to set up?”
“Ms. Williams, my family is waiting in the dining room. You should have enough space to set up.”
I gestured with one of the hands holding the four-foot-tall centerpiece, and Ivy swept past me, her florist friend following.
Imogen was sitting on the edge of the table, legs crossed. She pressed her lips together critically as Amy and Ivy arranged the bridesmaids’ bouquets, the boutonnières, the centerpieces, and the bridal bouquet on the table.
My half sister picked up the bridal bouquet of fluffy white flowers surrounded by greenery and bound with a silk ribbon then turned up her nose.
“I cannot have flowers this white.”
“But you wanted a cream palette,” Mika reminded her.
“Yes,” Imogen said. “Cream—not white, not ivory, cream.” She tossed the bouquet onto the table. “These are blindingly white flowers.”
“Maybe it’s the light,” Ivy said. “It’s a bit bright with all of these windows.”
“It’s going to be bright in the venue. I cannot have these flower so white. They need to be a slightly more rich shade of cream than my dress. Also, have you talked to Brea about my dress? I simply cannot be married in a garment that looks like tarnished yellow silk.”
“Your fitting is in a week. Let’s see how it is.”
“You better have another bouquet done by then,” Imogen said.
“Make it out of pinecones,” I said, “and spray-paint them. Then it will really be unique.”
Ivy glared at me, and I snickered.
“I know you girls are trying,” my stepmother interjected, “but we really need these flowers to pop.”
“Agreed. How do you feel about the centerpieces?” Ivy asked, trying to move the conversation along.
Imogen circled the table. “I don’t like the way they smell,” she said.
“I’m sure they can put perfume on the flowers,” I told Imogen.
“People are going to be eating, Evan. The flowers cannot smell. It will ruin the food. Can you make them not smell?”
“They’re flowers,” the florist said helplessly. “We can’t just take away their scent.”
“But you could put glue on the parts that make the smell,” I said.
Ivy kicked me as she walked past.
“Aside from the smell, how are we liking the height and arrangement of the centerpieces?”
“They look cheap,” Imogen complained.
“Should have gone with my LEGO idea,” I told Ivy.
“These are what we decided on,” Amy reminded her, pulling out sketches from the last meeting.
“I didn’t expect you to make it look like Jessica Simpson’s wedding,” she said. “I need classy and understated.”
“You wanted a four-foot-tall bouquet,” Amy said.
“Maybe you could do like a tiered centerpiece with a waterfall of flowers,” I suggested.
“That is so eighties,” Ivy muttered.
“You could use orchids,” I said. “Aren’t those the hanging flowers? Then have some crystals and little gold charms hanging off of them.” I dusted my hands. “Done. Make it happen.”
Mika rolled her eyes, but Imogen nodded. “Yes, let’s have huge orchid bouquets.”
“That is a lot of orchids. They will all have to be imported and will have a large budget impact.”
“Don’t say the word ‘budget,’” Imogen snapped, “Dad is paying for my flowers.”
“Oh, is he?” I asked sarcastically. “Because I could have sworn I was the one writing the checks. But sure, give my cheating father, who ruined my admittedly lackluster and nonexistent relationship, all the credit.”
“Stop being such a whiny little boy,” Imogen said. “People cheat; get over it. You’re never going to find as nice a girl as Camilla. She was under stress and made a bad mistake.”
“Sleeping with someone’s father is not a mistake,” I shot back.
Ivy was struggling to keep her expression professional.
“Let’s keep the focus on Imogen,” my stepmother said.
“Yes, this is about me. The next few months are all about me. You all have to make sure that my wedding is perfect and special and better than all of my friends’ weddings. Which is why I cannot have these flowers. Show me something else, something better,” Imogen demanded.
“We’ll go back to the drawing board,” Ivy began.
“No,” Imogen declared, “right now. She’s a florist, right?” She pointed at Amy. “So make her rearrange these flowers. I want to see what you’re going to give me. The wedding’s in three months. I can’t wait for you to go back to whatever hovel you occupy and make yet another bouquet that does not meet my specifications.”
“If we do the orchids,” Amy said, “we need to layer the flowers. We don’t have any here today, but I can pretend.” The florist took out a needle and thread and started beheading a few of the smaller flowers. “The orchids would sort of drape down to cascade to the table. We’d want to make the centerpiece feel a little more natural, so we’d want to break up the shape, like so—”
“No!” Imogen shouted. “I told you all already, and you never listen. I told you I did not want that burlap wedding theme where it looks like you just went out into a field and picked some flowers. They have to look expensive. I don’t understand why no one listens to me! This is my wedding, and it has to be perfect. Stop giving me terrible flowers and terrible dresses and terrible décor!”
She swept her arm out and sent two of the vases crashing to the floor.
“Those are antiques!” Ivy blurted.
“That I’m paying for,” Imogen said.
“That I’m paying for,” I interjected.
“Evan, stop being such a nag,” my stepmother snapped at me.
I had to force myself to remain calm. “I think this appointment has ceased to be productive,” I told my family firmly.
The florist blinked in shock at the carnage, but Ivy rallied. “We will take your comments and come up with another arrangement. How’s that?”
“It better be nice. Honestly, I can’t believe I have to do your job for you,” my half sister complained as she shrugged on her camel trench and slipped on her sunglasses. “Mika, come along. We need to go find more pictures for this so-called florist.”
“I do have another meeting,” Amy said, gamely collecting the rest of the flowers.
“I’ll clean this up,” Ivy told her.
The florist brushed past me with a nod.
“I’m sorry,” Ivy told me as she reached for a glittering shard of broken glass.
I grabbed her arm and pulled her back against me. “Don’t touch that!”
Ivy looked at me wide-eyed. We were very close. I could smell the subtle, sweet perfume she wore. I swallowed.
Ivy would be a very nice rebound.
I wondered what she would do if I kissed her. She was close enough.
“Can’t have the wedding planner cut her hand,” I said. “She’s going to need that to eventually slap Imogen in the face.”
“I’m not hitting a client.”
“But you will hit on a client!” I waggled my eyebrows at her.
She narrowed her eyes. “That was you and your stupid little game. Now where is your broom?”
“I dunno.” I shrugged.
Ivy looked down her nose at me. “You live here, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but I don’t clean. I have an old Polish lady who comes and does that.”
“We’re not leaving the water and glass on the floor,” Ivy said, rolling up her sleeves.
I followed her into the kitchen and watched as she poked around in the tall cupboards and pantry. “Ivy.”
“How do you not know where your broom is? You’re such a man-child.”
“Ivy.” I grabbed her, turned her around, pushed her back against the wall, and murmured, “I really want you…”
17
Ivy
“I really want you…” Evan said in that deep voice.
Things were jumping downstairs. Why was he this close to me?
Do not think about him naked in the shower.
Thanks, brain, now that was all I could think about.
“You want me how?” Crap. “I mean, you want me to do what?”
Evan grinned. “If you had let me finish, I would have told you, but of course your brain is jumping straight to sex on the floor of the kitchen that I never use.”
I pushed him away, but Evan caught my hand.
“I wanted you to know that I had something for you.”
“Is it a new life, one where you’re not in it?”
“Even better. I have your money.”
“You convinced Camilla to pay?”
“No. I wrote you the check.”
I was taken aback. “Why?” I looked up at him in concern. “She’s the one I signed a contract with. You were right. It was unprofessional of me to involve you.”
Evan looked up at the ceiling then back down at me. “I was getting married too. She ruined my life, but she doesn’t have to ruin yours too.”
“We’re not that bad off,” I said crossly, even though yeah, we kind of were.
“So you don’t want the check?” he asked, waving it at me.
“I can just send it to collections.” I tried not to watch the check like a sugar addict in a cake shop.
“All right then,” Evan said, slowly putting the check in his pocket, “I’ll just have this voided…”
“On second thought.” The part of me that did not want to lose my business had taken control.
“It’s already in the pocket,” Evan said. I glared at him, and he grinned. “But you are of course free to get it out.”
“You could just hire an escort or find a thirsty model if you wanted some girl to take your clothes off for money,” I snapped at him.
“Yeah, you’re right, sorry. I—”
“But just this once,” I continued, wanting to fluster him as much as he flustered me, “I’ll make an exception. Weddings in the City does pride itself on our impeccable customer service.”
“You don’t have to.”
I slid my hand down the lapel of Evan’s suit jacket to his belt then to his pants pocket, satisfied when he twitched slightly as I slipped my fingers inside it.
“Uh, Ivy, that is”—he visibly swallowed—“not the pocket I put the check in.”
“Oh?” I looked up at him innocently then wiggled my fingers in his pants pocket. “Funny. I guess I wasn’t paying attention. Usually I just space out whenever you talk and think about being literally anywhere else with literally anyone else.”
Evan narrowed his eyes and handed me the check. “I think I can make you like me. In fact, I think I can make you so obsessed with me that you literally cannot function.”
“Never gonna happen,” I told him as I opened another door in his kitchen, which was bigger than my entire condo and that he never used and clearly did not deserve. I pulled out a broom and headed back to the dining room.
“I’ll do it,” Evan said, reaching for the broom.
“You? The person who never cleans? I wouldn’t want you to mess up your nice suit,” I told him as I picked up the larger flowers from the floor then started sweeping up the glass and leaves. “Have you ever worked an honest day in your life, or do you just move money around, attend dinner parties, and golf with your buddies?” I asked him.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Judgmental, I don’t golf with my buddies. We play polo and compare expensive Scotch collections.”
“Wow!” I rolled my eyes. “You’re really contributing to society.”
“From the woman who plans extravagant and unnecessary weddings, that’s pretty rich,” Evan retorted, throwing paper towels onto the floor. “And for your information, women who are not cynical and jaded find me very impressive,” he added as I scooped the mess onto the dustpan.
Before I could pick it up, Evan grabbed it. “I’ll prove it to you,” he said. “Come on.”
“Oh, by throwing away some trash?” I said. “That’s the bare minimum of being a functional human being.”
“I think the bare minimum is to get it up in bed, but what do I know?”
“Yeah, what do you know?”
Evan tossed the trash into the bin under the sink.
“What do I know?” he said, turning abruptly.
There were inches between us, and I backed up into the kitchen counter.
“I know I am going to impress you greatly.” He leaned over me.
“Impress me how?” I squeaked.
He leaned closer. Was he going to kiss me? Did I want him to?
Yes.
No! Of course not.
He leaned close then reached for me. My heart yammered.
Actually, wait, he was reaching around me. Evan picked up a tablet on the counter, smirking. Then he wrapped one hand around my waist and ushered me into the living room area, which was separated from the kitchen by the long wooden table.
“Behold! My stuff!” Evan gestured to a large expanse of wall that held several abstract paintings.
“Your art?” I wrinkled my nose. “I’ve seen better. I have had several clients who are big art collectors.”
“Yes,” Evan said impatiently, swiping on the tablet, “but do they have this?”
He tapped the screen, and the walls whooshed apart, revealing a layer of glass. I peered as Evan tapped another button. Spotlights inside the hidden room, lit up revealing several million dollars’ worth of sports cars.
I was the slightest, barest, itsy bit impressed, but I refused to let Evan see it.
“May I introduce m’lady to a small portion of my car collection? There’s a special car elevator that brings them up so I can look at them whenever I want.” He gazed at them indulgently.
“Yawn.”
“Lies!” Evan exclaimed. “You’re impressed.”
“Nope.” I turned back to the table and picked up my bag.
“Don’t you want to go for a ride?” Evan said, stepping up beside me.
“I have to work. We’re in the thick of wedding season.”
“I could drive you to your next appointment.”
“The number-one rule of being a wedding planner is don’t upstage the bride,” I told him. “If I showed up with someone like you in a car like that, I would lose my job.”
Evan smirked. “So you did like the cars—and the man, if I’m not mistaken.”
“I might have liked the cars, but definitely not the man,” I said, pushing the strap of my bag onto my shoulder.
Evan picked up the ruined bouquet from the table. “I have offered my best to her, yet she wounds me.” He tossed the flowers into the air, pretending to be shot.
“I don’t know how you function. And I just cleaned that floor!”
Evan picked up one of the flowers and sniffed it. “I don’t know what Imogen was complaining about. These smell nice. They smell like—” He sniffed again then leaned over to sniff my hair. “They kind of smell like you.”
He tucked the flower into my loose bun. Then he leaned down to whisper into my ear, “I’m going to plan something that is going to impress you so much, you’re going to scream my name.”
I stared at him wide-eyed.
“No, not like that, Ivy!” Evan said, pretending to be offended. “I mean it in an ‘Oh Evan, how interesting!’ way not an ‘Oh Evan, go harder!’ way.”
“You’re out of control!” I admonished.
Evan wrapped an arm around my waist, guiding me to the front door. “You’re the sex-starved one. Believe me, the strain isn’t good for your heart.”
As I walked out of his building, the thought hit me. Oh my god, were we actually flirting?
18
Evan
“The esteemed man of honor! How goes the wedding planning?”
“I’m not planning it,” I told Sebastian, shoving him out of my office chair.
“You were at the flower-arrangement meeting,” he said, shoving me right back.
“I was just there to make sure Imogen didn’t trash my apartment. Honestly, what is it with women and weddings? Why does it turn them into trolls?”
