P.I.T.A. (L.A. Liaisons Book 3)

by Brooke Blaine

  Stopping in front of the counter, I set down my briefcase and waited for the receptionist to look up. When she didn’t, I said. “Hi. I have a ten o’clock with Mrs. Clayborne—”

  “You’re late.”

  “I apologize for that, Mariana,” I said, going by her nametag, and then I put on my most winning smile, which I hoped she’d look up to see. Time for the go-to excuse. “The 5 was a parking lot this morning.”

  She did manage to lift her head, but didn’t return my smile. “It is every morning. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to reschedule.”

  Reschedule? What the hell? The traffic card always worked.

  “Look…Mariana, if you’d kindly point me in the direction of Mrs. Clayborne, I’m sure she’d have a few minutes to see me. It’s a rather urgent matter—”

  “Mrs. Clayborne has left for the day—”

  “For the day?”

  “—so you’ll have to reschedule.”

  Who left for the day at ten o’clock in the morning? Must be a nice job for her, but since the word “reschedule” was the kiss of death in this business, it was unacceptable.

  I clasped my hands on the counter and smiled through my frustration. “It’s rather important that I speak with her today. I’d appreciate it if you could give me her direct number, since she’s not available.”

  “That’s impossible. Mrs. Clayborne doesn’t believe in mobile devices.”

  Didn’t believe in… Christ on a cracker. I knew bullshit when I smelled it, but since Ms. Friendly over here wasn’t giving me anything to work with, it looked like I’d have to track down the woman myself.

  “Fair enough. Where might I find her? The spa? A yacht club?” The shop for hideous fake flowers…

  “I’m afraid I can’t give out that information. You’ll have to reschedule.”

  “A hint will do.”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  Mariana stopped typing and blinked up at me, her eyes dull and lifeless. Then she shook her head. “No,” she said, and with that firm dismissal, she went back to her work. Or social media posts, more likely.

  I stared at the top of her messy bun and briefly contemplated pulling it out, but my cooler head—the one I normally used— prevailed. But…no? No? Not to be arrogant, but no one said “no” to me ever. Most of the reason I was successful hinged on the fact that I could charm a street rat. “No” wasn’t in my vocabulary. Time for plan B…whatever that was.

  I thanked the lousiest receptionist I’d ever had the displeasure of coming across for her time and exited the way I’d entered. As I passed the front row of reserved parking spaces, I noted that they were mostly empty, including the one marked “Reserved for Management.”

  What a bunch of slackers. Plan B was going to be called convince-the-bride-her-wedding-is-better-off-anywhere-else. It was the truth, but it didn’t mean I didn’t dread the conversation.

  This is all Dawson’s damn fault, I thought, as I merged back onto the 5 freeway, which was moving at a fairly steady pace, even though it was still jam-packed. I’d never missed a meeting before, and I’d never had to tell a bride I couldn’t do something, so I didn’t plan to start now. I’d just have to let her know I needed a bit more time wooing the missing-in-action manager.

  The song on the radio dimmed as my phone went off with Shayne’s ringtone instead—“Down Under”—and it made me crack a smile, as it always did when I heard it. Perfect for that little Aussie.

  “Babes, what’s happenin’? What’s the 411? What’s the hot gossip?” I said, my standard greeting where she was concerned.

  “Paige, please tell me you have never uttered the words, and I quote, ‘Marriage is a crock of shiitake. It’s either a business arrangement between two people who want to get farther up on the food chain and don’t give a fuck about using another person to do it, or its sole purpose is to make someone miserable.’”

  I chuckled. “Hello to you, too.”

  “Did you say it?” She sounded a little too urgent for this early in the morning. Poor girl needed a holiday from the long hours she put in matching up lovers.

  “Well, we all know my thoughts on that topic.”

  “Uh, yes, we do now. Everyone does now.”

  “What are you talking about? It’s not like I’ve kept it a secret.”

  “Except from your clients, maybe?”

  The truck in front of me swerved in his lane, and I laid on the horn. “Look, I’ve had a shit of a morning, and I’ve got to mentally prepare myself for a diva bridal freak-out of epic proportions, so just come out with whatever it is you’re not saying.”

  “LA Today ran a front-page feature about your business being a sham for money.”

  “What?” Her words shocked my brain into stupidity, so much so that it took me an extra moment to process the tail lights in front of me, and I slammed my brakes just in time to avoid hitting the stupid truck whose owner couldn’t drive. “A sham? Me? Explain.”

  “Whoever the source is for this article quoted you as saying what I just told you.”

  “The whole marriage is shiitake thing.”

  “Yes. And they even talk about your, and this is another quote, ‘quickie marriage to Richard James Dirty Dick Dawson, also known as can’t-keep-it-in-his-damn-pants.’”

  I snort-laughed. “That’s funny.”

  “But is it true? Did you say those things?”

  “It does sort of ring a bell—”

  “Dammit, Paige.”

  “I’m not saying I did say those things, but I probably would. Nah, I definitely would.”

  “Okay, so say you did say what this article claims. Who the hell did you speak to?”

  “Well, who wrote the article?”

  “A…Tiana Cochran.”

  “No idea who that is. Does it have one of those pictures that go with it? Like of the columnist or anything?”

  “Yeah, but she doesn’t look familiar to me either. She’s got a sort of pixie face…maybe blond hair. I can’t tell, since it’s black and white.”

  Blond hair…pixie face…

  “Oh shitballs, it’s that skinny ice cream bitch.”

  “Who?”

  Like a slow-developing Polaroid, the picture in my mind became clearer. I hadn’t thought the woman sitting next to me at Licked the day I visited Ryleigh to be significant at the time, but she did seem to have a reaction to the news that I’d married Dawson. I’d been so preoccupied with the events that had led up to me venting that day that I’d stuffed any red flags into the back of my mind.

  “Can you read me the article, and then I’ll tell you.”

  Shayne did as I asked, and though it wasn’t a long exposé by any means, it did what it was intended to do—take a dig at my career as a wedding planner for happy, rose-colored glasses brides-to-be.

  “Reads like a scorned lover,” I said when she was finished. “And now that I think about it, and considering Dawson got his fair share of hate, I’m assuming that’s exactly why it was written. She was probably one of his one-night stands. The victim of can’t-keep-it-in-his-pants-itis.”

  “Paige,” Shayne said, and I could practically see her shaking her head at me through the phone. “I love you more than caramel slices, but you have a big mouth.”

  “In my defense, she caught me at the worst possible moment. I’d had an annulment meeting that morning that did not go the way I intended. What do people expect from me? That I want to wrangle their marriages when I’m trying to get out of my own?”

  Shayne sighed. “I get it. I do. But I’m feeling the urge to muzzle you before you go out in public now.”

  “It’ll be fine. I’ll track down the little twig and tell her—”

  “You bloody well better not tell her anything. You’ve told her enough.”

  “Would a bitch slap work instead?”

  “No.”

  “What about if I pulled her extensions out?”

  “No.”

  “Jell-O fig
ht?”

  “I’m hanging up now. When you get calls from brides denying your services, I might let you cry on my shoulder.”

  “Not gonna happen, but thanks. Your concern has been noted.”

  Shayne had been through a media circus when she’d acted as a beard for an A+-list Hollywood movie star, so it was understandable she was cautious. But who cared if I hated weddings and thought marriage was stupid? What was important was that I could make a bride’s romantic notions about their special day come true, so I wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was that article.

  Really.

  CHAPTER NINE

  F.T.S.

  YOU KNOW THAT saying, FML? I hate that saying. Really, I do. “Fuck my life.” That’s a horrendous thing to say, but that night I came super close to uttering those three words. Instead, what came out in a text to the girls was FTS—fuck this shit.

  To say the day had been one from the pits of hell was an understatement. I’d lost my client’s venue—which, as it turned out, was because the manager had read the article over her morning coffee and decided not to waste her time—had been on the receiving end of the most extraordinary ass reaming I could’ve imagined for losing said venue, oh, and I’d lost that client. Or should I say clients, since there were at least six voice messages on my phone right now telling me they wouldn’t be needing the services of a marriage-hating asshole, or something to that effect.

  Weary down to my bones, I pushed open my bedroom door to find just a fabulous capper to my day—Dawson lounging on my bed in a pair of black lounge pants and a matching t-shirt, reading a book that I’d kept on my nightstand.

  “Are you lost?” I said, kicking off my heels and setting my purse on my vanity.

  He didn’t look my way, still fully absorbed in what he was reading. “It’s fascinating the way Nora juggles all of the men in this book. She’s got the scary sadist ex-boyfriend, the young, innocent boy toy, the married book editor…and that’s not even the people she has sex with. She sounds so much like this one woman I know.” He tapped his finger against his lips. “Hmm. Fascinating.”

  “Surely you have something better to do than to debate a fictional dominatrix’s sex life. From what I hear, you’ve got more important things to worry about. Like the fact that your reputation is going downhill, fast.”

  He flipped a page and didn’t look up. “Good. Married men don’t have reputations.”

  “Aww, but Dawson, it’d be a shame to let years of hard work go to waste.”

  “Do you think Nora actually wants to get it on with Wesley, or is she being a tease?”

  “Oh for the love of—” I snatched the book out of his hands and set it back on the nightstand. “Look, I understand that you feel the need to make my life hell by moving in, by invading at every opportunity, and by scaring off all friends and potential lovers, but putting your grubby paws on my escape reads is going too far.”

  “Touché, love. Rough day?”

  I sighed. “I’m just really not in the mood to argue right now.”

  “You’re always in the mood to argue.”

  “Oh yeah? Did you not catch a glimpse of this shining bit of goodness today?” I went over to the vanity and pulled the folded newspaper out of my bag. Then I chucked it his way.

  Dawson picked it up and ran his eyes over the front page. “Ah. That. Yeah, I guess I got a call about it.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Do you or your cock remember who that girl is that wrote it?”

  As he peered at the grainy image of the LA Today columnist, he twisted his lips. “Tiana. Right.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

  “What do you want me to say? She was a stage-five clinger. She used to follow me into bathrooms at clubs, wait at my car after hours, and tell every woman I talked to that I had herpes.” He launched the paper back at me. “So this silly article? It doesn’t surprise me. I’m more surprised that you’re not laughing about it.”

  “Oh, I was laughing at first, all right.”

  “So why do you still look as though you want to chop my nuts off? It’ll be old news tomorrow.”

  “Will it? And my career? The one that’s plummeting as we speak? What about the damage your little one-night stand is doing to that?”

  That caught his attention, and he sat up, his forehead creased. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, this ‘silly’ article cost me several clients today. As in, they won’t do business with me because I”—I held up my fingers as quotations—“‘don’t respect the institution of marriage,’ and how could they work with a big, fat fake.” I glared at him. “So, yeah, I’d love to be laughing right now, but I’m more concerned with the future of my career.”

  He looked appropriately contrite. “I’m sorry.”

  Shrugging, I pulled out a pair of pajama shorts and a camisole top from my dresser and tossed them on the bed. “It’s fine. I’ll figure something out.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “I can do it.”

  “Paige—”

  “Turn around.”

  “Why?”

  “Just turn around. You’re lucky I haven’t kicked you out already.”

  Dawson sighed and shut his eyes before putting his arm over his face, and I quickly changed into my nightclothes. No, I wasn’t the modest type, but I also wasn’t up for offering a free strip show tonight, either.

  “Done yet?” he asked, just as my eyes caught on the closed diary I kept sitting on top of a pile of clothes in my reading chair.

  Oh fuck, please tell me he hadn’t peeked into that. I swiped the leather-bound journal off the chair and quickly stuffed it inside my discarded clothes.

  “Maybe,” I said.

  Dawson’s arm dropped back down to the bed, and when he opened his eyes, they found me walking away from the chair to dump my clothes in the hamper. He looked back at the chair and then at me again. “You still write in one of those things?” he asked.

  “No idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do. The diary that was sitting on the chair that mysteriously just disappeared.”

  I whirled around, heat rushing to my face. “If you read it, I swear to—”

  “I didn’t read it. Honest. You know I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Dawson—”

  “Paige. You know I wouldn’t.”

  I blinked, those words having a déjà vu effect on me that was so unexpected, I gave in to the memory that accompanied it.

  MY PARENTS WERE out of town, per usual, and the school’s elite—of which I was a new member—had invited themselves over for a last-minute party. Lucy, our chef, had already left for the day, so I’d been able to freely raid the pantry for bags of chips, cookies, and sodas. Yeah, so maybe bribing everyone with a party and snacks wasn’t the best way to make friends, but Dawson seemed to think they were okay, so I needed to make an effort for his sake. I didn’t want to lose my best friend, and I didn’t want him to think I was a loserface incapable of being social, so getting along with the cool kids seemed like the way to go.

  Making my way down the hallway that led from the kitchen to the main living room and then out to where everyone was lounging on the outside patio, I struggled under the weight of the bags I’d stuffed everything into. Out of the corner of my eye, a dim light caught my attention, and I glanced over my shoulder to see that my bedroom door was wide open.

  Huh. I hadn’t left that door open, had I? No, I was pretty sure I’d closed it to keep everyone in the main part of the house.

  As raucous laughter came roaring up through the hallway, I shrugged and kept going. Maybe Dawson had gone in there to use the attached bathroom or something.

  Another round of laughter came from outside, and I walked faster. What was so funny? Maybe they’d put on the new Adam Sandler movie I’d set out earlier by the big screen. It was a gorgeous L.A. evening, cool enough to sit outside, but not warm enough to use
the pool, so I figured maybe a movie would be nice. Or maybe they were telling another one of their inside jokes that they all thought was sooooo hysterical. ~Cue eye rolling~

  Rounding the corner, I heard someone say my name, though the rest of her words faded out, and then…another burst of the giggles. I didn’t know why, but my skin broke out into goosebumps, and there was a sick feeling pooling in the pit of my stomach.

  Were they…talking about me? I’d only heard my name, so maybe my paranoid brain was jumping to conclusions, but as I neared the slider door that led out to the outside patio, I felt the urge to stay hidden in the shadows.

  “Oh my God, you guys, listen to this: ‘Today I heard that Joey Delano wants to ask me out, and I’m not sure how I feel about that. I think Joey can be attractive when he spikes his hair, but…he’s not really my type.’”

  As they laughed again, heat crept up my neck and my heart began to hammer so hard that I thought I’d have a heart attack right then and there. That was my diary. They were reading out of my diary. The one I usually kept locked and hidden in my bedroom, so how did they have it and… Oh my God. They were reading it. Out loud.

  Leaning against the wall, I tried to inhale, but I couldn’t seem to catch my breath. I could hear them out there, passing my private written thoughts around for everyone to read a page, and as much as I knew I should bust in there so they’d stop, the last thing that needed to happen was me hyperventilating or passing out in front of them. That would just triple the humiliation that was currently coursing through my body.

  What did I do to them? We’d never really hung out before. They didn’t even know anything about me, for Pete’s sake, but now they would know everything. Half of me wanted to confront them all, to lash out and tell them what horrible people they were, but the other half wanted to crumple into a ball, right then and there.