by Kate Meader
“Rear Window. It’s perfect.”
“It is.”
A shiver of excitement thrills through me that we agree on this—or perhaps he crafted the moment so we could agree on something. It’s silly, really, because lots of people like Hitchcock movies.
“We should…” I thumb over my shoulder.
“Lead the way,” he murmurs.
* * *
—
The menu tasting is far more intimate than I’d like. Melissa, my contact at The Peninsula, usually sets it up this way to create a sensual atmosphere conducive to the happy couple. Sexy food puts the marks in a good mood, she once told me.
The lighting may be muted, but it’s plenty bright enough for Melissa to get a good gawp at Max. On hearing he’s playing proxy for the groom, the woman promptly forgets that she is herself engaged. But then Max seems to have that effect. Common sense, self-respect, and knickers fly out the window whenever he’s near.
“The bride is running a little late but Mr. Hend—” It feels odd to call him that, especially when Melissa is blinking at him like he’s God’s gift. A surge of possessiveness takes charge of my tongue. “Max is pretty sure he can guide the choices here.”
“Of course,” Melissa says, never taking her eyes off Max. “How about a little champagne to start?” Another tool in Melissa’s box. Ply the client with bubbly to get them to agree to the higher-priced bar packages with top-shelf liquors and wines. I prefer to keep a clear head, which Melissa knows too well. She eyes me, and I eye her right back. I won’t allow my clients to be cheated.
She pulls a bottle of Californian sparkling from a bucket on a side table, but before she can uncork it, Max raises a hand.
“I think we can do better than that, Mel. What’s the best vintage you have on the menu?”
“Moët & Chandon, of course.”
“I prefer Veuve Clicquot but we’ll take the Moët if that’s all you have. My treat.” He smiles at her, and wow, the low-light romance of the room brightens to megawatt sexiness.
She nods, a little dumbstruck by Max’s smoothness. I, on the other hand, am restraining myself from a considerable eye roll. Melissa practically runs off to the bar to grab the champagne.
“And there I was thinking you had concerns about the budget.”
“My concern about drinking piss-poor champagne will always trump budget concerns.”
I laugh, reluctantly amused. “That wasn’t pretentious at all.”
His grin tells me he knows it was, and hey, isn’t this fun how we’re all in the know? Again, I’m struck that maybe there’s more to Max than he’s chosen to present.
“I’d think you’d want to add on as much as you can. Getting the clients toasted on expensive booze can only help your case and increase your kickback.”
“That’s not really what this is about. At least, not from me. I’m here to protect my clients from predatory behavior.”
“Right.”
“Just admit it, Max. We’re both part of the rich cycle of love and marriage, only my contribution actually makes people happy.”
“You haven’t met any of my clients. Sure, they don’t start off happy—probably something to do with the unrealistic expectations force-fed down their throat by unscrupulous hawkers of love and marriage. By the time I’m through with them, they’re a little bruised yet at peace for the first time in forever. Your contribution gives them a false sense of security. Mine restores the balance you and your ilk have thrown off.”
What utter tosh. I open my mouth to say so, but am interrupted by Melissa. “Let’s get this party started, shall we?”
Fifteen minutes later, I’m halfway through the glass of champagne I swore I wouldn’t let pass my lips. It’s Moët & Chandon, on Max, and I took an Uber here, so why not?
We’ve already cycled through four appetizer choices: shrimp with chives, ricotta ravioli, a crab thing, and an asparagus thing. The fact I’m calling them “things” means my alcohol tolerance clearly needs boosting.
“The crab thing and the ravioli,” Max says.
“Agreed. The chives overpower the shrimp—”
“And the asparagus is just blerg,” he finishes.
My thoughts exactly. Well, sort of. “Blerg?”
“Legal terminology for indifference to asparagus appetizers. I’m only surprised the chef hasn’t thrown out Brussels sprouts. Christ, I’m sick to death of seeing those on every menu.” He tops up my champagne. “So, Mel, what are we looking at here? Give me some numbers.”
Melissa slides a perfectly printed list of the packages with prices over to Max’s side of the table. I watch his cool appraisal of the admittedly high cost per head. But this is The Peninsula, one of the world’s top luxury hotel chains, with this branch located smack bang in the middle of Michigan Avenue, one of the most famous streets in the country. A wedding at The Peninsula—at this Peninsula—isn’t going to cost chump change.
For all his bitching and moaning about wedding planners and the matrimonial-industrial complex, he’s remarkably contained. I wonder what it would take to make him lose his self-control. When he goes to bat for his clients, does he get emotional? When he beds a woman, does a different Max Henderson come out to play?
I doubt it. The man I see is slick and centered and a little bit plastic. The law suits him.
He looks up, and for a moment I feel caught in a trap of my own making, as if he knows what I’m thinking and he’s saying, “All wrong, Charlie!” His eyes skitter over me before landing on Melissa. “I think there’s a little wiggle room here, don’t you, Mel?”
Melissa simpers in a most annoying way. You are engaged, woman!
A loud crash sounds behind her, and all eyes whip to the source. Gina is standing over a stainless steel cover, looking absolutely mortified.
“I am so sorry!”
Before a glaring Melissa can put her foot in it, I jump up to greet the bride. “It’s fine! Just glad you could make it. How’s the car?”
“Towed. I cabbed it.” She takes my arm like we’re old friends. Wild mahogany curls fall over her bright hazel eyes and smooth olive skin. “Hey, Maximus, thanks for keeping Charlie company.” At the table, she lifts my glass and downs the rest in one swallow. “I soooo needed that!”
Max stands and gives her a hug while I watch carefully for evidence of disapproval on his part. I’m not sure why, but I want to protect this girl.
“I didn’t get a chance to congratulate you, GeeGee,” Max says. “Welcome to the Henderson asylum. You’re gonna love it here.”
Gina hiccups and squeezes him back. “I know you’re not on board but I don’t care.”
“That’s the spirit,” Max says good-naturedly.
Introductions are exchanged, and Gina pulls up a chair while Melissa heads back to the kitchen to get more samples for the main course.
“I’m fucking starving!” Gina downs the remaining appetizers.
“Any thoughts?” I say, charmed by her attitude.
“The asparagus thing tastes like shit.”
Max catches my eye with a twinkle in his own. “Also, a legal term.”
I giggle stupidly. Damn top-shelf champagne—who’s playing who here?
One bottle of Moët and forty-five minutes later, we’ve decided on a menu. When Max steps out to take a call, Gina leans in, her voice low. “I haven’t seen anything about prices.”
“James said not to worry. Just pick what you like.” And I suspect Max is going to try to bargain the package down because it’s the principle of the thing.
“All this…” Brow in a crumple, Gina looks around. “It’s so over the top, don’t you think? Well, of course you don’t think that. This is perfectly normal for you but for me…”
I squeeze her hand. �
��Whose idea was it to get married?”
Her face lights up. “James. He said he wanted to ask me the first night we met but thought it might come off as stalkerish.”
Lovely. “And whose idea was it to do the big wedding?”
“Okay, I see where you’re going with this, but you don’t know the kind of people I’m marrying into.” She looks over her shoulder, and I follow her gaze. Max is over at the kitchen entrance, his head inclined while talking to Melissa. She’s touching his lapel in a way that’s really bothersome.
Ridiculous.
Me, that is. I’m being ridiculous.
“You mean because they’re North Shore nouveau riche.”
“Nothing nouveau about it. I mean, the money’s been in the fam for decades. Millions of it from some pig baron or something. And here’s little old Gina from Podunk, Nebraska, who crashes into tables and knocks back other people’s champagne. Not to mention, Max hates the idea.”
I wonder. “I think he likes you, though.”
“He liked me better when I was just James’s girlfriend. And there’s so much to do—I haven’t lived in the city for long and I don’t know the first thing about any of this. I don’t even have a dress. My sister is eight months pregnant and can’t travel to help with bride stuff.”
“How about your mom?”
“She’s sort of busy with Husband No. 3.”
Gina’s not the first woman I’ve met with a poor female support network. “I can help with all the preparation. And you have friends in book club, right?”
“Casual. I only went to it because I saw a notice at the library and it was specifically about reading romance and not some highfalutin’ snooty New York Times shit.” Another look over her shoulder and again, I’m drawn to whatever Melissa and Max are up to.
Not that they’re up to anything. They’re only…negotiating. Outrageously, judging by that tinkling laugh on her side. It’s enough to make someone throw up an asparagus thing.
“I don’t want to let him down,” Gina says.
“Max?”
She shoots me a weird look. “James. And Max, I suppose, because James does actually care what he thinks. They’re very close. I want to make my fiancé proud.”
“You will.” So Gina is a little rough around the edges—it’s all part of her charm. It wasn’t so long ago that I needed a little polishing. Okay, a lot. Believe me, I was no picnic after my mom died and I ended up in foster care. It took a couple of special people to shape me into what you see now.
Of course, the new, improved me wasn’t enough for my ex, Jeremy. I know what it’s like to feel not quite up to par.
“I’m going to make sure your day is perfect. And a perfect wedding day starts with a perfect wedding dress.”
Gina closes her eyes, and when she opens them again, they’re shiny. “Thank God you said that. You’re going to help gussy up this pig in shit?”
I think of all the wedding mags back at my office and my planner’s heart grows three sizes. “Perfect Day is on the case.”
Chapter 6
“The most important four words for a successful marriage: ‘I’ll do the dishes.’ ”
—Unknown
Charlie
“Are you hiding out in here?” a soft voice inquires behind me.
I take a slug of the nice rosé I brought, but it goes down the wrong way. My choked out “no, no, I’m not!” sounds desperately false.
Of course I’m not hiding out in my friends’ kitchen! I’m recovering after spending the whole night in performance mode. I did my duty, waved goodbye to the poor stooge who was rolled in for inspection, and now I’m letting the man leave in peace.
Penny Kim, bestie and date-hawker, narrows her eyes at me, clearly not buying what I’m selling. Pushing back her glossy fall of black hair, she lowers her voice. “I thought you’d like him. He cures cancer. Kid cancer.”
She makes me sound like a monster, but she’s not wrong. I am. An ingrate who can’t appreciate when her friend invites the most eligible men in Chicago to perfectly appointed dinner parties in her perfectly appointed Wicker Park home where she lives with her perfectly appointed husband. Who I introduced her to, by the way.
Mr. Perfect—Penny’s boo and my other bestie/co-worker, Nathan—walks in and circles her from behind, landing a kiss on her exposed shoulder, though he has to bend because he’s six feet two to her five feet squat. I inwardly sigh my appreciation at their adorableness, but outwardly grunt my discontent.
“Uh, do you mind?”
“Aw, you jealous?” Nathan grins while Penny looks at me with a head tilt of poor Charlie. “Guess you shouldn’t have set us up. Now we’re trying to return the favor and do you appreciate it? Not one iota.”
More wine, more of my shoulders sinking in dejection. “He’s very nice but he’s so…”
“Good-looking?” Penny offers.
“Upwardly mobile?” Nathan’s contribution.
“Flawlessly sainted,” I finally say now that I’m allowed to. What use would I be to a pediatric oncologist? The man’s saving lives while I’m—damn, here I am letting Jeremy into my head. He never considered my job to be important enough, and while I talk a good game to the likes of Max Henderson, familiar doubts have a habit of dropping acid into the crevices in my self-assurance.
Time for a little build-me-up-Buttercup. You’re not a rocket scientist but you’re creating memories. Crafting the happiest moments of a couple’s new life together. This is worthy.
“He’s a bit too untouchable for me,” I say, feeling my tongue loosen now that I know the saint has left for the evening. “A really nice guy but I can’t imagine us together. Maybe it’s too soon.”
Nathan frowns, recognizing that this is my fallback position when I feel cornered. “It’s been more than a year,” he says gently.
“Eighteen months,” Penny clarifies, less gently.
“There are only so many Jeremy Cravens in the world,” Nat continues. “Don’t lump us all in the same basket.”
I smile, uneasy at the mention of my ex’s name. Jeremy did a number on me all right, but I’m determined to get back on that horse. Just sidesaddle for a while.
“If only you didn’t kiss like an anteater,” I tell Nathan.
“And if only you didn’t taste so…bland,” he returns with a pitying headshake. Our one attempt at romance in freshman year was a disaster but it led to this—these two people I love finding each other.
He pulls Penny into his side and kisses the top of her head. “I’m going to unsubtly leave the room and clear plates, so you can get a little girl time and not so surreptitiously check out my great ass.”
“As if we’d bother,” his wife says with a pat on his great ass.
We watch his exit, and I offer a whistle of appreciation. It’s a thing we do.
Penny turns to me. “Is this really about Jeremy? I know he hurt you, but Nat is right. There are tons of guys who would be perfect—I’ve introduced every surgeon, anesthesiologist, and plain old doctor I know, as well as a few non-physician types. You’re not bad to look at—”
I raise a glass in thanks.
“So what’s the problem?”
“I’m trying to be open-minded.” Penny works as a fundraiser at Lurie Children’s Hospital so she has access to this great pool of dating talent. It’s how I met Jeremy, at one of the galas she organized. “But these days every guy I meet makes me second-guess all my instincts. I used to be able to trust them. Now all they’re good for is big, clanging warnings. Ding, ding, ding! Assholes and players at twelve o’clock.”
Like Max. Every alarm in my body is telling me he’s trouble. I don’t like him, yet he’s managed to carve a rut into my mind. Or somewhere lower. I’m not proud of it.
&
nbsp; Penny waves in front of my face. “Hey, where did you go?”
“Oh, nowhere nice. Just thinking about this incredibly annoying individual I had to deal with this afternoon during a tasting at The Peninsula.”
“A client?”
“Brother of a client, who’s acting like I’m trying to cheat him out of the family fortune and spend it all on appetizers.”
“The Henderson family fortune?”
“How did you know?”
She grins. “Are we or are we not in the same book club? Gina said James Henderson is her fiancé so I’m guessing you’re talking about Max?”
I perk up, demonstrating a lot more interest than I displayed three hours ago when I was introduced to Saint Kiddie Cancer Doc. “You know him?”
“I know the name. The family has a wing of the hospital named after them. Max donated his trust fund about five years ago.”
“You mean he’s not rolling in it anymore?”
Penny chuckles. “Well, he might have kept a couple of mil back for pin money. Each of the sons came into a ten million dollar trust from the Henderson meat money when they turned twenty-five, but the family has a history of philanthropy, so rather than spend it on hookers and coke, Max turned most of his share over. He could’ve kept it and not worked another day in his life but I guess he likes coming down and breathing the air of the common folk every now and then. He’s not a pauper by any stretch but neither is he the prince he could have been.” Her eyes mist over in memory. “I met him once. Movie star handsome, but I hear he’s a bit of a player.”
“Yeah, but it’s more than that. He’s cynical with it. A divorce attorney who really relishes his work of ripping marriages apart.” I shudder, preferring to think it’s because Max’s profession makes me ill, though I suspect it’s down to my memory of how Max assessed me this afternoon before the tasting. Like he wanted to taste me.
“And?”
“And what?”
“You’re attracted to him.”
