Planning for Love

by Christi Barth

  Daphne giggled. “Sounds like a bad jewelry store ad.”

  “Oh, we’re always looking for sponsors, if you have a good relationship with any jewelers,” said Ruth.

  Ivy’s finely honed coordinator sense went into full red alert on her tacky-ometer. Reading every inch of the fine print on that contract jumped to the top of her list. “No. I won’t let you force any of my clients to plaster advertising all over the wedding. No sponsors.”

  Ruth shrugged again as all three of them headed down the hallway. “Only an idea. Whatever you say, goes. It’s your show. RealTV will bend over backward to do whatever we can to make you happy.”

  “Wow. If you were a man instead of a production company making a promise like that, we’d have to propose to you on the spot,” joked Daphne. “Sounds perfect.”

  Uh oh. After putting on literally hundreds of events, Ivy could promise her clients exactly one thing: nothing was ever perfect. The trick lay in planning for the worst, which allowed her to preserve the illusion of perfection. Now a shadow of worry underscored her elation at lining up funding. How to plan for the worst, when she didn’t have any idea at all of what to expect from this experience?

  Chapter Seven

  Many people spend more time planning the wedding than they do in planning the marriage.

  —Zig Ziglar

  The Shedd Aquarium topped the list of Ivy’s favorite hometown attractions. It bore the unique distinction of also being at the top of her list of least favorite wedding sites, due to its vast size. After the tenth time she’d crossed the wide pebbled floor of the Oceanarium’s amphitheatre, gone down the steps to the edge of the dolphin exhibit where Daphne beflowered a makeshift altar, Ivy stopped counting. Her feet already throbbed in anticipation of the miles yet to cover. Zipping between the dolphins, the ornately columned main lobby and the galleries surrounding the Caribbean Reef rotunda would take a physical toll as the evening progressed. Ivy always crossed her fingers at a Shedd event—just surviving the night with a problem-free event was hard enough.

  “Are they here yet? The television crew that’ll turn you into the next reality star?”

  “Hardly a star. Remember, you’ll be on camera, too. All that long, flowing blond hair and kewpie doll blue eyes should make you an instant hit. Maybe you’ll get an offer for a centerfold spread out of this,” teased Ivy. After all, she didn’t want to be the only one uncomfortably in the spotlight. Share and share alike with her partner, especially when it came to potential embarrassment on a nationwide level.

  “Bite your tongue!” Daphne tightened the purple bow around her messy ponytail, then tugged on her lavender apron. “I’m as far from glamorous as it gets. Couldn’t even pass for farmgirl chic in my jeans and sneakers. Ideally my floral creations will get in the spotlight, not me. Not at all. But you look snazzy.” She whistled at Ivy’s teal A-line dress, pouffed out like something a fifties movie star would wear.

  “I always wear this dress at Shedd events. The color helps me blend in with the water in all the exhibits.” While true, it didn’t hurt that the cinched waist of the dress made her feel super skinny. She’d been haunted since Ruth left by the old saying the camera adds ten pounds. Must’ve been invented by a man. A relative of the guy who made dressing room mirrors add fifteen pounds and bags under your eyes.

  Daphne paused, a clump of blue and green hydrangeas in one hand and a stalk of deep blue sweet peas in the other. “A man is waving at you from the top of the amphitheatre. It’s too early for guests. Must be your crew. Are you ready for your close up?”

  “Not really. But, it gives me courage to picture how great it’ll feel to open A Fine Romance in a few months.” Though maybe not enough. When Ivy had signed the contract with RealTV, she hadn’t stopped to consider how it would feel to constantly have cameras trained on her. The episode she’d taped of Wild Wedding Smackdown focused on the bride and groom, but Planning for Love would keep its lens squarely on her much of the time. Like a restless flamenco dancer, nerves tapped out a rhythm insistently just beneath the surface of her skin.

  Taking a deep breath, Ivy turned around. And immediately felt as though a thousand-pound hippo stomped all that air right back out of her. The one man she’d spent weeks trying to banish from her thoughts currently leaned, ankles crossed, on the entrance wall to the Oceanarium, devilishly debonair in a tux. And why did her first reaction have to be noticing how damn handsome he looked? Because Ben Westcott—whether clothed or stark naked—was nothing if not drop-dead good looking.

  “Uh oh,” whispered Daphne. “Isn’t that—”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you freaking out?”

  “Little bit,” Ivy admitted. Daphne didn’t know the half of it. Holy crap. Blown away was more like it. Reeling from shock. Heck, if this was Victorian England, she’d probably fall into an old-fashioned swoon. Not that she intended to betray even a hint of her emotional uproar to Ben. She’d be as cool as the air in the penguin exhibit a floor below.

  “Bet you’re surprised to see us, aren’t you?” Ollie hollered as he skittered down the steps, taking two at a time.

  “Careful,” warned Ben. “We don’t want to recreate our first meeting with Ms. Rhodes. No reason for one of us to end up with a skinned knee every time we work together.” Pushing off the doorway, he shoved his hands in his pockets and descended the steps. He looked like a model. Make that a spokesmodel for very expensive sports cars. Or yachts. Or he could pass for a jet-setting prince in a Hollywood blockbuster, ready to gamble the night away in a Cote d’Azur casino.

  Ivy blinked away the comparisons. She’d wasted enough time dreaming about Ben. Doing it with him right in front of her approached a pathetic level of absurdity. Plus, she didn’t want Daphne to realize just how shaken she was to see him again. She fisted her hands in the fluffy folds of her skirt, digging her nails into her palms. The sharp pain reminded her of the stinging words he’d hurled at her heart. When everything went so horribly wrong. Ivy smoothed on a smile for his gangly assistant.

  “Ollie, it’s nice to see you again. Hope you’ve recovered by now from what I expect was an epic hangover from your first trip through the debauchery of Rush Street.”

  He plopped onto the row of stone benches right in front of her. “It did take a few days. The plane ride back to LaGuardia—brutal.” Like an aspen in a blizzard, Ollie’s whole body shivered in remembrance. “Good thing my man Ben here was just as bad off. I swear there weren’t two more miserable people on that entire flight.”

  “Really?” She took a tiny shard of comfort in his misery, although finding it strange. No, incomprehensible. The way Ben left things with her, Ivy thought he would’ve two-stepped the whole way home in delight at his narrow escape from her evil, romantic clutches.

  “Oh, yeah. Had to drag ourselves in for a staff meeting the next morning. Everyone said they’d never seen him in such a pathetic state. I don’t think Ben cracked a smile for three days straight. He wouldn’t tell me what messed him up so bad, but I’m guessing Jagermeister. Nothing else makes you feel so lousy.”

  Ivy supposed she should feel grateful he hadn’t blabbed far and wide about the details of their night together. Good that nobody else knew exactly how torn and tattered he’d left her self-esteem.

  “Cheap champagne,” offered Daphne. “All that sugar will make you wish you’d never been born. Learn from the mistakes of your elders, kid, and stay far, far away from it.” She wiped her hands on her apron, then extended one to Ollie. “Daphne Lovell. Welcome to our little corner of the wedding market. You picked a great event to dive into. Look at these flowers. Eight different shades of blue. Be sure to get a close up. The reception centerpieces will knock your socks off.”

  “Why are you here, Ben?” Ivy blurted in a rush. Immediately she regretted that loss of control. Dealing with Bennett Westcott demanded a cool head and dispassionate manner. “It seems as if Ruth would’ve mentioned you two would be my crew. Especially since I’m quite su
re she told me to expect a team by the names of Randall and Maria.” She checked her watch. “Ten minutes ago, as a matter of fact. Care to explain?”

  Ben made his way to the edge of the dolphin enclosure. Squatting, he peered through the glass at an inquisitively squirming dolphin. “Sorry we’re late. Must’ve thrown a kink in your perfect schedule.” He straightened and looked her square in the eyes for the first time. His steady blue gaze gave away nothing, but a single eyebrow speared up into a mocking arch. “Or did you build in an extra deal-with-meeting-the-TV-crew cushion?”

  “Naturally.” She looked down her nose at him. Or tried to, before realizing the six inches in height he had on her made it impossible. Ivy settled for slitting her eyes and hoped the intended derision came through in her tone. “But it was ten minutes ago. And forgive me for being hung up on a technicality, but I’m forced to ask again, what are you doing here?”

  With a jerk of his thumb to indicate Ollie as well, Ben shrugged. “We’re a last-minute substitution. Randall’s in the hospital with a pin in his shoulder. Souvenir from Friday night’s event at Union Station in D.C. Supposed to be his last gig with WWS before he jumped ship with me to RealTV.”

  “He filmed the groom getting down and dirty with a bridesmaid. After the ceremony. Before they even cut the cake.” Ollie related the story with a morbid glee. “Groom and a few of his buddies demanded Randall hand over the camera. Of course Randall said no. He knew he had the best episode of the season in the can. Threats turned into shoving which turned into pushing him into an iron balustrade. Knocked his shoulder so out of whack he ended up in surgery that night.”

  “What an appalling story,” Ivy said. The only contact sport at a wedding was supposed to be hugging.

  Ben pressed his lips together into a thin line. Nodded his agreement with a hangdog expression. “On several levels. I’ll bet nobody used those honeymoon tickets. To an all inclusive resort in Bora Bora. What a waste. Their happily ever after lasted about an hour and a half.”

  An expected response from a man who believed romance guttered out the moment the wedding unity candle was lit. “Of course. Who cares if two lives were ruined in the process? The real tragedy is the line of endless mai tais that will go undrunk on a white sand beach halfway across the world.” Ivy threw up her hands. “It amazes me you can repeatedly subject yourself to weddings when you clearly hold them in such disdain. Isn’t there anything else you’d rather be doing?”

  Eyes frosting to the frigid blue of Lake Michigan in January, Ben’s voice dropped to a husky whisper. “You have no idea.”

  What? He was the one trashing the centuries old, noble institution of marriage. Why give her a look that said she’d just trampled over his hopes and dreams like hapless dandelions on a soccer field?

  “Wild Wedding Smackdown is on immediate hiatus. They’ve suspended production of the whole show. Too many injuries in the line of duty.” Ollie shrugged. “Anyway, with Randall out of the picture, we were the only available crew to film Planning for Love. We’re the ones who’ll make you famous.”

  Daphne waggled a remonstrative handful of feathery greens in Ollie’s face. “Hopefully not. Apparently Ivy had them remove the glitz, glamour and fame section of her contract. Which is really a shame. I was hoping to walk a few red carpets as the faithful sidekick. Maybe have one of the castoffs from The Bachelor hit on me. All the perks of stardom without my pores being broadcast to America’s living rooms in high-def.”

  “So this is your big promotion?” asked Ivy with an intentional sneer in her voice. Might as well make it clear she knew that Ben standing in front of her had to be the last place he wanted to be. Given his disparaging attitude toward romance, it must gall him to be on assignment for a show celebrating love. “Stuck following me around?”

  “Hardly,” he drawled. “RealTV snatched me away from True Life Productions. I’m the executive producer of Planning for Love. Artistic freedom, at long last. We’ve got five crews shooting around the country, overlapping. My job is to craft the finished product, put the spin on each and every episode.”

  “Be careful. Your God complex is showing.” Smug, self-important jerk. Ivy surged forward till she stood nose to nose with him—well, his nose to the top of her head. What a crappy day to be caught in shoes without heels. He might be taller, but she fully intended to bring him down a notch or two. With the grace of a game show hostess, she swept her arm in an arc at the dolphin pool. “Plan to part the waters anytime soon?”

  Ben stepped in, flattening the front of her dress against the sharp pleats of his trousers. The tips of their shoes touched. Their arms, legs and torsos almost did, separated by nothing more than the thick miasma of two flaring tempers. Ivy had to tip her head back to maintain her indignant squint. She refused to let him back her down. Not on her turf, not at her event.

  He shushed her by placing his palm across her lips. “Only after you hop down from your pedestal and finish walking across.”

  Daphne dropped her bucket of flowers. The sound echoed through the Oceanarium like the bell signaling the end of a boxing match. “Whoa. We just went from zero to sixty in about five seconds, and I’m not wearing a seatbelt. Or padding, which is beginning to look like an oversight on my part. How about we all take a step back? Actually step back,” she encouraged, putting a palm each on Ben’s and Ivy’s chest and shoving them apart.

  So much for keeping a cool head. Mortified, Ivy spun away. Ben got under her skin faster than a blood-sucking tick. Daphne probably thought she’d lost her mind. And Ben—well, she didn’t care what Ben thought. After all, he started it. Provoked her. No self-respecting wedding consultant could’ve stood literally at what would become (after about two more buckets of blue and white blooms) a wedding altar and listen to him ridicule the disintegration of a marriage. Even one that barely lasted past the cocktail hour.

  “Tonight is a big deal to the bride, the groom and two hundred and fifty of their nearest and dearest,” Daphne reminded them, parsing her words in an exaggeratedly slow fashion. “You two need to work seamlessly to make sure it is nothing less than magical for them. And you need to work together. So whatever’s going on between you two? Knock it off. Bennett, why don’t you start by walking it off? You and Ollie should go find Julianna. She’s in the lobby setting up the place cards. Ivy will join you in a few minutes.”

  Ben didn’t move. Not an inch. Was he—yes, he was waiting to see if Ivy flinched first. Juvenile. Utterly laughable. Especially since he could stand there for months. Years. Decades. Until that tux turned to dust, leaving him clad in nothing but his truly superb muscles, and still she wouldn’t yield first.

  “Ivy.” Daphne spat out her name and grabbed her arm, yanking her toward the exit. “I left the aisle runner in the van. Help me carry it in.”

  Glancing back over her shoulder, Ivy saw Ollie pulling Ben up the steps in a similarly forceful manner. “He would’ve buckled under my righteous wrath in another minute. Damn it, Daphne, why did you interrupt?”

  “Because this isn’t the O.K. Corral at high noon. It is a wedding that cost upward of seventy thousand dollars. And even if this event barely hit four figures, the amount the bride and groom have invested in it is invaluable. As you well know.” She stopped in the dark hallway leading to the back of the Oceanarium. It ran parallel to the whale and dolphin tanks. The faint slap of water against the walls coupled with dim blue and green pulsing lights created the illusion of being underwater. “While this isn’t an appropriate time or place, I feel the need to convene an emergency partners’ meeting, and point out your unprofessional behavior. It’s probably a bad idea to antagonize representatives of the network that owns you body and soul for the next two months. Honestly, I’ve never seen you come so close to losing it. So tell me, what the hell just happened?”

  Ivy bit her lip. Wished they were anywhere but in a hallway so she’d have an excuse to look somewhere besides straight at Daphne. “Nothing. A slight difference of opinion.”


  “Really? Do you remember last week when you wanted pad thai for lunch and I wanted gyros? That was a slight difference of opinion.” Daphne crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head. Disapproval rolled off her as thick as the humid salt tang in the air. “After barely exchanging five sentences, you and Ben looked ready to go at it for nine rounds. Either in a mud pit or in bed, I’m not sure which.”

  Great. Now the image of Ben with sticky, wet mud clinging to his legs popped into her mind. Sort of an Indiana Jones look, like he’d escaped from a tribe of restless jungle natives and slogged through quicksand just to get to her. Her mind added a battered felt fedora to the image. Nothing else—just Ben, the slick mud, and the hat. So he could whip it off and send it sailing into the trees once he spotted her, reclining in a hammock, naked, waiting for him. Ivy shook her head the tiniest bit. Nope, the image refused to pop back out. He lingered there, larger than life, dripping and toned and ready.

  “Ohhh.” Daphne drew the word out like sticky taffy being pulled by a master candymaker. “Oh, no. I was just kidding when I said in bed. But now your eyes are all glazed over, and, eww, you’re licking your lips. God, Ivy, you’re not mad at him, are you? You want him?”

  Who wouldn’t? From the tips of his golden hair down to his strong, well-shaped calves, Ben was the ultimate eye candy. A man morsel capable of making any woman want to pop him in her mouth and suck, long and hard. Ivy was only human. But she also lusted after chili cheese fries and meatballs dipped in fondue. All of which, including Ben, were equally bad for her. Clogged arteries were a lot less painful than the clogged heart Ben carried beneath those well-formed pecs.

  “As it so happens, I am quite peeved with Mr. Westcott. His complete lack of respect for the institution of marriage is an insult to me, my profession and the profusion of love-struck couples everywhere.”

  Daphne rolled her eyes. “Whatever. You want him.”