For Better or Worse

by Lauren Layne

  Heather glanced at her in surprise. “This is your and Alexis’s gig, too. We agreed all three of us would tag team this one, since it was last-minute and you were overbooked.”

  Brooke shrugged. “Sure, but you’ve done the most work out of the three of us. It’s your vision, babe, and it’s a good one.”

  “It is a good one,” said a third voice from behind them.

  Heather turned around to see the founding member of the Belles trio standing behind them, elegant arms crossed, nodding approvingly as she surveyed the surroundings.

  Heather rolled her eyes at her friend and boss. “Seriously? How the heck are you pulling off that dress right now?”

  Alexis was wearing a sleeveless sweater dress in a shade that could only be described as nude. But whereas the formfitting beige sheath would have looked hideous on Heather—and just about any other woman she knew—Alexis looked effortlessly chic.

  But then, when was Alexis not effortlessly chic? The Belles’ founder was one of those women who managed to channel old-school glamour right alongside modern-woman girl power. She was pretty, yes, but it was more that she was so damn together. Her dark brown hair was in a slick chignon more often than not, her makeup always natural and polished, her posture straight out of an etiquette manual.

  Alexis glanced down at her dress. “Is it no good? I bought it online, but the model had considerably bigger boobs than me, and I’m a little worried it makes me look like a stuffed condom.”

  Brooke choked on her water. “So not what I thought you were going to say.”

  Heather let out a laugh. That was the other thing she loved about Alexis—the woman had the look of a 1920s film starlet and the mouth of a trucker when it suited her. It had taken Heather a while to figure that out. When Heather had all but thrown herself across the stone steps of the Belles’ headquarters after ­seeing a write-up of Alexis Morgan’s hot new wedding ­planning venture in The Knot, Heather had at first been intimidated as all heck by the other woman’s chilly sophistication—though not quite enough not to practically beg that Alexis hire her on as an apprentice.

  But little by little, Alexis had loosened up, revealing a woman who was kind, generous, and a little bit badass. Heather wasn’t sure at what point they’d crossed from boss and employee to friends, but the two of them got each other, in an opposites attract kind of way. Heather was a little bit noisy, a touch crass when her trailer-park slipped in; Alexis, former country-club darling, was the opposite.

  Stuffed condom comments not withstanding.

  As though reading Heather’s thoughts, Alexis pursed her lips. “I think my lack of recent sexual exposure is starting to manifest.”

  “Hear, hear,” Heather said, raising a hand before fixing yet another bow. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen a stuffed condom.”

  “Okay, is nobody else thinking that’s a gross visual?” Brooke said. “It makes me think of sausage.”

  “Ooh, speaking of sausage . . .” Heather’s head snapped up.

  “On it,” Brooke said, finishing off her water bottle. “Alexis, want anything from Starbucks? I need to feed Heather before she kills someone.”

  “Ooh, get me a coffee, too,” Heather said. “A big one.”

  “Only if it’s decaf,” Brooke replied, holding up Heather’s fifth cup of coffee, which was nearly empty, and looking at her pointedly.

  “Decaf coffee is like an unstuffed condom,” Heather argued. “Completely useless to me.”

  “I give up,” Brooke said, throwing her hands in the air. “If you start levitating later, it’s on you.”

  Alexis gave Heather a concerned glance. “You didn’t sleep? I can recommend a nice tea.”

  “Is it a nice tea that will turn my noisy musician neighbor into a nice, quiet accountant?”

  “Oh, but musicians are kind of hot,” Brooke said interestedly.

  Alexis gave a nod. “They are, rather.”

  Heather narrowed her eyes at both of them. “First of all, they’re only hot when they’re not next door. Second of all, I didn’t peg either of you as the musician type.”

  “I think every woman is the musician type. At least a little,” Brooke argued.

  “Nope.” Heather shook her head. “Your type,” she said, pointing at Brooke, “is tall, dark, and grumpy. And yours,” she said, pointing at Alexis, “is . . .”

  Alexis’s eyebrows lifted. “Yes? Believe me, I’m dying to know.”

  Heather exchanged a quick look with Brooke. “Um, I was going to say wickedly brilliant, a little bit serious, and gloriously British?”

  Brooke nodded in enthusiastic agreement as Alexis groaned. “Not this again.”

  Heather shrugged. “Hey, you asked. And I don’t know why you’re complaining. I just got done saying how nice a quiet accountant neighbor would be.”

  Heather had just described Logan Harris, the Belles’ longtime accountant and Alexis’s friend-but-supposedly-never-lover. The man was ridiculously sexy, especially with his English accent. Objectively speaking, of course. Heather had never been truly interested, because despite her boss’s constant ­denials, Logan had always seemed to belong to Alexis somehow.

  It’s like they went together, only neither had realized it yet.

  But Alexis was getting that stubborn look that she always wore whenever they brought up Logan in a romantic light.

  Brooke changed the subject, probably sensing Alexis’s impending shift in mood. “Are you seriously telling us that you don’t kind of get the appeal of a hot musician?” she asked.

  Heather pursed her lips, a picture of Josh’s chiseled abs and very nice biceps coming to mind.

  “Aha,” Brooke crowed. “Busted.”

  “Okay, he’s good-looking,” Heather allowed. “But in that too-many-martinis-fling kind of way, not like a throw-your-heart-at-him kind of way.”

  “Flings have their place.”

  “They do,” Heather said slowly. “But I’m not going to have one with the guy whose mailbox is next to mine. Plus, I’m sort of . . .”

  “Tired of flings?” Alexis finished for her.

  Heather shrugged. “I don’t know. It all just seems like a waste of time, you know? This fruitless wait for The One, who’s statistically likely to break your heart. I’m not saying it’ll never happen for me, I’m just not . . . holding my breath, you know?”

  And that, right there, was the heart of the matter. Heather had never been in love. Not even close. Lust, yes. Affection, sure. But she’d never experienced that head-over-heels, lose-your-heart-to-him love.

  And at twenty-seven, she was way past due, and yet she was also all too aware of how disastrous it could be to fall too hard and fast for the wrong type of guy. She’d seen it time and time again with her mom. Not that her mom had dated jerks—well, okay, a couple had been rotten—but Joan Fowler had ­always moved fast. Every guy she’d brought home was “The One,” every guy who’d lasted a week, her soul mate.

  Heather’s mom was a smart woman. Scrappy, feisty, and street-smart. Except when it came to men. But while Joan Fowler still hadn’t learned from her romantic mistakes, Heather had. Sometime around the age of fourteen, Heather had learned to stop hoping for happily ever after. For her mother or for herself.

  Still, it didn’t stop her from fantasizing. Sometimes, in moments of weakness, she wanted. She wanted the white knight, the white horse, the whole gig.

  But even in the weakest of moments, Heather knew that too-good-looking musicians were not the guys that smart girls fell for.

  “Much as I wish I had the love of your life in my back pocket, the best I can offer up is breakfast meat,” Brooke said sympathetically.

  “I’ll take it,” Heather said, shoving aside her pity party for a better time. “Bacon, egg, and gouda? And don’t forget the coffee.”

  “Got it,” Brooke
said. “Alexis?”

  “No, I’m good, thanks. And before you go . . .”

  Heather and Brooke both looked at their boss expectantly. Alexis’s smile was slow and victorious. “We got the Robinson wedding.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence, followed by a whole lot of squealing, most of it coming from Heather’s own mouth.

  “Seriously?” Heather said, wrapping her arms around her boss’s shoulders and squeezing happily while unabashedly jumping up and down.

  Danica Robinson was the biggest thing in socialite culture since the Kardashians broke onto the scene. The daughter of Hollywood’s biggest director and an international supermodel, Danica had the stunning looks and unlimited income that made for legendary weddings.

  The types of weddings that were featured not just in all of the biggest bridal magazines, but on E! and in Us Weekly and People and Vogue and . . .

  “And she wants you.”

  It took Heather a full thirty seconds to register that Alexis was talking to her.

  “Wait, what?” Heather asked incredulously.

  Alexis’s eyes were twinkling in happiness, and Brooke was grinning at her, too.

  “What do you mean, she wants me?” Heather asked, not daring to hope.

  It’s not that Heather thought she lacked the skills. She knew she was good. She knew that Alexis knew she was good. But she was woefully short on experience.

  Alexis had been giving her more and more responsibility in the last few months, but Heather didn’t have a mile-long resume of famous clients like Brooke and Alexis did. She’d assisted with a bunch of weddings, definitely, but she’d never had one to claim as hers, all hers.

  But if she was understanding Alexis correctly . . .

  Heather’s heart began to pound in excitement.

  “She saw the pictures from the Monteith wedding in August on our website” Alexis was explaining, referring to the swanky but small black-tie wedding that Heather had put together for a middle-aged congressman and his second wife. “Danica said it was exactly the kind of class she was looking for. Insisted that whoever did that wedding do hers.”

  “The Monteith wedding was yours,” Heather said hesitantly, even though she didn’t exactly want to remind her boss whose name had been attached to the project.

  Alexis shook her head. “You know as well as I do that the cold turned laryngitis rendered me mostly useless. You stepped in and killed it. You know it, I know it, and now Danica Robinson knows it.”

  Holy crap.

  Never one to play it cool, Heather squealed again, doing a little happy dance before spreading her arms wide. “Seriously? Seriously! Group hug, everyone. Group hug up in here.”

  “I’m so happy for you,” Brooke said as she stepped into Heather’s waiting embrace. “This is it. Your big break!”

  “Brooke’s right,” Alexis said, half stepping into the circle and giving Heather something that resembled a pat on the shoulder. Alexis wasn’t one to show her affection physically. “I know you can do this, Heather. Let’s see how you do running the thing all by yourself, and then I think it’ll be time to talk about a change in your title, don’t you?”

  Heather resisted the urge to give a little fist pump of victory. This was it. This was it. The chance to be the real deal.

  “Does Jessie know?” Heather asked, referring to the Belles’ longtime receptionist, who was back at the office, manning the ever-ringing telephone.

  “Yup. And she’s already ensured your favorite champagne is chilled and ordered Shorty’s for later.” It was a Belles’ tradition for every time they nabbed an especially significant client, and the wedding planner of choice always got to select the celebratory food and beverage.

  “Shorty’s,” Heather said dreamily. “And she knows I like Whiz, right? Extra?”

  Alexis rolled her eyes. “Yes, I think by now she knows your penchant for sprayable cheese on your Philly steak sandwiches.”

  “You’re just mad because they don’t have a triple-cream brie option,” Heather said, giving Alexis a smacking kiss on the cheek. “And you better not have ordered a salad again.”

  Instead of answering, Alexis held up a warning finger. “There is one teeny, tiny detail I should mention about the Robinson wedding.”

  “Bring it,” Heather said.

  At this point, nothing could bring her down. Not turkey bacon instead of the real thing, or a droopy chair bow, or even a noisy neighbor.

  “Are you familiar with Heidi Rivera?”

  “Sure. She’s Danica Robinson’s frenemy, currently trending toward the enemy side.” Heather made it her business to keep up with all the latest celebrity goings-on.

  “Exactly. Heidi’s getting married at the Plaza in February.”

  “So?”

  “Soo . . . Danica also wants to get married at the Plaza. Before Heidi does.”

  “Before?” Heather asked. “It’s October. How can she possibly think we’re going to pull a Plaza wedding together in less than four months?”

  “She doesn’t,” Alexis said in a wary voice. “She wants it in three.”

  Chapter Three

  THINGS THAT COULD ANNOY a grown man:

  His mother stopping by at seven a.m.

  Things that could kill a grown man:

  His mother stopping by at seven a.m. before he’d figured out how to gently get rid of last night’s female companion.

  Josh Tanner was still in bed, mentally running through his list of fail-proof methods for getting a woman out of his apartment in the kindest way possible, when he heard his front door open and close.

  His eyes closed and he groaned audibly. There was only one person in his life who had a key to his apartment, and Sue Tanner had yet to fully absorb what Josh meant by for emergencies only.

  The cute brunette came out of the bathroom, where she’d been borrowing Josh’s toothbrush without asking, and gave him a puzzled look. “Is someone here?”

  As if on cue, there was a cheerful knock on his bedroom door. “Joshy? Are you decent?”

  Josh sighed as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and walked unabashedly naked, and decidedly not decent, to the dresser.

  “April, honey,” he said to the woman as he pulled out T-shirts and sweatpants for them both, “prepare yourself to meet my mother.”

  “Your mother?” she squeaked in a high voice that sounded remarkably similar to the sound she’d made when she’d—

  “I’m sorry,” he said, meaning it. For her sake and his own.

  “Joshy?”

  Good Lord.

  “Mom. A minute?” he called.

  April hurriedly took the clothes he handed her. They’d be huge on her tiny frame, but they didn’t have time for her to wiggle back into her skintight dress.

  He pulled a plain white tee over his head, tugged on the blue sweats, and after a glance to make sure that all of April’s crucial bits were covered, opened the door.

  “Oh hi, honey,” his mom said, all smiles. “I thought you might still be asleep.”

  “Sure you did,” he said, automatically sidestepping to block his mom’s attempt to peek into his bedroom.

  Just because he’d learned to endure Sue Tanner’s meddling didn’t mean poor April had to.

  But just as he was about to suggest his mother come back a bit later, he caught a waft of vanilla perfume as April crowded around him, already reaching for his mother’s hand.

  “Mrs. Tanner. It’s so nice to meet you.”

  Oh boy.

  The only thing worse than a woman who didn’t want to meet his mother was one who did.

  He needed to get rid of both. Pronto.

  But first . . . caffeine.

  He bent to peck his chatty mother’s cheek before moving into the kitchen to get some much-needed coffee.


  “Well aren’t you lovely, dear,” Sue was cooing to April. “You have just the prettiest eyes. I bet my son noticed those right off.”

  Josh held back a snort of laughter as he reached for the canister where he kept his expensive Italian-roast coffee beans. Yeah. That had been it. Her eyes.

  April had a fantastic body and a great smile. She’d found him after his band’s set last night at the Irish pub around the corner, and after the requisite five-minute conversation to make sure she didn’t set off any of his crazy warning bells, he’d brought her back to his place.

  Truthfully, she wasn’t the best lay he’d ever had. But that didn’t mean she deserved an interrogation from his mother.

  “Leave her alone, Mom,” he called.

  His mother ignored him as she led a beaming April into the kitchen. “I’m so sorry to intrude on your morning like this!” his mother exclaimed.

  Now Josh did let out a snort.

  “Oh gosh, no problem at all,” April gushed. “I’m just disappointed you got here before I could make us all some breakfast.”

  His mug clattered to the counter. What now?

  “Oh, aren’t you sweet as sugar. Now you just let me take care of that. I’m here to make pancakes! Josh loves when I make pancakes.”

  “You know what else I love?” he muttered loudly over the whir of his coffee grinder. “When you call first.”

  “So you don’t want my pancakes?” his mom said, finally shifting her attention away from April.

  Josh considered as he turned to face the women and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the counter.

  On one hand, he had two women eager to cook breakfast for him.

  On the other hand . . . he had two women eager to cook breakfast for him.

  But what the hell was he supposed to do? It was hard enough figuring out how to convince one woman that leaving was her own idea. No way could he handle two at the same time.

  Josh sighed. “Pancakes would be great, Mom. Perfect fuel for that conversation we’re about to have about boundaries.”