by Aven Ellis
It’s time to get to the truth.
“Do you want Gabe to propose to you?” I ask gently. “Please be honest. You’re only hurting yourself and Gabe if you aren’t.”
Collins begins twisting the ring on her right hand, the hammered silver wire ring I made her a couple of years ago.
“I should,” Collins says softly. “He’s a great guy. Gabe is sweet and generous. Dedicated to his job. Athletic. Smart. I mean, I should be excited. I should want this.”
“Collins,” I say, reaching for her hand, “there is no should here. If your heart is telling you no, there’s a reason why.”
Collins bites her lip. I see her eyes fill with tears.
“My heart says no and there’s no logical reason why,” she whispers. “I just . . . I wonder if there is something more for me. But then I wonder if that’s only in romantic movies and books, and I’ll be making the biggest mistake of my life by not staying with Gabe.”
My heart aches for her. I understand her logic, I do. But there shouldn’t be this sadness in something so wonderful, of finding out the man you love is about to propose to you.
“Only you can answer this question,” I say. “But I can tell you this. If the idea of this proposal makes you sad, if it makes you wonder what else, if you aren’t filled with joy, I think it would be a bigger mistake to say yes. For both you and Gabe.”
I reach into my purse, locate my pack of tissues, and set them in front of Collins.
“Thanks, Livy,” she says, dabbing her eyes. “Thank you for not judging me.”
“Judge you? For wanting to be happy?” I ask, surprised.
“If I end this, which my head and my heart tell me to do, I’ll hurt Gabe. I’ll break his heart, which breaks mine. And I’m going to take so much shit for it,” Collins says painfully. “My family will die. His mother is already calling me her future daughter-in-law. A lot of our friends will think I’m crazy.”
“Who freaking cares what other people think?” I say. “This is your life. Not theirs. All I care about is that you are happy. People are going to judge you no matter what you do, Collins. Screw that. Do what you need to do.”
Just like people might say, especially after what I went through with Troy, that I’m nuts to even consider seeing Landon Holder.
I shove that thought aside and squeeze Collins’ hand in support.
Collins sniffles. “Right.” Then she withdraws her hand and clears her throat, and I know the conversation is over.
“Anyway, let’s prepare for meeting Alessandra Wilson,” she says, forcing a smile on her face.
“Of course,” I say, pulling out my notebook.
“You can go get coffee,” Collins urges. “I promise I won’t have a breakdown while you’re getting your skinny flat white.”
I laugh. “Nah, I’ll get one later. So this is going to be a puppy party for one of Chicago’s famous fashion bloggers?”
Collins sighs. “Yes. For her Yorkie, Prince George.”
I wrinkle my nose. And within a second, a flash of Landon touching it comes to mind. Heat instantly fills my cheeks in response, and I quickly cough to shake the image from my head.
“Is this Prince George named after the real one in the United Kingdom?” I ask out of curiosity.
Collins laughs. “But of course. He’s a prince, not a puppy. But Alessandra is a loon. I know that is why my aunt gave me this party. She doesn’t want to deal with her.”
“So I still should be thanking you for asking for my help, right?” I tease.
Collins smiles. “Alessandra pays well. But she’s going to be very picky, and she will have crazy ideas she wants us to execute. So are you up for the challenge?”
I nod. “Let’s throw a puppy party.”
Collins was right.
Alessandra is a freaking lunatic.
I really hope my expression isn’t showing.
Because this experience is beyond mystifying.
“Georgie is so special, and he truly deserves to be honored for being such a fantastic dog,” Alessandra reiterates, stroking the hair of the dog sitting in her lap. “My parents said spare no expense. Nothing is too much for Prince Georgie.”
I study her for a moment, hardly believing we are the same age. Heiress to the Wilson Ketchup empire, Alessandra is a fashion blogger, who posts daily pics of her designer outfits and the coordinating look for not only Prince George, but her equally wealthy and gorgeous boyfriend, Sebastian. I started following her as soon as Collins mentioned it, and every morning I receive a post featuring the three of them in all their fabulous fashion.
Of course by that time of the morning I’m in my parents’ basement, usually in my Starbucks logo T-shirt, old flannel shirt thrown on top with jeans and Converse sneakers, stringing glass beads on wire necklaces next to my mom’s washer and dryer.
Hmm. I wonder if Alessandra has ever used a washing machine.
Or been in a basement.
Something tells me if this was a TriviaPlayOrPass! question the answer would be not just no, but hell no, are you out of your mind Livy no.
“Of course,” Collins says eagerly, leaning forward in her chair and smiling. “We want Prince George to have the best birthday possible.”
“It has to be pitch puppy perfect,” Alessandra says, drawing her full lips into a pout. “I’m famous for my blog, you know. I’m blogging this whole event, and it can’t have a single misstep. People expect everything I do to be chic and fashionable, right down to the napkins.”
And the way she emphasized perfect and misstep, I know everything about this party has to be flawless.
“That’s why we’re here,” Collins says brightly. “To throw a pitch puppy perfect party fit for a prince.”
Ha! I don’t know how Collins managed to get that out without stumbling over all the P’s or laughing.
“Well, let’s begin,” Alessandra says, stroking her fingers underneath Prince George’s chin. “Mommy is going to plan you a big party, Princey,” she says in baby talk. “The bestest party for the bestest puppy in the whole world!”
“So today I want to get to know you and Prince George,” Collins says, smiling as she opens up her planner and lays it across her lap, “and then I will come back with some party ideas for you to consider.”
“No,” Alessandra says firmly, pausing to point a finger at Collins. “I will tell you what I want. You will make it happen.”
Ooooooooooooooh, I don’t like this attitude. Apparently she will yell jump, and Collins will ask “how high?” and do it.
Which means I will be jumping right along with my party-planning friend.
“Of course,” Collins defers, nodding.
Prince George begins barking.
“Oh, Princey, stop,” Alessandra coos. “MAGDA!” she bellows at the top of her lungs. So loud that Prince George whimpers. “Sorry, puppy. We have to get Magda in here right away. MAAAGGGGGDAAA! NOW!”
I swear if I weren’t working out of my parents’ basement and living at home needing this job, and if Collins wasn’t a dear friend, I’d run for the door right now.
The housekeeper who let us in a few minutes earlier hurries into the room. “Yes, Ms. Alessandra?”
“It took you long enough, where were you?”
“Pressing Master George’s shirts,” she says swiftly. “What may I do for you, ma’am?”
Pressing the dog’s shirts?
“Please play with him while I plan this party,” Alessandra says, sticking the dog out for Magda to take. “You know I’m a stickler for people doing their jobs correctly. It requires my absolute full attention,” she declares, giving me and Collins the side-eye.
Now I want to pull a Landon move and crash this arrogant, rude, fashion-blogging heiress into
the boards.
It would be worth a trip to the penalty box, I muse.
“Yes, Ms. Alessandra,” Magda says, sweeping Prince George out of her hands.
As soon as she disappears, Alessandra rolls her eyes. “Sorry. She’s old, and she doesn’t hear me when I call for her. It’s tiresome. So let me explain, very clearly, how I want this party to happen. You will need to rent a ballroom. At a luxury hotel. I want—”
I use all my focusing skills to keep my mouth from falling open. Alessandra goes on to list her requirements, all of them ridiculous. A ballroom? DJ? Custom invitations, flowers, photographer, videographer. A cake that is edible for both humans and Prince George. Oh, and a doggie treats bar, a custom chef-prepared dinner for the birthday boy and elaborate buffet for the adults, which should be fifty people, because this is an “intimate” affair.
I swear my entire future wedding will be less expensive than Prince George’s “intimate affair” first birthday party.
She finally stops and takes a breath. “Did you get all that, Collins?”
“Absolutely,” Collins says in a cheerful voice.
“Good. I hate repeating myself,” Alessandra says, tossing her silky black locks over her shoulder. Then her gaze shifts to me. “Now, the jewelry. First, are you sure you aren’t an amateur? You’re really young. I don’t want the pieces to look like shit.”
Of course I’m an amateur. I plan to use a children’s loom and make rubber bracelets for you, but don’t worry, they’ll match your outfit, so all is going to be FAB, Alessandra!
I hold that response inside and smile at her. “First, I assure you, I’m a strong designer. I have regular clients who return to me for custom pieces.”
“Yes, but do they have taste?”
Arrrrrrrrrgh, I want to tell her to screw off.
“Yes,” I say calmly. “My portfolio is available online if you would like to review it.”
Alessandra appears bored by the idea. “We’ll start with the idea. For the women, I want silver custom charms commemorating the occasion. They will need to be in the shape of a dog bone, with engraving. I assume you can engrave, right?”
“Yes,” I say, smiling my plastered on fake smile.
“Well, I need those, and then silver bone cufflinks with the same engraving for the male guests. And a commemorative tag for Princey Georgie to wear on his Louis Vuitton collar.”
I’m taking notes as she speaks. “I’ll come up with some concepts for your approval next week.”
“Oh, send them to Collins,” Alessandra says. “I have a zillion emails about the blog to wade through a day, so simplification is best.”
I can tell I’m going to get no further input from her on the design. She’s one of those clients. They want you to make it happen with no information, and when you get it wrong, you’re the idiot.
Alessandra stands up. “This is enough for now.”
I glance at Collins. What? We’ve learned nothing—not what colors she likes, what venues are acceptable, what kind of invitations—
“Alessandra, I do have a few quest—”
“Collins, your aunt assured me you were a capable planner,” Alessandra says, staring down at us. “So be capable. Do your homework and present me a plan next week that I will love. I mean, that’s why I hired you, right?”
Oh, she’s such a bitch.
Worse, I know Collins has to sit here and take it.
“Of course,” Collins says, smiling. Then she quickly gathers her stuff up, and I do the same.
“MAAAAAAAAGGGGGDDAAA! COATS!” Alessandra yells. Then she turns to us. “Magda will see you out. MAGDA! I SAID COATS. DO YOU HEAR ME?”
Then she spins on her high-heeled boots and sashays out of the room. “Where is my Princey Georgie?” she says sweetly as she goes down the hall.
I don’t dare say a single word, or I’ll erupt in fury.
Collins retrieves her phone, and I think she’s avoiding looking at me for the same reason.
Magda hurries down the hallway. “Ladies, I’m sorry. Let me get your coats.”
“No problem,” I say, smiling cheerfully at her.
“Thank you for getting them,” Collins adds.
Magda pauses and eyes us carefully. Then it hits me. We’re the same age as Alessandra, but we don’t act like immature spoiled brats. She’s probably not used to younger people showing her respect.
“You’re welcome,” she says, heading down the hall.
Within minutes, she has returned with our coats. Collins slips into hers, and I wrap myself up in my wool overcoat, as it’s so cold out today.
Magda escorts us out of the luxury brownstone. We don’t speak until the door is firmly shut behind us and we’ve made our way down to the sidewalk.
“What an evil bitch,” Collins hisses. “I’m so sorry. I never would have dragged you into this if I knew what I was getting you into.”
I smile. “Well, you do know I’m unemployed. I need the work.”
“No,” Collins corrects, “you’re self-employed.”
“Under-employed.”
Then we both laugh.
“We’ll survive this,” Collins says aloud.
“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”
“I need to convince both of us,” Collins says.
We begin heading down the sidewalk, looking for a cab to hail. Collins wanted to do some shopping in Chicago, and I’m going to head back to the train station to go home and begin sketching.
“Do you want to stay in the city?” Collins asks. “We could hang out, maybe I can pick your brain on this party, and then end it with dinner and drinks?”
I shake my head. “Normally I’d say yes, but I’ve got plans tonight.”
Collins studies me. “What kind of plans?”
I hesitate. Only Aubrey and Beckett know about me and Landon. And is there a me and Landon anyway? We had one date. Landon even admitted he isn’t good at dating. I could see him tonight and he might never call me again.
Then I remember the feel of his lips on my forehead, warm and gentle, his hands in my hair, the way he gazed at me with those piercing blue eyes.
And I don’t believe that he’s going to run.
But I can’t say this yet to Collins. I know she’ll freak out because of who he is. About Landon’s flirty reputation. And about what happened with Troy and how she spent so many hours with me on Connectivity video chat trying to help me pick up the pieces of my heart all the way from West Lafayette, Indiana.
No, I need to see what happens tonight. Tonight will probably tell me everything I need to know about Landon’s intentions.
“Livy?” Collins asks, snapping me from my thoughts.
“Sorry, lost in thought. I’m going to the Buffaloes game with Aubrey,” I say casually, not lying, but not exactly telling her the whole truth either.
“Fun!” Collins says. Suddenly her phone goes off, and she reaches into her bag. “If it’s Alessandra asking for a status report I’ll quit,” she quips.
“I would never want your job, Collins,” I say truthfully. I honestly don’t know how she deals with all these parties and clients and emotions. I would throw myself under the covers and never come out if I were her.
Collins retrieves her phone and studies it, a sad expression crossing over her face. “Gabe.” Then she draws a breath of frozen air. “I’ve got to talk to him tonight. I can’t prolong this. It’s not fair to either of us.”
“No, you can’t,” I say, drawing her in for a hug. “But don’t worry about anyone else but you and Gabe. That’s all that matters.”
Collins steps back with unshed tears in her toffee-colored eyes. “I know.”
She spots a cab coming and hails it. “Wanna share?”
> “You know, I think I’m going to go grab a coffee first,” I say, nodding. “So I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
“Okay,” Collins says, nodding. “I love you, Livy.”
“I love you, too.”
I wave as she hops into the cab. I turn and head in the direction of the Starbucks we were in earlier.
And I’m definitely taking my own advice tonight. It doesn’t matter what people have said about Landon. It doesn’t matter if people think I’m making a huge mistake.
I’ve got to follow my heart.
And tonight I’ll see if Landon wants to do the same.
Chapter 10
TriviaPlayOrPass!
When was the word ‘selfie’ added to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary?
I follow Aubrey down the steps of the Chicago Buffaloes arena to our seats, carrying my food and praying I somehow don’t slosh my way-overpriced craft beer out of my plastic cup and drop my sushi on the concrete floor. Normally I’m one of those girls who has to hold on to the handrail when taking the stairs—I’m paranoid about falling—but that’s logistically impossible with my hands full.
We make our way to Beckett’s set of seats right on the glass, and I manage to sit down without spilling a drop of my beer. I chalk that up as the first success of the evening.
But I still have a way to go before calling tonight a success. Mainly seeing if I can get Landon to go a touch deeper on our second outing. Will he reveal a bit more than what we talked about last night? While I love what I’ve learned about him so far, I want to know more. I have to see if he is willing to open up. I have to see if he wants the same from me, too.
And if we have the conversation I dream of and the evening ends in a real kiss?
Then it will be a very successful evening indeed.
“I still can’t believe you got the sushi rolls,” Aubrey says, interrupting my thoughts. She places her beer in her cup holder and balances her individual deep-dish cheese pizza and carton of fries in her lap as she shimmies out of her coat. “You need to come to a game and have junk food, Livy!”
