Find out in the fabulously funny fourth book in the Seven Brides for Seven Mothers Series.
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Chapter One
Aimée
“Hey, Aimes, you want to grab a mani-pedi after our shift?” my friend Teisha asks while hurrying past me to the pastry display.
“You bet,” I answer while changing the filter on the coffee maker and starting a new pot. “’Cause you know I have an extra fifty bucks burning a hole in my pocket.”
“Not this again.” She flings a bear claw on a plate. “I know you’re trying to get your catering business going. Got it. But you have to live, girl! Do something nice for yourself occasionally.”
“I did something nice for myself yesterday, T. I paid my electric bill,” I say, bagging a cranberry orange muffin for a to-go order. The truth is my feet are begging me to say yes to the pedicure after close to eight hours straight rushing around on them.
“I’m going to say it again. My brother is moving out of my place next week and I’d rather have you for a roommate than anyone else in this world.” She bats her eyelashes at me, causing the whites of her eyes to shine brightly against the frame of her flawless ebony skin.
“I just don’t want our living together to affect our friendship,” I say, even though I’ve been giving serious consideration to her offer lately. I’m running out of money and I’m not getting enough catering jobs to get my new business up and running fast enough to save the sinking ship that is my life.
“I don’t know how you can stand living in that shoe box you call an apartment. I’d be ready for the funny farm after one night. It’s like a prison cell.” She convulses in a full body shiver for effect.
Teisha has accurately described my home. When I moved to New York City from Rochester last year, I was sure my catering business would thrive here, just like it had upstate. I was sure I’d be moving on up to the East Side, a la The Jeffersons theme song from that old TV show my parents liked to watch.
That has not been the case.
Even though I came to the Big Apple with enough money to pay my rent for a year, I had to take a waitressing job at the bakery to cover my other expenses—electric, phone, toilet paper, the occasional new tube of lipstick. I’ve only bought two since I’ve been here.
I ran out of rent money last month and had to start digging into my savings. Which will not last, with the price of Manhattan real estate such as it is. “When is Terrance leaving?” I ask.
“Five days, but you can move in any time and share my room until he’s gone. That way you won’t have to pay an extra month’s rent.”
I exhale like I’m trying to blow out birthday candles at the far end of Yankee stadium. “I’ll do it. I’m month to month now, so I can leave at any time.” As I refill the coffee creamers, I add, “But only if you’re sure.”
My friend throws her Amazonian arms around me and jumps up and down, causing the top of my head to bump against her chin. “All right! We’re gonna have the best damn time there ever was!”
“You’re a good friend,” I tell her as I push her away to wipe off the cream that’s now running down my apron.
“Hurry up and finish what you’re doing. Then we can clock out and celebrate by getting our nails done. After that, we’ll hit the Red Apple for a bottle of wine.”
I’m feeling all kinds of things at the moment—relief, trepidation, excitement. It’s like I’m standing in the middle of a hurricane of emotion looking for something solid to hold on to. When I can’t find it, I decide to grab ahold of optimism as it flies by and see where it carries me.
On the D train up to Harlem, Teisha asks, “How did your date go last night? You never told me.”
Rolling my eyes, I reach out for one of the many stripper poles running down the aisle of the subway car—I’ve recently started calling them that after a flash mob of pole dancers came into the car I was riding last month. If you catch the video on YouTube, I’m the curvy blonde in the corner doing a facial impersonation of a mounted fish. You know, wide open eyes and a mouth the perfect “O” of shock and awe.
“My date was typical,” I tell my friend. “Wanna-be-young businessman who thinks he’s about to take over the world, takes me to an expensive restaurant and suggests I only order off the appetizer side. Then, after spending the whole meal talking about himself, he pays the check, leaving a ten percent tip—I looked. Then we get into a cab and he gives the driver his address.”
“Oooooooh, slimy. What happened when you told him you weren’t going home with him?” she asks, rubbing her hands together so quickly you’d think she was trying to start a fire Survivor-style.
“He had the cabbie pull over and then told me if he wasn’t going to get an immediate return on his investment, I could find another way home.”
“Why that no-good dirty dog! What did you do?”
“I got out. But not before telling him he needed a stronger mouthwash and that only letting his date order appetizers for dinner was like having a tattoo that says ‘Cheapy McTightwad’ on his forehead.”
The construction worker standing next to me wants to know, “What would have happened if he took you out for chicken and waffles?”
I shoot him a conspiratorial look and lie, “I would have been able to tell my friend here what his apartment looked like.”
Our pole mate laughs uproariously. “Honey, if I wasn’t already married, I’d be offering to take you out for that chicken right now.”
Ignoring the intruder in our conversation, Teisha warns, “He better not have the nerve to set foot in Bean Town again or I’m going to spice up his coffee with some hot sauce.”
“Guys like him never return to the scene of the crime when they’ve been dissed. Their fragile male egos can’t handle it.”
Getting out at 110th St., we walk three blocks to Teisha’s favorite nail salon called The Finger. We amble into the shop under the giant, neon-flashing sign of a hand flipping the bird.
“Kwan,” Teisha calls out, “we need the works. All four paws with gel and nail art. We’re celebrating here!”
Teisha has a little crush on Kwan, who emigrated here from Korea ten years ago. He gives off a sensitive, if not mysterious vibe. As talented as he is with nails, the man could seriously get women to pay him to just stare at him all day. Did I mention he was good looking?
In heavily accented English, the handsome business owner tells her, “My name is Kevin, not Kwan.”
“Uh-huh,” Teisha replies, “and I’m Queen Latifah. Use your real name, man. Be proud of your roots!”
Kevin/Kwan turns to the woman next to him and tells her something in Korean. She motions me to a massage chair. While the hot water pours in, soothing my aching feet, my phone pings, alerting me of a new email message.
If I weren’t desperately hoping it was a prospective new client, I would have ignored it and let Calgon take me away.
Instead, I pull out my phone and read:
Miss Tompkins,
I’ve received your many flyers in the mail and am intrigued not only by your persistence, but also by your menu. Our caterer unexpectedly dropped out of a corporate lunch we need served at our headquarters on Wall Street tomorrow. If you can help us out with this and my boss is happy with the food, I would be happy to steer more work your way.
Byron Scott
Executive Assistant to Noel Fitzwilliam
Fitzwilliam & Assoc.
I let out of whoop of joy so loud, Teisha says, “Girl, I almost tinkled in my drawers, and I’m not sure Kwan here would appreciate having to clean up that kind of mess. What in the world are you yelling about?”
“Mani/pedis are on me!” I shout. “I just got my first in with Fitzwilliam & Associates! You’re gonna have to count me out for that bottle of wine tonight, Teish. When I’m done here, I’m going straight to the grocery store and start
prepping for tomorrow’s luncheon.”
I get busy sending a reply message to Byron, accepting the job and asking for details. Then I mentally start to prepare a list of all the tasks I need to complete to be ready in time. My grandma Jane used to warn about counting my chickens before they hatched, but I’m not worried. I have a feeling my fortune is about to change.
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About Whitney
Whitney Dineen is a USA Today Bestselling and multi-award-winning author. She’s a rock star in her own head. While delusional about her singing abilities, there's been a plethora of validation that she's a fairly decent author (AMAZING!!!). After winning many writing awards and selling nearly a kabillion books (math may not be her forte, either), she's decided to let the voices in her head say whatever they want (sorry, Mom). She also won a fourth-place ribbon in a fifth-grade swim meet in backstroke. So, there's that.
Whitney loves to play with her kids (a.k.a. dazzle them with her amazing flossing abilities), bake stuff, eat stuff, and write books for people who “get” her. She thinks french fries are the perfect food and Mrs. Roper is her spirit animal.
It's My Party: A Royal Romantic Comedy (Seven Brides for Seven Mothers Book 3) Page 26
