Sasha blew her nose in the tissue, and Hannah pulled out a foundation sample from last week’s cosmetics party.
“I’ve told you about giving them your phone number.” As she looked at her friend, so broken, Hannah ruthlessly suppressed the twinge in her heart and the guilt she felt for not telling her about Jack’s texts. If Sasha would just listen to her good advice and give up on finding “the one,” she wouldn’t have these periodic breakdowns. Muddying the waters with her inability to adhere to her own best practices would not be helpful here.
Maybe she’d drag Sasha to a dog adoption event or something this weekend. They’d both be more successful looking for unconditional love if they stuck to canines. Maybe there was an app for that, too. They could each swipe right on the Fido of their dreams.
“If you make them message you in the app, you can at least report the inappropriate photos and get them banned.”
“But we’d gone on two dates.” Sasha wiped under her eyes. “I thought the text was asking me for a third.”
“You know they have sex toys that will literally suck your clit for you now?” Her friend was looking for a husband, but Hannah was starting to doubt the utility of a husband given the recent advancements in sex toys.
“And you know I like the full-body contact.” They’d had this conversation before.
“Let me see the dick.” Her friend handed over her phone after Hannah made a “gimme” motion. The offending photograph displayed, and Hannah’s avocado toast nearly made a reappearance when she took in the sickly pink cast of the unimpressive appendage. “Has he ever heard of grooming?”
Sasha hiccupped; Hannah had been hoping for a laugh. Jesus, this was a lot of crying over one photo of a sad penis. But Hannah understood. It wasn’t the single photographic assault that put her over the edge; it was the sheer number of them Sasha received by virtue of her willingness to brave the dating pool. It wasn’t just dirty; it was fetid and foul. Like wading through thigh-high pig shit in knee-high boots.
Hannah’d soured on it long before her friend had, but she recognized the lost look in Sasha’s mink-brown eyes. It was the same look that Hannah had had on her face after her on-again, off-again boyfriend had told her two years ago that she was “just not the kind of girl you marry.”
But Noah was just the last in a long line of guys who treated her like a warm body before they had sex and yesterday’s soiled socks afterward.
It would also be the last time she’d allow herself to be brought low by a man. Ever. Her resolve to stay single was not being eroded with every text from Jack.
It. Was. Not. Crumbling.
He only liked her because she was mean to him, anyway. The sick shit of it was that her newfound iciness drove men crazy. She’d never gotten as much interest when she was soft and vulnerable and pink-wearing as she did now. Still, she rejected all of them, because as soon as she showed a man anything that didn’t jibe with her hard, cold image, he thought she actually wanted something real from him and he was out the door.
Except for Jack. That kiss.
She didn’t have time to dwell on the nonexistent state of her love life. And the puppies would have to wait until tomorrow. Right now, she needed her friend to get her head straight and off this guy’s subpar schlong.
“At least you have some good information now.”
“Huh? The only information I now have is that he doesn’t groom.” Good, her sense of humor was back.
“Also, you know his dick is too small for you.”
Sasha looked at her phone, tipping it sideways and her head in the opposite direction. “It’s bigger when you hold the phone horizontally.”
“Honey, dudes are too plentiful and low in value for you to be wasting time on a guy who thinks that a dick pic—a shitty one at that—is romantic.”
“I just can’t believe he sent it to me at work.” She stood up and put her hands on her hips. Her voice rose when she asked, “Seriously, who does that?”
“Guys are simpleminded and useless. We’re better off without them.”
“That’s easy for you to say.” She pouted her lips and smoothed on some gloss. “You’re so independent, and you can’t go two blocks without tripping over some guy with a monster member that wants to serve you. Like that guy from Saturday night.”
Hannah laughed but decided that she definitely wouldn’t tell Sasha about the texts. If her friend only knew how unsatisfying it was when a guy pursued her these days. Every time a guy hit on her, all she could think about was how much work he would be and how disappointed she would be when he started acting like an ass.
Except Jack. Some traitorous part of her brain wouldn’t let go of the idea that Jack wasn’t like the rest of the jerks and losers. Why couldn’t her brain let her have her broad generalizations about an entire gender?
“Give me the phone again.” Sasha handed over the phone and Hannah did a Google search for cat pictures. The guy had had the nerve to ask for pictures of her friend’s pussy, and he’d be getting some angry pussy. Once she found a photo of a famous angry-looking cat, she downloaded it to the phone and sent it with the caption Don’t even think about asking me if it’s wet.
Once she handed over the phone, she picked up her notebook and favorite black and red pens. “We have to get to the staff meeting.”
* * *
—
HANNAH WANTED TO BE her boss when she grew up. Like her, Annalise Koch had grown up as the only child of a single mother. She’d not only pulled herself up by the bootstraps; she’d made her own freaking bootstraps. But unlike Hannah, Annalise was happily married. So maybe she only wanted to be like half of her boss.
“Sasha, how’s the proposal for Senator Chapin’s daughter’s wedding coming?”
Koch Events was responsible for the most expensive weddings and poshest events in Chicago. But the wedding of a sitting senator’s daughter was a coup in and of itself. The former president and first lady would be there, as would representatives from every lobbying firm and political action committee that had any connection to the city of Chicago, the state of Illinois—hell, the whole United States.
Hannah would kill to be the lead on that kind of event, but weddings weren’t normally her thing. As the resident expert on selling sex, she handled the parties hosted by local sports teams and cosmetics companies and the risqué gallery openings. Basically, if the night was likely to end with the police showing up—either to mop up drunk and disorderlies or to arrest an artist for public indecency—Hannah was the woman in charge.
The only problem with her brand within the company was that she was never going to get the senator’s-daughter’s-wedding type of event on her docket. And without those types of events, she was never going to become a vice president. She rubbed the embossed words on the business card she kept in her notebook. Lead Event Planner just didn’t have the same ring to it as Vice President in Charge of Classy Shit, did it?
Sasha, with her commitment to happily-ever-afters, was the go-to wedding gal. At least, she was when she was on her game. And Hannah would have no problem with Sasha being promoted before her. They were a team, and Sasha would pull Hannah up along with her.
But the newest event planner on the team, Giselle, was gunning for both of them, and she had no plans to help any of the women she worked with—especially Hannah.
Hannah had never had a nemesis before Giselle, and she wasn’t yet sure if the other woman was worthy. It was as though someone took Regina George from Mean Girls and mixed her with Cruella de Vil in a blender, then poured the resulting concoction into a Natalie Portman skin suit.
Sasha might have a mini floral-dress wardrobe, but Giselle needed a full-on closet for her floral dresses. She needed one for every Junior League fund-raiser, all the better to rule that organization with an iron fist. Hannah might look like a bitch, but at least she had friends who liked her. Even G
iselle’s husband seemed afraid of her, and he was twice her size.
Hannah often wondered if flowers died whenever Giselle walked through the Garfield Park Conservatory. Certainly the animals at the Lincoln Park Zoo scurried away if she ventured too close.
But the worst thing about Giselle? Annalise loved her. Thought she could do no wrong. If she asked for an event, she got it.
With Sasha looking rough because of the weight of collective male douchery, Hannah glanced over at Giselle. She had her tongue pressed to the corner of her mouth in this predatory way that told Hannah that the senator’s daughter’s wedding was about to slip from Sasha’s grasp.
Before Giselle could say anything, Hannah raised her hand. “I’m helping Sasha scout venues today.”
“I thought she asked Sasha about the wedding, didn’t she?” Giselle gave Hannah a death glare disguised as a smile. “It’s her assignment.”
“It is.” Finally, Sasha spoke up. “But the senator’s daughter has a wild past, and she wants some rather—outlandish—features for the reception. I thought that Hannah’s perspective would be useful on this one.”
Annalise pressed the tips of her fingers together in front of her face and squinted her eyes as she often did while making a decision. The weight of Hannah’s and Sasha’s professional hopes bared its neck before Giselle’s sharp axe. A few seconds felt as though they stretched out into a minute. The whole time, a smile was spreading across Giselle’s face and a rock of disappointment was forming in Hannah’s gut.
Under the conference table, Hannah squeezed Sasha’s forearm. She’d done the best she could to cover, and it wouldn’t be her fault if Annalise reassigned Giselle to the event. Sasha needed to buck the hell up. It was just one dick pic, and she knew her friend could hang on until their after-work wine.
“I need to think about this.” The boss’s words were like scattershot bullets, and even Hannah’s nemesis looked like she’d taken a direct hit. “Hannah, please see me after the meeting.”
She slapped the table with one hand like a gavel, and the meeting was over. Hannah was out of her chair in an instant, breaking stride toward the door only to raise her fist to Sasha. She was going to save both of their asses if it killed her.
Even though she was four inches taller than Annalise, she struggled to keep up in her heels. But she maintained a furious clip for fear of being intercepted by Giselle’s ass-kissing brilliance.
She only let herself take a deep breath when she and her boss were both in the relative safety of her corner office. Annalise motioned for Hannah to take a seat. Hannah lowered herself slowly, like the classy bitch she was trying to be.
“So.” And then nothing. Hannah wondered for a moment if this was one of those silences she was meant to fill, or one of the ones she was meant to leave blank for the sake of her boss’s sense of drama. “We have a problem.”
Deep breath in. Don’t seem too thirsty. “Sasha and I can handle the wedding. It’s not even the highest budget that either one of us has handled on our own.”
“But you don’t do weddings.” Annalise’s ice-cold blue gaze roved over her as though she were a speck of lint on the chair. As much as Hannah hated being looked at like that, as much as she craved her boss’s approval, she didn’t let the hurt show. She sat up straighter. “You’re my booze-and-beer-and-boobs girl.”
“I do sports, too.” That was her best answer? She might as well kiss her promotion goodbye. “And, in this day and age, politics is sort of like sports. This is going to be a glossy magazine event. Not just featured on Style Me Pretty or The Knot. The New York Times isn’t just going to run an announcement; they’re going to do a feature in the Style section. And maybe the magazine. Deals are going to be made at this wedding.”
She mentally gave herself a high five when Annalise sat back in her chair and raised her eyebrows as though she was ready to agree internally but not ready to admit defeat.
“And Sasha and I are the perfect team for this.” Hannah felt her heart beat faster, knowing that she was about to take down the gazelle. She could be just as predatory as Giselle, but she wasn’t a sociopath. She knew that she and Sasha were the best team for this wedding—she’d known it as soon as she’d opened her mouth at the staff meeting. “I’ll bring the flash and pizazz, and Sasha will bring the class. It will be perfect.”
“And it has to be.” Annalise looked down in an uncharacteristic avoidance gesture.
Growing frustrated, Hannah asked, “What is it?” She would do anything to convince her boss she was the right woman for this job—and for the promotion she knew she deserved.
“You’ve just never shown any interest in weddings before.”
“They’re a big part of our business, so of course I’m interested.”
“You roll your eyes whenever the other planners talk about their weddings.”
“No, I don’t.” She thought she’d hidden her disdain for frilly shit from her boss.
Annalise leveled a look that said, Come on.
“Well, I’ve changed my mind.”
“How am I supposed to believe that?” Her boss clicked on her mouse and glanced at her monitor as it came to life. Hannah knew that the blue light from the computer hitting Annalise’s face was a bad sign. She was about to be dismissed. “It’s not like I haven’t heard about your little man embargo.”
“What does that have to do with planning a wedding?”
Annalise shifted her focus back onto Hannah. “Whether it fits with your modern, feminist sentiments or not, a wedding is quite often the most important day in two people’s lives together. It’s monumental for the families that become joined. And it has to be perfect. I just can’t trust that someone like you, who disdains the idea of weddings or commitment, can throw all your energy into making a wedding fabulous. And this is the biggest event we’ve ever planned.” She paused, and her face softened. “I have half a mind to plan it myself.”
The other woman had a point. Hannah hadn’t taken enough care to hide her antipathy for the whole dating-and-mating dance. She much preferred hating from the sidelines. But that wasn’t because she hated the idea of weddings or the idea of commitment. She’d told herself that she didn’t need or want those things because no one had ever offered them to her. Admitting out loud that she couldn’t entirely suppress the desire to have a person of her own—one who wasn’t afraid to tell the world that they belonged to each other—felt entirely too vulnerable.
So she’d started scoffing at the people who were still in the arena, clawing and grasping for love. The ones who actually deserved it and would get it someday. Even after every guy she’d ever felt anything for had dumped her.
Except for Jack.
“Things have changed, Annalise. I’ve met someone.” Pretty sure she wasn’t imagining the disbelief on her boss’s face. Hannah half couldn’t believe she’d said it. And that it wasn’t even a white lie. “We met last weekend, and he seems kind of great, honestly.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, the only thing bad about him is his taste in football teams.” And because she never knew how to quit when she was ahead, she said, “He seems like the kind of guy I could marry.”
Why did she say that? Before Noah—B.N.—she’d thought things like that about every guy she’d been serious about. She’d had their weddings planned before date number three. Eventually, it had become a post-breakup ritual to trash the Pinterest board for her imaginary weddings. And it had been freeing, A.N., to not have to make them anymore. Not having any hope at all had saved her a whole lot of disappointment.
Then why did it feel so good to say that she was thinking wedding bells about Jack?
She didn’t have time to ponder the question any more because her boss had come to a decision. “Okay, you and Sasha will plan the engagement party at the Drake Hotel.” That made sense; both of them had done extensive work w
ith the venue. “And if you can show me that you can be appropriate, you’ll get to plan the wedding, too.”
“You won’t regret this, Annalise.” Hannah stood up to leave the room before her mercurial supervisor changed her mind.
“See that I don’t.” She had her hand on the door when her boss added, “I’ll want to meet this young man at the company Halloween party.”
About a week from now. And another week before the engagement party. She’d have to date Jack for two weeks—keep him interested for that long. He’d have to appear to be at least a little bit in love with her. She couldn’t scare him away.
Fuck.
CHAPTER FOUR
JACK HAD KICKED ASS on his last how-to article. It had gone viral, and yet, he was embarrassed whenever anyone mentioned “How to Make Your Lady Scream (for More Ice Cream Because You’re Going to Learn to Make It).”
If he said so himself, it was a pretty good listicle. But the mere fact that it was a listicle was a problem. He’d also had to start running twice a day so that all the homemade ice cream he’d eaten while researching the article and accompanying video hadn’t shown up on his gut. But mostly, he was done with the fluff and wanted to be writing hard-hitting political pieces.
When he’d gotten his master’s in journalism, he’d planned to come home and work for the Tribune or the Sun-Times. But newspapers had been consolidating or folding. He’d even been willing to work for one of the local indie papers, but none of them would pay enough to keep him from having to go work for his dad.
Not the Girl You Marry Page 4
