chapter one
Charlotte
I’m greeted with a standing ovation when I walk into work on Monday morning. No, seriously. All five of my coworkers immediately stand up and applaud as I stumble in a few minutes late, McDonald’s coffee in my hand, an overstuffed work bag in the other. My boss, Jenny, pokes her head out from her office when she hears the commotion, and then she joins in, clapping her perfectly manicured hands at my entrance.
“Thanks, guys.” I dip into a curtsey, nearly spilling my vanilla iced coffee in the process.
“Rockstar!” Alicia says, giving me a high-five as I walk past her desk to mine. “We should give an award to the event planner who has to do the worst event of the year. Because you’d be the winner…pretty much every year.”
Everyone agrees with her. Even me. Mrs. Evelin’s over-the-top pet wedding was by far our worst event of the year. The woman is eighty years old, has expensive tastes but a very limited budget, and wanted to marry her purebred Persian cat with her neighbor's rescue cat, an orange tabby with the habit of puking up hairballs at the worst times. She invited everyonein Shady Pines Retirement Homes to the ceremony, except for Barbara, her sworn mortal enemy who lives in room 4B.
It was a nightmare event that tested every ounce of my professionalism, but I somehow managed to pull it off, and I even kept Barbara from 4B from attending even though she tried to sneak past me three times. A cat wedding for an eccentric elderly woman was not the reason I got into party planning after dropping out of college, but at least it was just cats and not dogs. Ideally, I’d spend my career planning elegant, gorgeous (human) weddings, and fun parties, but a girl’s got bills to pay, and whenever someone doesn’t want a gig, Jenny knows she can count on me.
I drop my bag onto my desk and plop into my desk chair with all the enthusiasm that Monday mornings deserve. At least my chair is super comfy. The office at Perfectly Planned is an open floor concept, so the girls and I work in the same room, while Jenny has the only real office in the building. She got our input when we ordered new furniture a few months ago and we all fell victim to that gorgeous “cross-legged” furry chair on TikTok, so now we all have one. Mine is pink.
I log into my computer, sip on my coffee, and yawn. Something feels different today. Off, for some reason? Brows furrowed, I look up. “Something’s different,” I say.
Alicia peers at me from over the top of the computer monitor. She dips her head to the right, subtly motioning toward Felony Melanie’s desk.
Hey, that’s not a name I gave her or anything. It’s what everyone calls her, and that’s how she introduced herself to us when Jenny hired her. She’s my boss’s sister-in-law who has been fired from every job she’s ever had, and a few months ago, my boss took pity on her and offered her a junior party planning position.
Felony Melanie’s desk is empty. And not like mine was a few minutes ago because I was late—all her stuff is gone. That tacky framed photo of Dwane The Rock Johnson, the purple fuzzy pen holder, and the sweater she kept on the back of her chair. It’s all gone. Like she was never here in the first place.
My eyes widen at Alicia. Her eyes widen back, sharing a silentwhat the heckmoment with me. Jenny must be a mind reader because she steps out of her office again.
“Hey, ladies,” she says, running her fingers through her light brown hair and twisting it into a messy bun on top of her head. “As you may have noticed, Felony Melanie is no longer working here.” She shrugs in a what-can-you-do kind of way. “She quit over text yesterday. Said she’s just not really into party planning.” Jenny rolls her eyes. “Ah well. I fulfilled my family obligations of offering her a job, and now she can go mooch off someone else’s kindness. Anyhow, she only had two projects going. Alicia, you can take the Meyer retirement party, and Charlotte, you’ve got the other one.”
“Which gig is that?” I ask, turning to my computer and pulling up the master spreadsheet that lists all our clients, events, due dates, and which party planner is assigned to them.
She pinches the bridge of her nose. “I really can’t remember, I’m sorry. It’s something she begged me for because the client was hot.” She snorts, shaking her head. “That woman is something else.”
“Must not have been a hot enough client for her to keep working here!” Shayla says from across the room.
“Don’t worry, it’s not another cat wedding,” Jenny says. “I’ve only ever had one of those in my career and I doubt I’ll have another one.”
“Found it!” Shayla says while I’m still scrolling through the spreadsheet looking for Felony Melanie’s clients. “It’s not a cat wedding, but it’s a dog thing.”
“Ah, yes. The canines,” Jenny says, snapping her fingers.
My blood runs cold. “I can’t do dogs,” I say, shaking my head. The jagged scar on my wrist starts to burn, or maybe that’s just from my imagination. That injury has healed for over a decade, but the mental trauma of it is still very much alive. “I don’t want anything to do with dogs.”
“It’s a nonprofit,” Jenny says, flashing me a smile. “You’ll just be in their office building. I’m sure you’ll be completely safe from dogs.”
My stomach twists into knots. She must see the puke-ish look on my face because her features soften. “Is anyone else available to take over this gig?” she calls out.
One by one my coworkers drop out. They’re all too busy, booked with other events on the same day. Events they’ve worked too hard on and can’t just drop to help me out or swap places with me. Tension builds in my shoulders. Maybe if they knew how truly terrified I was of dogs, they’d be more understanding and want to help me out. But I don’t let people see that side of myself. Most people love dogs. I’m the weirdo who wants to be far, far away from them.
My jaw starts to ache and I realize I’ve been clenching it. I try to loosen it, try to relax, but it’s not working. Fear creeps up my shoulders and tightens my throat. A party planner must be professional at all times. They must always be on their best behavior, ready to tackle any problems that come up during the event. And believe me, problems will come up. They always do. What if someone parades out a dozen dogs at this event and I have a panic attack and humiliate myself and the client?
“Charlotte?” Jenny’s voice catches my attention. I think maybe she’s said my name more than once.
“Sorry,” I say. “What’s up?”
“I said come to my office so I can give you the client file,” she says, making a weird smile. Yep. She definitely said my namemore than once. I draw in a deep breath. I tell myself to breathe. To relax.
I tell myself everything will be fine. Jenny gives me the file and I slink back to my desk hoping the panicked feeling in my chest goes away soon. Maybe the nonprofit in question is actually something that makes dog stuffed animals for kids and has no real dogs there. Yes, that would be great.
I open the file.
