“Sorry,” he says, running a hand through his straight blond hair. “This call is all I’ve been thinking about.”
A flutter of unthinking pleasure takes flight in my stomach at the idea of him wanting to talk to me. I squash it. “Of course,” I say, hoping I come off as understanding and not like I want to throw darts at his butt.Here goes nothing. “Well, I’ve given it a lot of thought and decided to help you and Brooke out, if the new owner approves the wedding.”
Calvin exhales like he’s been holding his breath for the last two weeks. “Oh, thank God. You’re really saving my ass here, Gracie.”
“Nothing is set in stone yet,” I warn him. “Larkwood is in the middle of changing hands, and the owner doesn’t want any more weddings here. But I’m going to talk to him and see if he’ll make an exception.”
“Goodness,” he says with a worried tilt of his sandy brown eyebrows. “Do you have any idea when you’ll know for sure?”
“I’m hoping to see him sometime this week. But it will also depend on my vendors—this would be an extremely tight turnaround for them.”And me, I mentally add.
He nods with a guilty expression. “I totally get that. But I’ll do anything to give her the day she deserves.” His eyes go glassy and desperate. “She’s the love of my life, Gracie.”
Can hearts get nauseous? The answer is yes. “Do you have a rough guest count yet?” I ask in a tight voice.
Again, he winces. “Probably around two hundred.” At this, Ifeelthe little color I have leech away from my face, while my little zombie’s eyes and brain get stuck in bulge-state from my grip. “But I know if there’s anyone who’s going to pull this off, it’s you—”
“I haven’t given you my terms yet,” I cut in, my voice turning as shrill as any self-respecting spinster’s.
He sobers at once. “Anything,” he says. “Just name your price.”
I blink, startled by his blank-check offer. Calvin has never hurt for money. He grew up with an actual, God-as-my-witness pony, which later molted and became a series of increasingly larger Land Rovers. Knowing this still doesn’t make asking for what I need any easier, though—I’ve become an expert at not making waves, or even ripples, for that matter.
But even people pleasers need to pay their bills. So after telling him Larkwood’s standard fee for a five-hour event, I sit up straighter, spine buzzing, and force myself to look into his eyes. “Because I’ll need to coordinate vendors on such late notice and do the same amount of work in a fraction of the time it usually takes, I’ll need an additional ten percent rush fee. Up front. Not including gratuity,” I tack on quickly.
It’s a physical effort not to apologize, but in the end, I have nothing to worry about. Calvin looks a little taken aback by my unusual display of assertiveness but then nods with a casual shrug of his shoulders. “No problem. And do I make that rush fee out to you directly or to Larkwood?”
My armpits are basically sprinkler systems when I stammer out, “Just me. Please.”
“Sure thing,” he says with a smile. I hear a door close in the background of his house, and Calvin looks in the direction of the noise.
“Babe, you’re home early!” he calls out, and the affection in his tone is an uppercut to the stubborn bit of my heart that still wishes I were the one walking through his front door. “Come meet Gracie—she’s just given us the best news.”
My brain is repeatedly smashing an Emergency Eject button as Iblurt out, “Oh shoot, I’m getting a call from my… dermatologist!” Obviously, a lie. Even if doctors’ offices made calls at seven thirty at night, having a dermatologist would suggest having both health insuranceanda budget for skin-care products. “I’ll be in touch soon, thanks, Calvin!”
I hang up before he can say anything else, my heart pounding. What the hell is wrong with me? It’s not like I’m never going to meet Brooke—she’s my client now, too, just like Calvin.
Calvin is my client.
The full implications sink into me like a flaming shipwreck. If Jude agrees, I’ll be helping my ex say “I do” in the slimmest, barest hope of saving Agatha’s legacy, my vendors’ incomes, and my own future here at Larkwood.
I cover my face with my hands and try not to cry. Honestly, I don’t have time for it. With that call, my deadline to cobble together a two-hundred-person, black-tie wedding has officially begun to count down—ifJude lets me. I glance at my beat-up laptop with its duct-taped power cord. What I should do is get a head start and create a new client file. But then my eyes slide to my tiny kitchen, where a dusty bottle of suspiciously cheap wine labeledBIG REDcalls to me with a siren song.You just agreed to plan your ex-boyfriend’s wedding, it seems to say.You deserve to wallow just a little bit.
I swallow hard. Tomorrow, Operation Save Larkwood begins. But tonight, I’m listening to Big Red.
7JUDE
Seven Weeks Before the Wedding
The first rule about nervously pacing outside a woman’s door in the dark is to just knock like a fucking adult. I exhale but still can’t stop my feet. Ever since I told Henry I’d “handle” telling Gracie the news about the will, I’ve become the foremost expert in avoidance. But tonight, when I got to Larkwood for my weekend stay and saw lights on in the cottage, I was out of excuses. It’s time to tell her about Nana’s bequest and somehow convince her that selling the cottage to me—her least favorite human on Earth—is in her best interest.
Goddamnit, Nana—what were you thinking?
Exhaling again, I summon all my self-control and stop in front of Gracie’s door. It’s knowing that I might actually scare her with my loitering that finally makes me knock. From inside the cottage, I hear indistinct music get quieter and my heart picks up speed. I quickly push my glasses up my nose and try not to look like I’m sweating in the evening chill.
When the door opens, spilling light onto the darkened garden path, it takes a second for my eyes to adjust. As they do, my brain registers the mournful tones of “All by Myself” from inside the cottage. Then Gracie comes into focus. She’s holding a bottle of red wine and wearing almost nothing but an oversize T-shirt with the wordsNICE TO EAT YOUover a cartoon zombie. Above the shirt, her face is slightly obscured by… awedding veil? It’s extremely sheerand does nothing to disguise the slightly glazed look of disgust she gives me.
“I’m sorry. You look like you’re busy,” I say quickly. “I’ll come back when—” My eyes drop involuntarily to the hem of her shirt, where it brushes the tops of her very long, very bare thighs.Fuck. I force my gaze away and start to turn. “Another time. Sorry.”
