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Madison: Much as I’d love to bail you out, I have to catch up on work. Charity was here way too long and I have a bunch of emails I’m behind on
Bestie: Boo. Now I’m going to have to sweat it out at the gym. You know how annoying my sister is
I LOL her comment, then gather the champagne flutes and carry them over to the sink, washing them in hot, sudsy water. Drying the flutes with an all-white dishtowel, I place them back into the glass cabinet over the quartz countertop, ready for the next tasting.
Even if I’m still single, I love running Happily Ever Afters. I moved into this cozy space five years ago and renovated it slowly over time, making it perfect for the needs of the business.
In front of the window is my desk and in the center of the room sits a small round table with a variety of chairs. I learned years ago that brides-to-be like to see their options in real life, so I bought the most popular choices for my office. I also had plumbing added, giving myself a tiny kitchenette for cake tastings. I have glassware and china and silver, a cabinet for table linens, and a closet filled with wedding favors, paper selections, candles, and a bunch of other random stuff I use on a daily basis.
The office is my home away from home, and I worked hard creating a Southern charm vibe to wow even the most discerning of brides. Not to toot my own horn, but I am one of the area’s star bridal planners—which means I rarely have any free weekends to worry about dating anyway.
Le sigh.
I should hire a full-time assistant, but I’ve been so busy grinding I haven’t had time. I’ll add it to my Manifestation Board for the new year.
Along with the photo of my dream engagement ring and honeymoon destination.
The only thing missing from the board is the groom. Because even though Bentley sucks, he still bruised my ego—and my heart.
Maybe I really am destined to always be the bridal planner and never the bride.
It is a lot safer, cocooned within the gold-and-white papered walls of Happily Ever Afters than out there in the Wide World of Dating. Nothing good ever happens to me out there, so why bother?
I’m starting to wonder if true love really does exist or if I’m selling an outdated fairytale.
2
SPENCE
“Nice round today, man.”I clap Barrett, one of my junior golfers, on the back.
“Thanks. I tried keeping my head down like we talked about.” Barrett demos his golf stance, staring down at the concrete.
“Perfect. Looks like it’s working for you. See you next week!” I shoot him a wave as he climbs into his mom’s shiny black Escalade. “Bye, Mrs. Stinson.”
She smiles and waves at me in the rearview as I pop Barrett’s golf clubs in the back, hit the overhead button to lower the trunk. The metal latches softly before she pulls around the circular drive and speeds away.
“How come you have all the hot moms on your roster?” Ronnie, a fellow golf pro, folds his arms over his pink polo-clad chest. “It’s kind of unfair.”
“One of the perks of being universally adored, Ron. What can I say? Kids love me.” I grin at him as I walk over to the check-in area to verify my schedule. I have an early lunch break today, followed by lessons all afternoon. Fridays are busy days at the Magnolia Point Golf Club, with a lot of members getting a head start on the weekend and guests of the resort taking advantage of the amenities.
“Uh-huh. Too bad most of your clients are still in school. At least I landed the Ladies’ League.”
“Uh-huh. At least.” I snicker, knowing all too well that the Ladies League consists mostly of silver-haired retirees. Lovely women, but not my target dating market. Give me the MILF crowd any day of the week.
“You want anything from the restaurant? I’m heading over now.” I hitch my thumb in the direction of the resort.
“No, I’m good. Packed my lunch. Part of my two-fold resolution: lose weight and save money.” He pats his gut, then his back pocket.
I shrug. “Suit yourself.”
Bypassing the 19thHole, the small bar adjacent to the pro shop, I head down the brick walkway toward the main restaurant on property.
I know I scored, snagging a golf pro job here after I didn’t make it on the professional tour. Sure, I had a great college career, but like life, there are no guarantees in the game of golf. I’m just happy not to be sitting behind a desk crunching numbers all day like my dad. He wanted me to follow in his loafered footsteps and join his accounting firm, but that was a hard no. So boring. Besides, math isn’t my strongest subject—unless we’re talking stroke averages or yardage. Then I’ve got you.
The wind picks up, palm fronds waving wildly against the dull gray sky. January’s always a bit depressing, even here in beautiful Magnolia Point. It’s the cloudiest month and truly the dark heart of winter in the South. The golf course is still busy, though, despite the cool temps and cloud coverage. Plenty of snowbirds flock here every winter, and this one looks to be no exception, based on my packed calendar. I have lessons booked from dawn to dusk five days a week, and the boss already tried to talk me into overtime. Maybe I’ll take him up on it, since my dating life’s been rather dull lately.
Although Ronnie thinks I have mad game with all the club divorcees, I do try to keep my personal life separate from work. Last thing I need is an awkward locker room exchange with an ex-husband. No hottie’s worth that kind of stress. That sort of thing can sink a golf pro career faster than a U-boat torpedo.
