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“Right,” Jackie replies, eyebrows quirking. She looks down at her list in her lap. “Well, I was going to do introductions, but it looks like everyone knows each other so…I guess we can talk about what everyone’s roles are?” She looks back up, and we all give reassuring nods. All, except Fitz, whose lips are set in a thin line. “Carla, I have you on guest list and big logistics with me, Fallon helping with that and entertainment. Jessica will handle marketing and updates to our social groups.” She points to Kyle with her pen. “We’ll have you help Piper with design, and-"
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I put my hand up to stop her. “I’m just here for moral support. Maybe a graphic or two.”
The waitress returns with Fitz’s drink, and he takes it without so much as a thank you.
“Oh come on,” Jackie says, practically pouting while she puts a hand on my knee. “We could really use your help. You’re so talented.” I feel heat rising to my face as she looks around the group. “Piper designed our homecoming shirts all four years,” she says, and her tone of pride ingratiates me toward her that much more. “Now she’s a big-time fashion designer.”
“A lingerie designer,” Fallon emphasizes, wiggling her eyebrows. I watch as Fitz, mid-sip, chokes on his coffee, and fight the urge to smile while he splutters. Carla beams while the rest of the group just stares at me. Guess my mom never mentioned my career choice to Kyle’s parents.
“And Fitz,” Jackie continues as Jessica hits him on the back, trying to help as best she can, “will help us get the venue, food and bar situated, since WHG owns The Pine now.” I quirk my head, looking at Fitz, who seems to have regained his composure.
So Fitz works for WHG. That would explain the continued seemingly lavish lifestyle.
In the Dallas-Fort Worth metropolitan area, there was one company that owned the places you wanted to marry, meet, or just generally party, and that was WHG. While I don’t know much about the company, I know that the last three weddings I went to were all at WHG properties, and they’d recently acquired The Pine, a small, barn-style venue near where we all went to school.
“My staff is happy to help coordinate, I’m just here to make sure the initial information gets to them.” He nods, as if adding finality to the distance he was putting between himself and his involvement in this group.
Not so fast, buddy. If I have to be here, so does your grumpy ass.
“Oh, I’m sure once we get into it, you’ll have all sorts of ideas,” Carla says. She reaches forward and gives him a reassuring pat on the knee. He stiffens, and then recoils like he’s been shocked. So, not a fan of physical contact, are we?
As we discuss the beginnings of planning a reunion, one thing is clear—no one in this group has any business coordinating an event in the first place. Except, I’m sure, Fitz, who spends most of the time with his lips pressed together like he’s biting back commentary. By the time we wrap up, we’ve set a tentative date, made a short list of entertainment ideas, and discussed a few possible themes, keeping with the rustic vibe of the venue.
“Ugh, this is going to be so much fun!” Fallon says as we all stand.
I sling my purse over my shoulder, and look at Jackie. “Thank you for putting this together.” I give her arm a light squeeze. She takes my hand in both of hers.
“Thank you for coming! You’ll jump in our Facebook group, right?” Immediately, she catches herself, and course-corrects. “Or - uh - why don’t we start a group text?” She says the last part a little louder, looking around the group. There’s a general grumble, and she turns back to me, grinning. “It’s settled. And Piper?” She gives me a serious look. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
It really shouldn’t surprise me when people say it anymore, but it does. So much so, that I’m temporarily at a loss for words as everyone gathers their jackets, getting ready to head out. After five years of widowhood, the pang still hits as fresh as it did the day the first person told me “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Even five years later, all I can manage back is “Thank you.”
I follow Carla back to her car, collapsing into the passenger seat and fighting the urge to run my hands through my hair. I’d taught myself a long time ago not to fuck up my well-tamed curls just because I was stressed.
“Did Fitz unclench his jaw at all during that meeting?” Carla breathes, her hands tight on the steering wheel in front of her. I try to take a deep, calming breath, knowing my entire body is triggered from the memories that flooded my head after seeing both Jessica and Fitz. Carla and I weren’t close back then, but she must be able to tell I’m rattled, because she looks at me, then pulls out her phone and starts typing. “I don’t know about you, but I need a meeting. Do you need a meeting?”
Chapter 3
Fitz
“Youdon’tneedtowatch over me like this,” José says, waving a spatula defiantly. "I know what I’m doing." I raise my eyebrows at him, and he gives me his signature, jolly grin, pointing his cooking utensil at me. “Something’s got you in a mood.”
Internally, I chastise myself for letting it show so plainly on my face. All I wanted to do was get food before hiding myself away in the office for the evening, but he was going to make me converse while he prepared my plate.
José has worked for WHG practically from the beginning. At one point, he was our head chef at the highest-grossing property we own in Texas—the Monarch Hotel, smack dab in the middle of downtown Dallas. But in recent years, he’d relocated to the venue closest to his grandkids.
Tonight, I find myself working from Cosette, a French Chateau style venue, far east from my home in North Dallas.
“I just don’t want to be stuck here with you,” I deadpan, looking down at my phone on the counter as it buzzes. He eyes me from between the shelves stacked high in front of him, already covered with tonight’s entree of choice - French onion chicken with gruyere mashed potatoes. My phone continues to vibrate, over and over, as a series of texts roll in.
“That’s a lie, and we both know it. You love working with me.”
It’s true, I do, not that anyone else would know that. José has known me since I was a boy, running around my father’s ankles as they tried to confirm menus and pricing each year. And, he makes some of the best food I’ve ever had. That’s coming from someone who regularly dines at MICHELIN-starred restaurants.
He points down to my phone, still buzzing. “Someone’s popular.”
(10) Messagesreads across the front, alongside my other notifications, left unchecked since I came in here ten minutes ago, trying to snag a plate before service started.
