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Shit. Shit. Shit.
With his back to me, he blurted at last, “We lost the Ramone wedding.”
“We—”
Shock choked the rest of it into silence. Like that was going to make it any less real. Or horrific. Kii Ramone’s pageant of a wedding was Expectation Inc.’s crown jewel, our finest contract to date. Kii was a triple-threat star at the top of every Hollywood A List, meaning every wedding planning team in the Southland had battled for the chance to orchestrate her special day. Ezra and I labored for weeks on Expectation’s proposal, appealing to the woman’s Polynesian roots and sense of family, doing so on a wing and a prayer. Neither of us had a stellar point of reference on the subject of family.
But we’d left Kii’s place with homemade poi and a stack of signed cd’s. A realization I vigorously sank my teeth into. “But…she gave us cd’s. And poi. And the verbal okay to start ordering flowers. When we won the Crystal Award for the LeHavre engagement party, she sent us flowers!”
“I know.”
“Then why?” It was just a rasp from me this time, as I braced both hands on the counter. “What the hell?”
Kaboom.
The stall door Ez had smacked swung hard into the bathroom wall. I was still so shocked, I barely flinched. “Who?” I finally whispered. “Who got it?”
Ezra’s weighted huff said everything—and nothing. “She decided to go with a team directly out of Honolulu. She said they really understood the ohana thing.”
“Family.” I managed the translation despite the acid in my gut.
“Bingo,” Ez muttered.
We stood together, heads bent in silent defeat, for several minutes. Family. There were few subjects about which both Ez and I were way out of our league, and that was one of them. Not a damn thing we could’ve done, nor a bullet we could’ve dodged.
Finally, I mumbled, “At least LTK didn’t land it.”
No need for translation on that one. LTK, aka Love’s True Kiss, were the New York-based dynamos who’d snatched a dozen gigs from Ezra and I over the last year, including the coup of the Santelle-Court wedding. The dressed-down but uber-elegant party had landed them the covers of every major event planning magazine, officially turning them into our cross-country rivals—though Ezra preferred the term blood-sucking enemies-on-high.
After a few more minutes, I reopened my eyes. Rubbed my temples. “Well, this is a real shit fest.”
Kaboom.
Another Ezra special. Damn, those stall doors were sturdy. I almost giggled at the thought—well, that and the odd comfort inundating me. Ez was punching things—which meant he still wanted to fight. Only once had I ever seen him at less than full warrior mode. It had been when he found his real dad through an adoption connection service, and the alcoholic shithead hadn’t wanted anything to do with him.
That was the trouble with planning fairytales for a living. Life itself rarely reciprocated. Ez had learned that one the hard way. I’d been there to help him through that darkness, but I didn’t want to revisit anytime soon.
Just to be sure we really weren’t going there, I slid out a wry smirk. Added a slow drawl. “Feel better?”
Ez pulled in a sharp breath. “No.”
“Imagine that.”
“Fine,” he snapped. “Go ahead. Crucify me.”
“What? Why?”
“Because this is going to ruin me. Ruin us. You gave a year and a half of your life to me, and I squandered it for fucking nothing.” He dropped his face into his hands. “So go ahead. Do it. Call me the hugest douche on the planet. Diarrhea in the cat box. Mold in the shower. Spittle on the—”
“Gah!” I held up both hands. The man and subtle had never shared the same byline, but my appetite had been murdered for at least the next two days. “Baby Jesus in a car seat,” I muttered, yanking out my phone as a reminder text pinged in. Time to check in for my flight tomorrow night. “As soon as I handle this, I’m dialing the Radio Emo fan line for your ass. Isn’t the ‘Wallowing Pit of Dark Dedications Hour’ starting about now?”
He glared. “Says the girl who probably still has Radio Emo on speed dial?”
I arched a brow. Correction: arched it then mentally peeled it off and hurled it at him. “Below the belt.”
“Calling it like I see it, Betty Stepford.”
Okay, now he was a douche. Using the nickname I still hated, his favorite during the six months I’d tried fitting into Ryan’s vanilla mold, was salt in a yuck-deep wound. And since Ryan was ancient history as of six months ago, douche said it perfectly.
