The Sailor Situation

Chapter 1

LIV

They call me 'The Boss' behind my back—whispered by my staff in the break room, mentioned with awe by clients at cocktail parties, said with equal parts pride and concern by my friends over gossip.

My name is Olivia Barnes, Liv to friends and family.

But my reputation? That's all Boss, and I own it.

I tap my earpiece, my reflection in The Pierre's ornate mirrors catching my eye as I stride past. Even after seven hours on my feet, not a hair is out of place in my sleek dark chignon, my Alexander McQueen blazer still crisp. People expect perfection from me, and perfection is what they get.

"Maria, the lighting in the west corner is too cool. We need it warmer, more romantic. And where are my ice sculptures? They were supposed to be here half an hour ago."

The ballroom of The Pierre Hotel is a canvas waiting for its final brushstrokes.

Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, their light reflected on the gold leaf details that trace the room's architectural features.

A small army of staff weaves through the space, transforming it for tonight's Bennett-Astor wedding.

At $2.5 million, it's not just another event — it's my wedding of the season.

My Louboutins click against the marble floor as I navigate between tables. Usually, this rhythm soothes me, a percussion line to the symphony of organized chaos that is my life. Not today. Today, each step represents another second ticking down to my own impending disaster.

"Liv." Sophie, my assistant director, appears at my side.

Her typically pristine bob is slightly disheveled — the only sign that we've been here since 4 AM.

Dark circles lurk under her eyes, concealed but visible to someone who's known her for five years.

"Everything is under control. The team knows what they're doing. "

I ignore her comment, spotting a slightly wilted rose in one of the towering centerpieces. "This needs to be replaced." I reach for the offending bloom. "And the champagne towers—"

"Are being set up as planned," Sophie interrupts, stepping into my path. At five-foot-four to my five-nine (six-one in heels), she has to crane her neck to meet my eyes, but that doesn't stop her. "Liv, you're spiraling."

"I'm not spiraling." The words come out sharper than intended and a nearby florist flinches, nearly drops her shears. Sophie raises an eyebrow, and I recognize the look. It's the same one I give brides when they're about to have a meltdown over napkin shades.

"When was the last time you took a break?" She checks her watch — a gift from me last year when she saved a wedding from disaster. "You need to get out of here for at least an hour. Get some fresh air."

"I'm fine." I straighten a place card that's approximately two millimeters off-center.

"The place cards are fine." Sophie's voice softens. "This isn't about the event, is it? You've been off for weeks."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I lie, the anxious knot in my stomach tightening.

"Go. Take a break. That's not a suggestion — it's an order from me who, need I remind you, you hired specifically to handle things when you can't."

I open my mouth to argue, but the look in Sophie's eyes stops me. She's right, and we both know it. With a sigh that's more exhaustion than annoyance, I tap my earpiece.

"Team leads, status check." One by one, they report in.

“Flowers: on schedule.”

“Catering: prepping according to timeline.”

“Lighting: adjustments in progress.”

“Music: sound check in one hour.”

Of course everything is under control, just as Sophie said.

"I'll be back in ninety minutes,” I tell them. “Sophie's in charge. Any emergencies, route through her first."

I grab my Hermès bag from my makeshift office — a converted coat check room from where I've been orchestrating this wedding.

The September air hits me with the first hints of autumn as I step onto Fifth Avenue.

My mind races between centerpieces and family obligations while I weave through the crowd of tourists and business people.

Three ignored calls and two blocks later, I push through the heavy glass doors of my favorite coffee shop.

The barista, Jake, starts making my double-shot oat milk latte before I reach the counter.

Our office is nearby and he's used to me appearing at random times, when I'm on the verge of firing someone or abandoning a bride at the altar myself.

Not that I'd ever do either — my reputation is worth more than momentary satisfaction.

My private phone buzzes just as I settle into my usual corner table with my coffee, shrugging off my blazer and feeling some of the tension leave my shoulders.

Chloe's name flashes on the screen — my best friend since our college days. She moved to New York a year after I moved here and she’s the only person who can read me better than Sophie.

The difference is, Chloe knows everything about me. Sophie doesn't.

"Are you at the venue?" she asks when I answer. Her voice carries the slight echo of her corner office at Goldman Sachs, where she's known to terrorize junior analysts while painting her nails.

"I'm taking a break." I cradle my latte, letting its warmth seep into my hands. They're always cold these days, no matter the season. Mom says it's because I work too hard. "Sophie practically forced me out."

"Good for her." Chloe's voice softens with concern. "Now tell me what's really going on. I know you, Liv. You haven't answered my calls in days and you don't take breaks in the middle of event setup unless something's wrong."

I trace the rim of my coffee cup, watching the steam rise. "Is it that obvious?"

"It is to me." She pauses. "This is about Emma's wedding, isn't it?"

Fuck. She knows me too well. I hesitate for a beat and then the words I've been holding back finally spill out. "I don't know what to do, Chloe. They're all expecting me to bring her to the wedding in two weeks."

"Ah, the mysterious Sailor." Chloe's laugh holds equal parts amusement and concern. "Your imaginary girlfriend. Have you considered just telling them you broke up?"

"And spend my entire stay being set up with every eligible bachelor in Maryland because Mom thinks the right man will save me from queerness?" I take a sip of my latte, grimacing at the thought. "No thanks. You remember what happened at Christmas."

"The lawyer and the guy who breeds horses," Chloe recites. "Though the horse guy was kind of handsome, right?"

"Yeah, he was. If only I were into men." I massage my temples. "Mom keeps saying how happy she is that I've finally found someone who can 'handle' me, even if she’s a woman. It seems they’ve accepted me being gay as long as I’m with someone who can keep me in check."

"Keep you in check?" Chloe snorts. "You run Manhattan's most exclusive wedding planning business. Your waitlist is longer than the line at Magnolia Bakery. Since when does The Boss need keeping in check?"

I'm about to respond when someone pulls out the chair across from me. I look up, irritated at the interruption, to find a woman settling into it. She's wearing simple gray track pants, a plain white t-shirt, and a hoodie, her dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail.

"Excuse me," I say, covering the phone. "This table is taken."

"All the tables are taken," she says, shooting me a humorous grin as she scoots her chair back slightly and lifts her cup from the table. "Don't worry. I just want the chair. You can have the table all to yourself."

I narrow my eyes at her, but she just keeps smiling, completely unfazed. After a moment, I return to my phone call, determined to ignore her.

"Anyway, I don't know what to do. Mom's so excited about meeting her," I tell Chloe, keeping my voice low. "And my sister's been asking when we're moving in together."

Chloe snorts, and I sigh.

"I know. An imaginary girlfriend. It doesn't get any more pathetic than that.

" From the corner of my eye, I catch my uninvited companion's eyebrow quirking with interest. I shoot her a glare.

"Chloe, I'll call you back, okay?" I mutter, hanging up before she can protest. The stranger is still watching me.

"Trouble in paradise?" she asks.

"That's really none of your business," I say. She looks amused like she stumbled upon some great entertainment and decided to investigate. She's clearly got nothing better to do.

"Let me guess..." She leans back in her borrowed chair. "You made up a girlfriend to get your family off your back."

I stare at her.

"I have ears," she simply adds. "So, what did you name your imaginary girlfriend?"

"Again, that's none of your business. You should stop eavesdropping. It's rude."

"Oh, come on. Humor me. I'm dying to know."

There's something in the way she holds eye contact, the confidence in her smile. The way she's looking at me... I know that look. She's gay. Or at least interested.

I take a sip of my latte, weighing my options. This is my sanctuary, my corner table, and I'm not about to let some curious stranger chase me out. But she's clearly not going anywhere either, so I let out a resigned sigh.

"Sailor," I finally say with a grimace.

She bursts out laughing, the sound drawing glances from nearby tables. "Sailor?" she manages between chuckles. "You named your fake girlfriend Sailor?"

"I was running an event when my sister called," I say defensively. "It just... slipped out. I was literally surrounded by model waitresses in sailor uniforms at the time." I pause, realizing how that sounds. "It was a cruise nautical-themed wedding, okay? I'm a wedding planner."

"A wedding planner with a fake girlfriend? This just gets better and better." She's still grinning, shaking her head. "And now your family's expecting to meet this seafaring woman?"

"She's not a seafarer," I say, chuckling despite my irritation. "She's a finance director."

"Ah, of course. Cute, successful..." The woman’s dark eyes dance with amusement. "Why can't you just tell them you broke up?"

"I don't... I don't like to admit failure," I say, straightening in my chair. "Not in work, not in my personal life. Besides, if I tell them that, they'll just try to set me up again at the wedding."

"But what choice do you have?"

"I'll figure something out." I lift my chin. "I always do."

"Like finding a fake girlfriend to bring to the wedding?" She shifts in her chair, lifting one leg to rest her ankle on her opposite knee — that classic relaxed pose that reads unmistakably masculine. It's in her energy too. The way she takes up space without apology, that cocky grin.

"Why not?” I say, not opposed to the idea. “I'll just pay someone to accompany me. There's nothing money can't fix."

"I suppose that's true." She shrugs. "Look. I know what you're dying to ask me, and please don't feel like you have to beg. Of course, I'll come with you."

I laugh — a real, genuine laugh that surprises me. It feels good and I realize I can't remember the last time I laughed out loud. Whatever her motives are, the woman is undeniably entertaining.

"I'm sure I can find someone more... suitable," I retort, eyeing her pointedly. She is attractive — annoyingly so — but I'm not about to let her know that. "You look nothing like a finance director. More like a gym instructor."

"Whatever." She sips her coffee and eyes me over the rim of her cup. "Your loss."

"What? Were you serious?" I frown. "What's your angle? Desperate for rent money? Or is this just how you spend your Friday afternoons — harassing women in coffee shops?"

"A little bit of both," she retorts. "Being your Sailor sounds fun."

I’m completely thrown off balance. Is she mocking me? Or does she genuinely need money? It’s impossible to tell.

"And why should I trust you?"

She leans forward. "Why should you trust anyone?" Something flickers in her eyes, but it's gone before I can read it. She pulls out a napkin from the holder on the table. "Do you have a pen?" she asks, pointing to my purse.

I hesitate. This is ridiculous. But I find myself opening my purse and pulling out a Mont Blanc anyway.

"Thank you." She scribbles something on the napkin. "In case you change your mind." She slides it across to me with a wink. "I promise I'm worth every penny."

And then she’s standing, leaving most of her coffee and turning to leave.

"Wait!" I call after her, although I have no idea why. "I don't even know your name. I’m Liv."

She pauses at the door, glancing back with that infuriating smile. "Sailor," she says, and then she's gone, leaving me staring at the napkin with its hastily scrawled phone number.