The Wedding Crush

Chapter Three

Avery

My client, Nichelle, whose completely over-the-top Hollywood glamour wedding I’m planning, squeals with delight.

“Girl, I feel like I’m famous!”

She’s been glued to her phone, her long, clacky nails texting and scrolling the interwebs for the past twenty-two minutes—and thirteen seconds if, say, you were dog-tired and counting down until the end of your workday.

Usually, I don’t care.

My appointments are my clients’ time. We can spend it dreaming out loud about venues, linens, photo booths, and flowers. Or we can get full-on velvety, buttercream cake bites and bubbly. At the end of the day, my goal is to bring their biggest celebratory dreams to life in 3-D technicolor. I worry about the logistics, budgets, and suppliers, so they don’t have to.

But today is Tuesday.

Most people live for weekends, but I work hard, Wednesday to Monday, so I can play even harder—sans my little guy, Ace, who spends the night with his granny—on Turn-Up Tuesday with my Sister Circle. It’s our standing weekly time to refuel, recharge, and unwind over wine and whatever we can find to pair with it.

After the past week and a half I’ve had…

Between the tea party, Morgan’s engagement, and the resulting fifteen minutes of fame they’ve sponsored for my little event-planning company, Ellis Events, I’m exhausted. But then throw in a national holiday that condones overpricing five-second sparklers and sleepless, never-ending fireworks, all-nighters.

Bring on all the wine and unwinding.

“Lord, my cousin is on the bird app, telling anyone who’ll listen that THE Avery Ellis is the mastermind behind my upcoming nuptials,” Nichelle says. “I have never in my twenty-five years heard this woman utter a word with more than two syllables, now she’s talking about nuptials?”

I giggle.

She is loving every minute of this.

To Nichelle, the residual fame she’s experiencing because I’m her wedding planner, might as well be Entertainment Tonight, E News, and TMZ coverage combined.

“You were made for the spotlight!” I decree, peeking at the time above all the silenced notifications on my phone.

Four twenty-four.

Our appointment—and my workday—is over at five sharp.

“Yes, indeed. Shine all the light on me.” Nichelle cackles. “I know how to amplify the hype.”

I mumble my agreement.

“When I tell you these people are in my DMs clambering for ceremony details…” She flits a quick disbelieving glance at me. “Meanwhile, I’m just over here, my mouth clamped shut like, I wish I would…” Her face scrunches up with amused and pure, unfiltered nope.

The way every town from Napa to the Bay is talking about Victoria Fortemani’s birthday tea, and how that’s somehow translated into me becoming this ungettable event planner everyone wants, simply amazes me. For me, it was another day working and playing hard. How was I supposed to know planning an elegant affair for a powerful woman with equally powerful guests would be game-changing?

I guess, who needs the philharmonic, or my uninspired last-minute Tea Time playlist continuously shuffling on low volume, when I can bippity-boppity-style turn a gathering into a magical engagement party for entertainment?

“Puh-lease,” Nichelle continues her animated rant, posturing for an invisible crowd. “The last thing Faison and I need is paparazzi staked out for pics of a private Avery Ellis event. No, ma’am. Not on my big day.”

Warmth swells in my chest, copping a squat right between my bone-tired ribs.

“And not on my watch,” I chime in.

Nichelle snaps her fingers, punctuating her agreement.

The flair for dramatics on this one…

I shake my head, laughing softly as we amble through the elegant Julia Morgan Ballroom where her reception will be held this coming winter. It’s one of my most coveted venues. Gorgeous doesn’t even begin to cover how stunning this place is. Timeless luxury, modern amenities, historically and architecturally breathtaking, all located in the heart of San Francisco. And bonus—for me—it easily accommodates large guest lists, which is both rare and perfect for Nichelle’s grand vision.

It’s also why we’re here now to review the food and logistics with their attentive, and very patient staff.

“Should we maybe work our way over—”

“Oh. My. God!” Nichelle interrupts with Sir Mix-a-Lot “Baby Got Back” levels of comedic seriousness.

“What?” I laugh, praying this will be a quick story.

“My book club has hijacked our group chat to discuss my wedding.” Nichelle pauses for dramatic effect, I’m guessing, waiting for my reaction.

“That’s awesome. Is Sydney going to be able to attend after all?” I ask, putting an upbeat, hopeful spin on whatever she says next.

What’s one more book club member when we’re still rearranging tables and adding place cards, before we give a final headcount to the staff?

Nichelle closes her eyes, centering herself before she seems to regroup.

“No, no, you don’t understand what this means.”

Lifting my chin, I give her my full attention.

Tired bones, wine, and all that.

“My book club? It’s made up of the best that introverts have to offer, and they’re talking about how you curated this classy, sophisticated high tea for Napa’s upper crust,” she explains, accurately assuming I’m still not following. “These women are not on the chatty, hot takes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner social media platforms. They’re pretty curated bookish pictures, and mounting Tbr lists. Now, suddenly, they’re discussing which of those fine-ass Fortemani brothers are still on the market and lavish weddings…”

My brain stalls halfway through that last sentence.

Fine-ass Fortemani brothers?

I blink way too many times to be natural.

My pulse pounds in my neck, heat prickling over my skin, for two very good reasons.

First, why are these introverted insta-curators discussing Dante’s brothers almost two weeks later? I thought all the buzz was about tea parties and weddings. Stefano and Marcello were guests. Secondly, and this part is truly baffling, is there really a competition between a young player and a tall, broody—albeit grumpy—silver fox with undeniably big, um…hands?

Why did I have to call him a silver fox?

Why did I walk up on him in that car listening to Johnny Timmons—who is problematic for so many reasons?

Every inch of me softened because here was this man dealing with his ex-wife’s hot girl summer, and there he was looking for tips on getting back out there. Of course, the man’s faith in marriage is shook.

He’d looked so adorably awkward, stammering, mortified that I’d heard the words “dating” and “sex.”

Jesus, the way his eyes had darkened, and he’d frozen when I touched him.

Again, why did I jab my finger into his starched suit then recoil when I was met with steel?

He nearly had me fooled, too.

I get this overwhelming urge to grab Nichelle’s phone, and tap a quick message to her bookish friends, telling them to move it along. The product packaging and branding is on point, but what’s inside leaves so much to be desired.

But then I come to my senses, mumbling a decidedly ambivalent, “Aah, okay…”

Whatever that means.

The thing about Stefano Fortemani that’s so infuriating is, physically speaking, he’s appealing to the eye.

I never said he wasn’t attractive.

Indisputably, the man is a striking, biologically designed specimen. If “chestnuts roasting on a mid-summer open fire” was a color, there would be his intense, penetrating eyes, stoking a fire straight through me. I’m talking broad-chested, clean-cut with soft silver curls, a square jaw, and ridiculously long eyelashes. Sadly, his entire wardrobe is relegated to suits in varying shades of black, gray, and navy, but he’s well-dressed. Impeccably so, in tailored suits that mold to his thick frame in the most elegant, refined way that screams words like “expensive,” “high-powered,” “smart,” “smells so good, I want to peel off every yard of fabric and thread with my teeth…”

And it’s all true.

The problem?

As beautiful as he is, socially, emotionally—shamefully—he’s just too dang serious.

Too bitter.

Which, there’s a time and a place for everything. But not at your mother’s sixty-fifth birthday. Certainly, not at your brother’s—Napa’s most eligible bachelors—impromptu engagement to my best friend who loves him purely and deeply.

Stefano Fortemani is like a pill warning label, telling you everything that could go wrong short of killing you, instead of celebrating the miracle that insurance covered the full deductible.

What’s the rush?

The way I wanted to remind him that love can’t be measured in time.

Whoever said there was a magic formula?

Yeah, sure, x months + x hours = true love.

No. It doesn’t matter how long it takes if the feeling is real and irrefutable.

See, this is why I need Turn-Up Tuesday in the fiercest way. If only to deep-dive into Morgan’s wedding dreams to drown out any lingering annoyance I’ve been harboring toward Stefano. The engagement was a success, and now, there’s no reason for us to interact until the wedding.

Yes, that’s it.

Relief floods through me.

Nichelle clears her throat and eyes me curiously like she senses she lost me somewhere. Then, wrongly pinpointing the source of my confusion, she clarifies, “Tbr. To be read…”

“Ah, okay.” I nod, shoving aside all thoughts of Mr. Sex and Dating.

“The point is,” she continues, undeterred, “not only have they heard about your tea party and your friend’s engagement, half of my friends and family—including guests who’ve yet to even RSVP—they’ve been texting and calling. Every one of them beside themselves with excitement that you’re the event planner.”

“I can’t tell you how beyond grateful I am.”

“Trust, this isn’t a molehill-mountain situation, Avery.” She takes my hand in hers, the pads of her fingertips brushing lightly over my skin. “I mean, yes, this is amazing for my Hollywood dreams, but this is huge for your bottom line. Ellis Events is the spotlight.”

To her point, judging by the surge of followers on my social media and the big names on some of my missed calls, Lifestyles of the Rich and Wedded may not be too far-fetched.

Joy wells up in my heart.

“Isn’t it something, though?” I muse.

“It’s something, all right. Something mind-blowing and amazing.” Nichelle switches back to scrolling through comments. “Girl, shut up and take all my money.”

Inside, my exhausted little body rejoices.

“Okay, well, if we’re going to live up to book club standards of fabulousness, we need to get this appointment underway.”

Nichelle nods, wide-eyed and dead serious.

“Just a couple more minutes,” I say, knowing she needs a reactionary moment to their comments before she’ll officially move on. “We’ve got filet mignon waiting…”

I waft the air in her direction, hoping the aroma will entice her to gravitate back toward the table.

We’re supposed to be finalizing linens and meeting with the staff for a food tasting. Yet, while we’ve lapped this lovely art deco ballroom with me admiring its lotus-shaped glass chandeliers and Gatsby-esque feel, we’ve yet to logisticize this wedding or take even a bite of the delicious-smelling, savory entrees sitting on the table getting cold.

“Lord knows, I could eat right now,” Nichelle moans.

I glance over to the white-clothed table fully dressed and brimming with a feast fit for a bride and her famished wedding planner. Then up to the clock above the fireplace.

The events director catches my eye and shoots me an understanding smile.

A small giggle bubbles in my throat.

That look, it’s one of sisterly and professional solidarity.

I swear she knows I’m secretly counting down until Nichelle’s appointment is over. It’s like she’s subliminally cheering me on. Girl, last appointment of the day. Get through this with a smile, and in a half hour, you’ll be at Morgan’s with your Sister Circle. Your mom is picking up Ace from daycare, so you’ll be free to sip Pinot, gush about the engagement, and NOT jump the gun on planning her wedding that probably won’t be for another year, but you can daydream…

Silver linings.

Come on, five o’clock.

Because clearly the events director is amazing at her job, intuitive as all get-out, and giving compliments is like showering others with free happiness confetti, I point to my blouse then her satin floral dress and pantomime a chef’s kiss.

Her expression softens with thanks.

Hmmm. Maybe I’ll skip the Pinot for Prosecco. Making it through this day feels like a celebration.

My mood lifts at the enticing prospect of relaxing with my girls.

Walking a little taller and lighter on my feet, I tuck my planner bible under my arm and slip my phone from my skirt pocket, prepared to knock out a few more email responses.

As soon as the screen illuminates, my heart stops.

Four missed calls from Mommy.

“Fudge.”

I pull in a lungful of air, determined not to get lost in the worst-case scenarios why she’s called so many times when she usually picks him up closer to six.

Breathe, then call her.

Forcing a smile, I clear my throat to get Nichelle’s attention. “Hey, I’ve got to make a quick call if you want to get started with the tasting before they begin cleanup,” I say encouragingly.

“Sure, yeah. No problem.”

She must register the slight worry etched between the lines on my face because she shoves her phone in her purse and steadies me with an intense stare.

Her eyebrows draw together. “Is everything okay? You seem upset.”

“No, yeah, I’m fine.” I shake my head, forcing a smile. “It’s just my mom. I missed her calls, and she’s picking up my son from daycare today,” I explain. “I’m sure I probably just forgot his PJs or toothbrush.”

Nichelle gives me one of those silent it’s always something smiles before I tap Mommy’s contact and walk briskly back toward the private bridal suites.

“Hey, what did I forget?” I ask when she picks up.

“Ooh, honey, I hate to do this to you when it’s your girls’ night, but I’ve gone and caught myself a stomach flu. Lord, when I tell you it’s coming out both ways—”

“Please don’t.” Disgusted relief lifts my laugh. “Mommy, ew, just…TMI.”

“What?”

I’m still cringing and laughing as I close my eyes against the dueling Doctor Mom urge to rush over and fix her up and the hourly life calendar barreling to the front of my mind.

“Do you need me to bring you some ginger ale and saltines?”

“Chile, I’m on an every-fifteen-minute-water-sip diet trying to stay hydrated, then I’ll have some toast,” she says. “Don’t you dare worry about me. Go get my baby and tell him we’ll do Disney and Hot Wheels as soon as I’m up and running again.”

“Are you sure?”

She smacks her lips loudly in my ear. “Lord, if you don’t go get my grandbaby so I’m not sitting up here worried on top of managing my insides…” Mommy warns.

“Okay,” I laugh through my disappointment, switching gears to crisis-management mode.

On top of worrying about her, there’s no way I’ll be able to make it to Turn-Up Tuesday. By the time I pick up Ace, get home and call a sitter, the Sister Circle will be calling it a night.

I flip my wrist to check the time.

“I’m going to wrap up this appointment, then head straight to Mighty Les Enfants Academy.”

“Let me know the second you’ve got him.”

In record time, Nichelle and I knock out linens selections over mouthfuls of filet mignon, lobster, and lemon pepper chicken cooked to perfection. By the time she opts for elegant crimson red tablecloths and chair covers paired with warm cream napkins, table runners, and drapes, we’re out of time, and I’m back in sneakers, sprinting toward the St. Mary’s Square parking garage to beat traffic.

The good news is, I’m only four miles away.

The predictable bad news, with this standstill, my GPS is calculating thirty-three minutes.

“Let’s get this over with.”

Turning up my AC and turning down my music, I tap through my car’s digital display screen until I find Morgan’s name.

It rings twice before she picks up.

“Hey, girl, hey,” she hums into the line.

Involuntarily, a sigh barrels out of me along with a sad, “Hey.”

In seconds, the phone quiets before the volume magnifies the shuffle and swoosh of my girls, confirming they’re present and accounted for—all four of them.

I’m on a group call.

“Spill,” Monica, the no-nonsense mouthpiece of our Sister Circle commands. “Morgan said you did the sigh, so out with it.”

My voice is weighted with every ounce of disappointment I feel. “Long story short, I’m not coming tonight.”

“Girl, quit playing.” Morgan cackles over my famous sigh. “We’ve got too much to talk about tonight. Valerie’s over there falling for Fix-It Felix just because he flashed his forearms as he installed built-ins in her living room—”

“Okay, you didn’t see his forearms,” Valerie reasons.

Morgan continues listing all the gossip I’m dying to hear in person complete with animated facial expressions and wild hand gestures. “Seneca is contemplating quitting the bank. Again…”

We all laugh because it’s become an every-other-week thing with her since she got her real estate license. Not that we don’t all know it too well. That’s how we met. Every one of us crossed paths, working at Regions West Bank over the years. Eventually, one by one, we left to start our own businesses—Morgan with Forster Business Consulting; Monica with Hard Core Pilates; Valerie’s Estrada Realty; and me, with Ellis Events. All except, Seneca, who’s still working up the nerve to leap in faith.

“Girl, it’s okay, you’ll leave if and when you’re ready,” I tell her.

“Thank you, Avery,” Seneca says.

Ahead, the traffic moves a couple inches and I make it through the light, watching as my GPS estimated arrival time drops.

“And…” Morgan’s whine commandeers my attention back to the conversation. I can practically see her pouting. “I was sorta hoping, since y’all aided and abetted Dante’s proposal, we could recap the engagement and talk vineyard weddings…”

Everyone squees and swoons.

This circle has kissed dozens of frogs. We’ve talked about love and dating ad nauseam. But she’s done. Our best friend is the first of us to get blissfully engaged to a man who fiercely loves and respects her.

“My God, I cannot wait to marry this man.” Morgan sighs. “Like, I want to travel and make a million plans together. I want to have kids—”

“You sure about that part?” I question, laughing. “If you and Dante feel the need to get in some non-procreational, PG-13 practice, Ace is available all week for your pre-parenting pleasure.”

The traffic picks up to a slow crawl, and I weave into the right-hand lane, thanking my stars that I’m going to make it to Les Enfants on time, if we keep moving at this pace.

“I guess I should’ve said, eventually,” Morgan adds.

But leave it to Seneca the sensible, head so far away from the clouds, practical line of reason that she is, she cuts straight to the chase, circling back to the subject at hand.

“Um, ma’am…we’re going to need the long story long. You haven’t missed a Turn-Up Tuesday since…” She breaks off guiltily, unwilling to finish that sentence even though I know that everyone is silently filling in that blank space for her.

I haven’t missed our weekly get-together since my late husband, Justin, passed three years ago. He’s the one who said it was a tradition he could get behind because he loved when I came home to him hopped up on wine and horny for him.

Hey, if all I’ve got to do is hang out with my son for a few hours to get you worked up, that’s foreplay a man can’t buy.

A somber laugh tickles the back of my throat.

He made sure I got to be with my girls every Tuesday. Then, Mommy kept it going while he deployed. It was supposed to be his last tour and he was getting out since his contract was up. But he didn’t make it back, and my entire world shifted. Suddenly, I was a widow and single mom to a three-year-old, doing it all on my own. I couldn’t just hold it together for Ace. I was solely responsible for creating the joy-filled world I wanted him to live in—even on Tuesday nights.

Then my girls brought the circle to me.

“Granny’s gone and caught herself a stomach flu, so I’m inching my way to daycare to pick up Ace,” I explain.

They all hum their understanding.

“But there’s still a silver lining. I get to watch Disney movies with the cutest boy in town, so top that.”

In the background, Dante calls out, “Baby, fifteen minutes…” While none of us are sure what he’s referring to—the time before he leaves the house or how long to reheat a meal—it might as well be an alarm, clearing the room, because the Sister Circle is nothing if not assuming the dirtiest possibility.

“So, on that note…” Monica prefaces like we’re not all thinking Dante and Morgan are trying to squeeze in a quickie before the girls get there.

After their abrupt “See you in twenty,” to give the engaged lovebirds an extra ten minutes, Seneca, Monica, and Valerie rush off the phone.

I’m about a block from the daycare, prepared to end the call too, when Morgan asks me to wait.

“Give me two seconds,” she says.

Then, in the background, I hear her talking to Dante. He says something about the last inning then before the line grows muffled, and Morgan is back.

“Okay, so, it’s not what y’all were thinking with your gutter minds.” She laughs. “He’s in the kitchen, on the phone with his brother, talking about some baseball game they’re watching. Yet he insists he’s ready to walk out the door.”

“So, what’s up?” I ask, hating the fact that of everything she said, I’m immediately curious which brother Dante’s on the phone with.

“Oh, nothing crazy. I was just thinking… Since you can’t make it tonight, how about we have dinner here, Friday night? You call a sitter, I’ll grab a couple bottles of wine, we can watch that Tia Williams movie, and just chat about things.”

A giggle teeters on my tongue.

Chat about things (i.e. Gush about Dante and their impending nuptials).

At the rate this week is going…

“That sounds perfect, actually,” I say as I pull into the parking lot.

“Friday night, it is,” Morgan singsongs cheerily.

Except, as I reach for the dashboard display to end the call, I hear Dante whisper, “Did you tell her?” just as the line disconnects.