Chapter 7
Celeste
“There’s something I need to tell you. And it’s big.”
I stare at Saylor. The courtyard is quiet around us except for the rhythmic whoosh of the ocean waves, cresting and breaking.
I watch his face cycle through something I can’t quite read.
He’s not nervous, exactly. He’s careful.
Choosing his words the way I choose fabric—feeling the weight of each option before committing.
My mind does what it always does: races ahead to the worst possible scenarios and ranks them by devastation level.
Eleanor said something to him. Cornered him during the service and told him I’m unstable, dramatic, not worth the trouble. Handed him a check to disappear or worse, out me as a desperate old lady who hired an escort for a funeral.
Perhaps he’s quitting. The day has been too much between the crying, the panic attack, the speech, the full-body clinging on a stage in front of two hundred strangers. Maybe he’s decided this isn’t worth what he’s getting paid.
That last thought hits differently than it should.
Sharp and low, like a paper cut in a place you didn’t know could bleed.
I’ve known this man for less than a day.
The fact that losing him already feels like something worth fearing is a problem I’ll need to address later, likely with my therapist and a very large glass of wine.
Saylor glances back toward the building.
Through the windows I can see the dinner setup taking shape—long tables draped in white linen, more hydrangeas, silver candelabras.
Eleanor’s staff moving with military precision.
A butlered dinner. At a funeral. Because apparently we’ve run out of ways to avoid actually grieving, so we’re going to sit down and eat a five-course meal while a string quartet plays pretentious classical music, and everyone pretends this is normal.
Nothing about this is normal. Nothing about this feels okay.
“Not here,” Saylor says, to my great relief. He turns back to me and his expression settles into something resolute. “Would you be open to leaving early? Eating somewhere that doesn’t serve champagne and truffle brie?”
I look at the estate hall. I look at the ocean. I look at the man standing in front of me in the suit I picked out, asking me to leave my best friend’s funeral to go grab a bite like we’ve known each other for years.
“Promise me something.”
He nods, unbothered. Unintimidated. As if he’s been waiting to make this promise all day.
“If I die,” I say, “you are personally responsible for ensuring there is no catered, black-tie dinner at my service. No hydrangeas. No string quartet. No pomegranate sorbet.”
“What do you want instead?”
“Potluck. Crock-Pots. Paper plates. That awful-looking seven-layer dip from the grocery store with the avocado layer that’s neon green.
No one here will admit, but that stuff is delicious.
I want warmth, love, and people telling stories, and absolutely none of—” I gesture at the building behind us. “None of whatever this is.”
Saylor’s mouth curves. “Sure, Celeste. I’ve got you. Potluck, cheap dip, and casual attire. I’ll show up in socks and sandals, just to show you how committed I am.”
Despite myself, despite today…I smile. “Thank you. How about you? How can I give you the funeral of your dreams?”
He points to his chest. “Oh me? No, I don’t plan on dying. I would like something in exchange though.”
“What do you want then?”
His gaze sweeps over my lips. “Obviously not this weekend, but when you’re ready, could I see you again? Outside of work, I mean.”
“For what?”
His eyes lift to the sky, then drop back down. “To discuss your funeral arrangements in more detail, obviously.”
“Obviously,” I echo, still not understanding. “Wait…what?”
“Celeste, this is me, asking you out…at the most inappropriate time and location possible. But clearly, I love a challenge.”
“A challenge?” I erupt with laughter—the kind that starts deep in your belly and takes over your whole body.
Even as I watch Saylor’s face crumple with dismay, I can’t rein it in.
The sound keeps spilling out of me, beyond my control.
Rising to my tiptoes, I place my hands on his shoulders, placing a quick kiss on his smooth cheek.
I get a faint whiff of his aftershave and visions of bright lightning striking the ocean at sunset come to mind.
This is how creativity approaches me. It’s a dance that starts with an invitation—a visual, smell, a taste.
It’s really the only superpower I have as a designer.
My brain loves to set a scene. My Willow line was inspired by the cattails in bloom in a scorching summer, the dandelion debris floating through the air like snow on a sunny day.
My Scarlett line was inspired by a London rainstorm at night.
Thick, angry droplets pummeling into the ground, exploding like grenades.
That line was all dark hues, sharp, sexy angles, leather mixed with lace.
I’m used to the visuals, but this is odd.
Never once has inspiration started with this—a small, innocent kiss to the cheek.
“Saylor, you’re sweet, but I used to have a Blockbuster card.
Do you understand that? Whit and I grew up in the era where we rented DVDs and thought Bluetooth would give us radiation poisoning when they first introduced it.
So, thank you very much for the compliment of asking me out but, I’m way too old for you.
Not to mention, I have no interest in a romantic relationship right now. ”
What does he expect? Does he think I’m hiring escorts to be swept off my feet?
No, I’m only trying to appear, at least to the outer world, as if I’m not Greg’s leftovers and slowly succumbing to my inevitable fate as a childless spinster who has a hand-knitted blanket draped over her favorite creaky rocking chair.
He stares at me for a while, like he’s actively composing a Plan B in his mind. “What the hell is a Blockbuster?”
“Exactly.” God, I love it when people prove my points for me. I wear my smug smile proudly while I tuck the giddy school-girl excitement of a man like Saylor looking at me like that deep down into the pits of my gut. “Anyway, what did you need to tell me? You look stressed out.”
“Let’s go eat,” Saylor says. “Do you mind staying right here? If you’re okay with it I’m going to go find a friend and see if she can join us.”
Did this man just suggest a threesome after I turned him down? That’s quite the leap. “You made a friend? At a funeral?”
“Well, I’m very likable. Not to you, clearly. But to some women.”
“Ah, so now the pouting begins?”
“Brace yourself,” he says, his grin spreading ear to ear. “But no, there’s a situation I think she can explain better. Most definitely a conversation we should have away from all of this.”
I can’t argue with that. “Fine. Let’s go before Eleanor discovers I’m skipping her dinner and dispatches the catering staff to drag me back in a straitjacket to ‘enjoy’ the same five-course meal I’ve eaten at least sixty times in my adult life.”
“There. I see her. She’s near Eleanor though.” Saylor points toward the main building where guests are gathering in the foyer behind the floor-to-ceiling glass. “Why don’t you sneak around back. I’ll touch base with my friend and grab the car. Wait for five minutes, then meet me out front, okay?”
“Sure.” I don’t bother to hide the skepticism in my voice.
But I am too emotionally drained to argue.
And starving now that Saylor mentioned it.
He hustles away and I absolutely do not check out his behind.
I’m blissfully unaware of how muscular his ass looks as he jogs out of sight and into the crowd.
As instructed, I wait a few minutes then take the stone path around the building to the front entrance.
I must be moving at a glacial pace because by the time I climb the hill in my very pissed-off Louboutins—Christian did not design these for exercise—Saylor is there waiting, my Range Rover already pulling around the valet station.
The closer I get, the more I hear. The more I hear, the more I’m horrified. Saylor lies with the ease of a spoiled house cat.
“It really was a nice speech. Such a shame you have to run out early,” the valet attendant says.
“Agreed. All Celeste’s words, not mine. She wrote such a beautiful message, and we hate to leave, but as it goes, she’s spewing from both ends, so it’s probably safer and more hygienic for everyone if we make our way out now.”
“Poor darling. Any idea what did it?”
“I’m thinking the truffle brie bites?” Saylor says. “She only had a couple, but their wrath was fast and furious. There’s a janitor’s closet on the second floor you just do not want to go in.”
By the time I’m standing next to Saylor, my jaw is dropped and all I’m seeing is his faceless silhouette against a backdrop of angry red.
“Feel better, Ms. Celeste. Take care,” the attendant says, depositing the keys into Saylor’s hand.
Saylor smoothly slips him a bill I can’t see before he scuttles away.
Very suave, very masculine. Very above his years.
Very much not important at the moment because the man just told a stranger I had explosive diarrhea.
“What the fuck, Saylor? What exactly are you accusing me of doing in a janitor’s closet?”
He places his hand across his chest. “I was planting the seeds of a backstory. Now, if anybody notices your absence, at least the valet team knows you weren’t feeling well.”
I hold up one finger. “Emotionally overwhelmed.” Another joins. “Family emergency.” I lift the third. “Searing migraine.” I wiggle three fingers in his face. “All better options to accomplish the same thing without telling people I was spewing from both ends!”
Saylor nods, trying to hold in his smile. “Oi, now I see it. I think I got stuck on your notes about the truffle brie and kind of ran with it. I should’ve went with migraine.”