Chapter 2
2
The man in front of me freezes. My mouth goes drier than the Sahara as my heartbeat echoes in my ears. Then, slowly, he rotates his body, turning toward me. My jaw drops open as I stare up at a face I never expected to see again.
It’s not that I haven’t thought about him over the years. No matter how many dudes you sleep with, it’s hard to forget about a guy when a permanent reminder of the night you spent together is literally branded on your skin. Especially when that reminder is a half-pig, half-unicorn that still scares the hell out of you every time you catch a glimpse of your post-shower reflection in the bathroom mirror. Eight years have done nothing to temper that jump scare.
No. I haven’t forgotten about him. In fact, I’ve thought about him so often that I’ve sometimes wondered if I’ve built him up in my memory. Maybe he wasn’t half as attractive as I remember. Maybe ninety percent of his appeal was his accent and that inexplicably charming cardigan. But the face staring back at me negates every lie I’ve told myself in the past decade.
I let myself stare. Gawk, even. My eyes drink in every feature. Pink, pouty lips. A smattering of freckles across the bridge of a well-shaped nose. Cornflower blue eyes, wide with disbelief behind those same thick glasses I remember. Fuck, why are his glasses so sexy? Have I somehow gone my entire life not knowing I have a spectacles fetish?
“Ali?” he finally asks. His eyes have gone wide, but the hopeful tone of his voice conveys something more than surprise. Is it possible that he has thought about me too, that he’s wondered what might have been? Speechless for once, I simply nod.
“Sorry, did you say your name is Benedict?” the barista interrupts.
He shakes his head, the spell broken as he turns back to the register. “No, sorry, it’s actually—”
“Graham.” I finish for him.
Graham whips back around, the shock still evident in his face.
“What are you doing here?” he asks after a beat.
“What am I doing here? What are you doing here?”
“What are any of us doing here?” a voice says from behind us. Now we both turn to see a short, balding man giving us a death stare.
“Personally, I’m trying to get lunch, so if you’re not going to order anything, maybe you two could take this little reunion elsewhere.”
“Oh, right. Lunch.” I’m so disoriented that I’ve completely lost track of where I am, and what I’m doing here in the first place. Swiveling back to the counter, I order on autopilot. It’s the same lunch I’ve had nearly every day this month: a pumpkin spice latte with a grilled gouda and apple sandwich.
“Pumpkin spice, huh? I guess everything they say about Americans is true.” We slide down to the other end of the counter to wait for our food.
“First of all, it’s September, which means it’s my prerogative—nay, my responsibility —to consume as many artificial gourd flavors as possible. And second, um, hi? Care to explain why you’ve gone so far out of your way for coffee?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“I live here. My office is a few blocks away. I come here for lunch a few days a week. Now you’re all caught up. Your turn.”
Our orders slide across the countertop. Picking up our trays, Graham and I find a two-seater table close to the back of the restaurant. Once we’re settled, Graham takes a small sip of his coffee.
“I moved here about three months ago to help my grandmother with the family business. She and my grandfather managed it for over thirty years. After my grandfather passed away last November, it fell into a bit of financial trouble.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s okay. I’m fortunate to be able to help her. My grandparents have done a lot for me over the years, and it feels good to give back.”
“I’m sure your grandmother is happy to accept the free expertise of her grandson, the London School of Economics alumni.”
Graham’s lips quirk. “Something like that.” He fixes his eyes on mine, and we stare at each other for a long moment, a current crackling in the air between us. My stomach cartwheels. I clear my throat, dispelling the tension.
“Well, I’d love to catch up. Want to grab a drink tomorrow night? I know all the best spots in the city, so you really don’t want to pass up this opportunity.”
Graham feigns a look of horror. “A drink with you? Sounds dangerous.” His eyes drop to where my tattoo hides, and his cheeks go pink. My skin ignites beneath the fabric.
I mask it with a laugh, reaching forward to give his forearm a good-natured shove.
“You’ll be fine. The post-cocktail belly button piercings are completely optional.”
Graham’s gaze shifts to my hand on his arm, and I watch as something indiscernible crosses his face. For a long, mortifying beat, I’m positive I’ve misread the situation. I double-check his left hand for a ring. It’s bare. So why the hesitation? Am I misremembering the chemistry we had eight years ago? I mean, I’d been drinking that night, but I didn’t think I was that wasted.
With a tangle of mixed emotions in my chest, I realize I’m desperate for him to say yes. Worse yet, I’m terrified he isn’t going to.
But then the darkness clouding his face passes, and he smiles. “Sure,” he says warmly. “A drink sounds great.”
“Damn, that must have been one strong latte.” Asha raises her eyebrows as I storm into the conference room. “Your face is redder than the time your dad found that stash of shirtless Taylor Lautner photos under your bed.”
“I just had one of the most surreal experiences of my life,” I say on an exhale, collapsing into the chair across from her.
Asha presses her elbows into the table and leans forward, eyes alight. “Go.”
“I was in line at the coffee shop, and I ran into this guy I haven’t seen since college.”
Asha raises an eyebrow. “A guy? I’m intrigued. Tell me more.”
“It was the weirdest thing. We met on the last night of my study abroad semester. Just once. I never expected to see him again. Because, you know, England, Baltimore. Not exactly close. Plus, it’s been eight years. And then bam. Out of the blue, he was just standing in line at Spruce like he’d been shot out through a time portal.”
Asha doesn’t bother to mask her unbridled glee. She leans forward on her elbow, propping her chin in her fist. “Is he hot?”
“Beyond. Think Jude Law in The Holiday. But it’s more than that. It’s like there was this weird energy between us. A literal spark. It sounds ridiculous, I know.”
Images from our coffee shop rendezvous flash across my brain. Graham’s lips curling into an amused smile. His blue eyes dancing behind his tortoiseshell glasses. The way my name sounded in his velvety accent.
Ali.
For better or worse, I’ve had plenty of dating experience, but I can’t remember the last time a man has had this effect on me. A memory stirs, conjuring the image of Graham stripped to the waist, his lips trailing down the column of my neck, and I go breathless.
“Have you ever met someone, but the timing wasn’t right? But then they show back up again, and it just feels like it’s a sign? Like things are finally falling into place?”
I look up at Asha, then sigh. Of course she doesn’t know what I’m talking about. She and Nadia have been together for two decades. She has no idea what it’s like to go on dozens of crappy first dates and never feel anything close to chemistry.
“Negative. But I also haven’t dated enough people to make up the cast of three Bachelorette seasons. You have. And I’ve never seen you act like this about any of them. Your pupils are basically cartoon hearts.”
With a dramatic sigh, I slide farther into my chair, flinging out my arms like a Victorian damsel suffering a swooning spell.
“We’re going out for drinks tomorrow night, Ash. And I know my outlook on dating is more Tortured Poets Department than Lover, but it feels like this guy is different. Like maybe he’s… Someone.”
“You know what they say. When something is meant for you, it always finds its way back. It’s fate,” Asha shrugs, a small smile playing on her lips. “I just found my fate a little faster.”
I give her a tiny smile.
“I don’t know if I believe in fate. But what you and Nadia have? That certainty in each other, in your life together? For the first time, I feel like maybe I could have that too.”
Asha taps the tips of her fingers together gleefully. “Oooh, I am loving this!”
“What do you love?” A deep voice reverberates behind us, and we both turn to see the hulking figure of my boss filling the doorway. Antoine Williams is an absolute icon in this industry. He started planning parties for family and friends when he was in high school, and over the past twenty years, has become one of the most sought-after event planners in the mid-Atlantic region. I’ve known hopeful brides to reserve dates with him before they even have a ring.
His six-foot-four frame is cloaked in one of his signature kimonos, which fans out behind him like a leopard-print kite as he breezes through the doorway. I’ve never met anyone who can pull off a kimono quite like Antoine. Come to think of it, I’ve never met anyone else who can pull off a kimono. It’s unclear if he has them tailor-made or if it’s just his general aura that makes them look so elegant. Either way, he’s looking positively regal this afternoon.
“Ali met a guy,” Asha says. Her brow furrows. “Or I guess, re-met a guy?”
“How fabulous.” Antoine rests the stack of binders he’s carrying on the white laminate conference table. “And speaking of fabulous, we have a prospective client meeting in half an hour.” He leans forward, then adds conspiratorially, “And it’s a big one. The bride is engaged to the grandson of Trudy Dyson.”
Asha and I look back at him with blank stares. I rack my brain. Trudy Dyson… Trudy Dyson… Should I know that name?
“Trudy Dyson is the owner of the Black-Eyed Susan,” he fills in. “And yes, she wants to host the wedding there. You can imagine the budget we’d be working with on this one.”
My eyes go wide. The Black-Eyed Susan is one of Baltimore’s oldest and most famous hotels. So famous that it’s a registered historic landmark, as much a part of the city’s fabric as Camden Yards and the Inner Harbor. Meeting its owners feels akin to encountering royalty.
“Asha, I’m putting you on this account,” Antoine continues. “A client of this caliber requires something chic, chic, chic, and you’re our best bet.”
“What about me?” I blurt out. Antoine swings his gaze toward me, eyebrows raised in surprise. Whoops. That’s not how I meant that to come out.
“Er, I mean, I would love to assist Asha with this wedding. I’m eager to develop my skills and join your team as a full-time planner. And who better to learn from than Asha?”
Antoine purses his lips, considering. I hold my breath. I know it’s a gamble, making such a bold request. So far, I’ve only been assigned to help with smaller affairs. Which makes sense. I’ve been interning here for three months, and I’m still not sure if Antoine likes me or just… tolerates me. What if I’ve overstepped and rubbed my boss the wrong way? But then he nods, and relief floods through me.
“Mrs. Dyson is a pillar of the community, and I’m betting the guest list will be substantial. An extra set of hands might be helpful. Plus, I like your pluck.”
He pauses a moment more. “In fact, let’s consider this your final audition. Do well, and I’ll bring you on as a junior planner.”
A wave of excitement ripples through my chest. This is it, the big break I’ve been waiting for. An actual, permanent job with Antoine’s company could grant me entry into the world of event planning. Plus, it comes with a real paycheck, which means I can finally afford to move out of my parents’ house and get a place of my own.
Most importantly, it will show my family I’m no longer the job-hopping flake who’s changed careers three times in less than a decade. That I am, in fact, a fully functioning adult who can stick with something and succeed. And nailing this big account will be the first feather in my cap.
We spend the next thirty minutes prepping a vision board and powering up the deck for our new client meeting. By the time Antoine’s assistant opens the conference room door, ushering in an older woman with a sharp silver bob, and a younger woman with fire-engine red waves, we are ready for action.
“Welcome, ladies!” Antoine glides across the room with the speed and elegance of an ice dancer. He clasps the older woman’s hands in his.
“Mrs. Trudy Dyson,” he coos. My eyes widen as I take her in. The best way to describe this woman is if Chanel N°5 became a person. She’s wearing a long pink cardigan with a black trim over a crisp white button-down, which she’s paired with black cigarette pants and quilted loafers. The overall look screams, “Pardon me, but I can’t remember where I parked my yacht.”
“And this”—he looks toward the younger woman—“must be our blushing bride.”
“I’m Claire,” she says. Her face splits into a warm grin as she gives us a little wave. “Nice to meet you all.” She’s not what I was expecting, considering the family she’s marrying into. No aristocratic blue blood with a string of heirloom pearls and a DAR card. Instead, she’s dressed in a bright green sweater, wide-leg jeans, and sneakers. I like her immediately.
Antoine, who is known for many things but not his patience, especially when there’s a sizable deposit involved, clears his throat. “Yes. Let’s get started.” The two women sit down as Antoine’s assistant carefully places five glasses and a bottle of Perrier on the table.
“So, Claire,” Antoine says. “Tell us about yourself.”
“Well, I work in comedy. Humor columns, stand-up, that kind of stuff,” she says. “And I just landed my dream job writing for The Cash Castillo Show !”
“Wow, he’s my favorite late-night host!” I exclaim. “Well, other than Samantha Bee, of course. It’ll be tough to ever top Full Frontal. ”
Claire’s face lights up.
“Thanks! It’s still kind of surreal that I’m getting to do this. They don’t have late-night shows in Canada, so working in a writers’ room always felt like a completely out-of-reach dream.”
“How fascinating,” Antoine says, though his gaze is already starting to flicker impatiently to his laptop. “And how does one get into that?”
“I got a spot in the NBCUniversal Page Program while I was in grad school. When it ended, I submitted my late-night packets alongside everyone else in my improv group, but I never thought it would lead anywhere. Honestly, I sort of assumed I’d spend the rest of my life waiting tables and filming reels with my cat. Which is unfortunate, since Carol Purnett has made it clear that she’s not enjoyed her forced participation thus far.”
“Carol Purnett is your cat?” Asha asks.
Claire nods. “She’s orange,” she says, as if that explains everything. Which, in fairness, it does.
Trudy clears her throat. “Claire is very funny,” she says, although she doesn’t look particularly amused by her future granddaughter-in-law. Then her expression softens. “She always made my husband laugh.”
Claire gives her a tiny smile. “I’ve got a respectable social media following,” she continues. “And a few of the things I’ve written for McSweeney’s have gone viral. Once men start sending you death threats and screaming in your DMs about how women aren’t funny, that’s when you know you’ve made it.”
There’s a long, uncomfortable beat while Claire smiles confidently at us all, and it’s clear neither Antoine nor Trudy knows how to respond. Luckily, Asha swoops in, gracefully steering the conversation back into charted territory.
“So how did you and your fiancé meet?” she asks.
“Oh, right.” Claire’s eyes soften. “Teddy and I met at NYU. I was getting an MFA in Creative Writing, and he was working on his MBA. He was in the audience at one of my improv shows and was the only person who laughed when I made a Monty Python joke. I knew then that we were destined to be best friends.” She smiles wistfully at the memory, and even my ice-cold heart isn’t immune from melting a tiny fraction. But wait, did she just say “friends”?
Claire blinks a few times before quickly adding, “Who would’ve thought we’d end up falling in love?”
Ah, a friends-to-lovers romance. Classic.
“My grandson wasn’t able to slip out of work today. He’s very busy,” Trudy says, with a slight air of satisfaction. “Although he will be happy to join us for the next meeting if we decide to work with you.”
“Of course,” Antoine says. “And speaking of which, let’s talk details. Do you have a date in mind? What about a guest list? A preferred color scheme? Mrs. Dyson, I know you’ll be hosting the affair at your beautiful hotel. Who could pass up such a gorgeous venue?”
“We don’t have too many specifics worked out yet. But I’m cool deferring most of them to the experts,” Claire says, looking at us expectantly. “I’m going to be pretty busy with work—being part of the writers’ room means I’ll be spending most of my week in New York—so I’m happy to give your team full creative direction.” She smiles as she throws her hands up in mock surrender.
Something about Claire’s nonchalance strikes me as odd. Sure, not every bride comes in with a curated Pinterest board, predetermined color scheme, and strongly held opinions about orchids. But Claire seems unusually laid-back. Almost disinterested, even.
“We were thinking early January. The show will be on break, so that’s when I’ll have the most availability,” Claire continues.
Antoine’s brow lowers as far as his Botox will allow. “That’s only four months from now. A much shorter planning period than we usually advise.”
Trudy’s lips twitch. “I’m sure you’re more than equipped to handle a challenge. After all, your reputation precedes you.”
At this, Antoine’s expression shifts, his eyes lighting up. Words of praise are the man’s love language—and the surest way to hook him. Trudy’s got him in the bag, tight deadline be damned.
“It would truly be an honor to work with you,” he says with a conclusive smile. “Now, let’s talk about some of the packages we offer.”