8. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
Dallas
“You should have seen it, Mom. It looks like it’s not going to be ready until the following May, not this one.”
I’m trying to keep my voice down on the phone. I don’t have any idea how the acoustics work in the Integrity Construction offices. I’m just glad I have my own office here…it’s much more private than the open concept at Amore, on the twenty-sixth floor of Midtown Office Tower in downtown Atlanta.
Besides, if this building were open concept, I’d have to see Beck Billingsley a lot more than I do. And that would not work. I’m trying to be professional here—trying to salvage any shred of dignity that I can—even though he and I aren’t exactly getting along.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Mom says, but I can tell she’s distracted. “I can’t get this to—” She grunts, and I can practically hear her teeth gritting through the phone. “How’s the apartment?”
“It’s nice. And the neighbors seem great.” I pry my particle board out of the unzipped, large presentation cover I brought from Atlanta.
“Well, that’s a relief. It’s always hard to start over in a new place. I’m glad they seem nice.”
“Except, I’m not starting over.” I pick off lint from the board and straighten the photos that have slipped. “Think of it like I’m at summer camp and in the fall, I’ll come back home and everything will be all better.”
“We can’t control the outcome, though, sweetie,” Mom warns. “I’d say just enjoy the journey and see where it leads you.”
“It led me to Holden and McKenna.” I place the particle board on the floor and prop it up against the wall. It’s plastered with wedding announcements from all the couples whose weddings I’ve done.
“What?”
“Yeah. I saw them in the diner during my first meal in Willow Cove. Holden used to come here with his family.”
She clicks her tongue. “What in Heaven’s name were they doing there?”
“Vacationing. As one does when you’re young and in love.” Suddenly, I feel old and very much not in love. And resentful. And oddly itchy around my neck.
“Well, at least they aren’t there permanently. I can’t believe they decided to vacation there the same weekend you moved in.” She gives a dismissive laugh, which I don’t blame her for, given my complaining about having to come here.
“Willow Cove’s really nice,” I insist, a little too forcefully.
Of course I should be defending it. I should be screaming from the rooftops about how great it is so I can fill our six bookings ASAP.
“I’d better get going,” Mom says. “I have a client in a few minutes and I’m trying to get something to work on my graphic design app. How do you turn an image into the background of a post? I can’t get it right.”
Ah. Instagram. Her account about how to live a mindful life.
“Share it with me and I can work on it.”
“Oh, thanks, Dallas.” She pauses. “How do I share something?”
I tell her how to send me an open link and get off the phone. Even though she has a tendency to give me unsolicited life advice and she keeps buying me lacy underwear as some sort of tactic to manifest the man of my dreams (“If you wear it, he will come!”), she really is the best. With her in my corner, I can do this, right?
Right? I hold up a fist in the air, close to my face, and squint at some imaginary foe.
I have to make this work.
I’m startled out of threatening myself by a knock at the door.
“Come in!” I say, breezily.
The door opens and it’s Beck. He rests against the door frame. He’s dirty—literally covered in a fine spray of dirt and grime. So why then is the air in the room now laced with his not-at-all-offensive scent? I mean, it should be offensive, since it looks like he just got done with some manual labor. But it’s not. It’s nutty pine meets minty fresh. How is that possible?
I wish the look in his eyes was as welcoming as his scent.
It is not.
“Mary asked me to ask you if you’ve been getting the forwarded comments from the website in your inbox?”
“I don’t think so. I wasn’t even aware there would be comments I’d need to field.”
His gaze goes around the room, so I add, “Would you like to come in, Mr. Billingsley?”
He stops taking in the room and shoots a glare my way. Probably because I insist on calling him that. “I’ve been supervising some trench work. I’m in no condition to come into your office.”
“Supervising? Looks like you were right there in the trenches with them.” I laugh at myself. “In the trenches! I’m so funny,” I tease.
He doesn’t seem to appreciate my humor. “I’m a very hands-on boss.” Except the suddenly changed look he’s giving me—serious with a touch of smolder—sends crackles through the ether.
Well now. I didn’t need that image of him being hands-on in my mind right now.
“I’m sure you are,” I retort and widen my gaze. There’s no way I’m going to let on that I’m now thinking about his hands, his large, strong and very capable looking hands. “I don’t think I’ve been getting anything from the website.”
“I don’t know much about it. I was passing by the reception desk when she asked me to ask.” His eyes roll heavenward for a second. “She said something might have gotten lost in translation when they tried to add your email to the forwarding list. The mayor’s new wedding website fields comments from people, which is how she’s gotten some of the weddings booked so far.”
“Well, that sounds important then. I’ll reach out to Mary.” I almost make a shooing motion, but I don’t need to be a jerk. It’s just that if I spend time with Beck in any capacity, I’m going to notice his appeal, and how handsome he is. It’s a danger I can’t afford to flirt with.
And I certainly can’t afford to flirt with him.
I rearrange my stapler, in a lovely matte mint-green shade, and little crystal dish with paper clips the color of rainbow sherbert. With great restraint, I force a smile. “Is there anything else you need? Has the carpet layer gotten back in town?”
“Nope. Not yet. But my crew’s been working on the electrical. Almost done with that.”
“Oooh. I love a good lighting package. Can’t wait to see it.”
“It’s nice. Nothing too fancy.”
My heart sinks at that. We need fancy. The mansion needs all the help it can get. “And how are the deadlines coming along? I heard there’s a shortage of lumber.”
He bristles. “Not a shortage. Just higher than normal pricing.” He gestures to the enormous calendar I’ve mounted on my wall next to my desk. “You got some client meetings today?”
“I do, yes. Three of them, actually. One’s on video chat but the other two are local couples, so we’re getting a bunch of family members, too.” Sue me, but I much prefer meeting with clients without the addition of all the extra family members and their strong opinions.
“Nice. Who are they?” He inches a little closer and his head tilts to the side.
I toggle over to the calendar on my computer. “Uh, Miranda Beasley and Trent Carson. And then after that, it’s someone named Mike Whitman and Stacey Pringle?”
“No way!” Beck’s expression lightens even more. "I know all four of those guys. I knew Miranda and Trent were getting married, but I didn’t even know Mike and Stacey were dating. That’s amazing.”
I swivel my chair. “Are you a romantic, Mr. Billingsley?”
He pulls a face, sticking his tongue out to the side. It’s juvenile, but it still makes me laugh. “Not in the slightest. But Mike and Stacey both work at the high school. Stacey was in administration and Mike taught me math. It’s awesome they’re getting married, is all.”
“Is there anyone in town you don’t know?”
His smile reminds me of how I pictured his golden retriever—all bright and jaunty. He enters the room and sits down. “I’ve lived here my whole life. Everyone calls me for repairs or construction work, so yeah, I’d say I know everyone around here. Except for the sunbirds and tourists.” He leans back in Walter’s old chair, something I haven’t yet had a chance to replace. “I’ve known most everyone here at Integrity for as long as I can remember. Before they started working for me, they worked for my dad, who retired when I was ready to take over.”
“And your parents are in Africa right now?”
“I don’t think they want to come back. We think maybe if my sister has a baby, that will motivate them.”
“Well, they’ll be back for your brother’s wedding, right?”
Beck’s mouth forms a thin line before he gives a slight nod. There is something going on with his brother.
“Speaking of weddings, if you hear of anyone getting engaged, you’ll have to send them my way,” I say. “I need to conjure up six more couples to help make the wedding business a success for the Dobbs. If we scratch their backs, they’ll scratch ours, right?”
“Of course.”
“And why so cynical about romance?” I ask. “You looked like I was making you touch something moldy.”
He shrugs, frowning at the moldy comment. “I don’t know. I just am. What about you? Something about the other night tells me you’re a romantic.”
Why do I feel a bout of shame at that? I lean closer to my computer, trying to distract myself from his embarrassing comment and the way his gaze is boring into me. “What about the other night would tell you that? I mean, I was a little weirded out about seeing Holden and McKenna—”
“You’ll have to tell me the story sometime.”
“The story? About my ex and my cousin? It’s not worth telling, trust me.” I finally glance at him. “It’s basically a non-issue.”
It really isn’t.
He abandons that awkward subject and tries another, equally awkward one. “Since you asked me if I’m a romantic, I figure I can ask you this question. Does the fact that you deal with weddings all day every day make you…” He pauses, his gaze darting around the room like he’s searching for the right word. “…More or less likely to want to get married…or to believe in love?”
My stomach lurches. “It’s tricky because I don’t want any sort of cynicism to impact how I present myself to my brides and grooms, but—” I slide my computer to one side and lean on my elbows, looking him square in the eye. His gooey, chocolate brown eyes. “Let’s just say…” I lower my voice to a whisper. “I’ve seen too much.”
Beck’s brows go in the air. “Oh, really?”
“Yeah, except I feel fortunate to know what I know. My friends sometimes say I’m ‘Always a wedding planner, never a bride.’ And honestly, I’m okay with that.”
“Hey. You do you. Except, if love comes a knockin’…” He lifts his palms up like You gotta do what you gotta do.
Even though this conversation has veered off the path we have to stay on, I feel the beginnings of a smile tip the corners of my mouth as I shake my head. “Nope. No love is coming a knockin’, Mr. Billingsley. I’ve got a five-year plan that requires I stay single.” I bring up a hand as he opens his mouth to contradict me. “Holden was an unfortunate and temporary lapse in judgment.”
I want to say more, like I don’t need a man in my life. That I really meant what I said when I told him I’ve seen too much. That this conversation has rolled off the rails of professionality and we need to rein it back in.
But his phone rings.
“Sorry,” he offers, holding up the phone and standing from the easy chair.
“It’s fine. Have a good day,” I tell him. One in which you don’t have any need to come to my office again.
I don’t need the distraction that is Beck Billingsley.
I watch him leave, half surprised there isn’t a trail of dust following after him. I do some work on my mom’s graphics for a while, but I have a hard time thinking of anything besides Mr. Billingsley. In an act of catharsis, I stand from my desk and step to the particle board. With quick efficiency, I pull down the wedding invites of the couples who didn’t make it. There are three more today—as per the list I practically force my assistant from Amore, Kaia, to send me periodically. As much as she hates doing it, she’s surprisingly effective at cultivating a top-secret list of former clients who have gotten divorced—the Death List.
It’s pathological , she often says when I ask her to send me more names of the couples who didn’t make it. Or, you need therapy.
I know. My mom reminds me of that fact periodically. And I do go to a session every once in a while, but I’m not going to mention something as inconsequential as the Death List to my therapist. She charges like a hundred fifty every appointment.
I’m superstitious, I can admit it. And my superstitions surrounding planning weddings veer into the “It’s my fault they’re divorced” zone.
I know it’s silly. I know it’s not my fault. But there’s a side of me that blames myself, a part of me that says, “If you’d given them a better wedding, they’d still be together.”
All weddings have failures—bad things that happen here and there just to keep you feeling human and humble. Sending the wrong wedding cakes to two receptions was definitely up at the top of the list of things gone wrong. But as the wedding planner, I’m witness to the start of a family, of what’s supposed to be a beautiful love. When it falls short of that, I feel some measure of responsibility.
A sharp zing slices through me as I yank down the McCord’s invite from a few years ago, bright florals and greenery embossed perfection. Their smiling faces, cheeks pressed together, call out to me, “Don’t make the same mistake we did! Run away while you still can!”
They were one of the first couples I worked with and now they’re divorced. They’d been so cute and so in love—definitely hashtag relationship goals.
Now they’re just another statistic.
I open the McCord’s wedding file on my computer and pore over every word, making notes in my “Death List” doc about what I could have done differently.
Again, I realize it’s crazy.
A while back, I realized it might have something to do with when I was a kid.
I was easily distractible and not serious about schoolwork. When I forgot to do my fifth-grade science project until the day before, tensions were high in the house. And when my sloppy job ended up receiving an actual “ F ,” my parents were understandably upset. Things morphed into a big blow up, an argument unlike any I’d ever remembered, and my dad left the house for a few days.
It ended okay, I guess. Dad eventually came home, and it wasn’t mentioned again.
Except, if I’d only done my assignment well, their marriage wouldn’t have been threatened, right?
I know, logically, it doesn’t make sense. In all actuality, my failing grade had little to do with the reason he left the house.
Still. I’d already decided by then that working hard, hustling, would be the only way to help the family.
My eyes burn as I wad up the McCord’s beautiful invitation.
Please no more couples on the Death List.