3. The Firm Request
EVA
After we arrive at the wedding venue, a five-star cabin-style resort right on the beach, the three of us make our way to the front desk for our paid-for-and-approved early-morning check-in.
At the counter, a staff member approaches me. “Hello, Ms. Steinberg. Your sister wanted me to remind you to deliver the canine bridesmaids’ dresses to the photography room right away.”
“Yes, thank you. On it.” Because Paige doesn’t do anything without her fur babies, two of the five bridesmaids—and one groomsman—are dogs, and their photoshoot is this afternoon. That’s task item number one.
I help Skye get settled into the second-floor room next to mine, which is a corner room with its own stairs to the lawn. Skye is here as the wedding officiant, but also the doggie caregiver. She doesn’t have them now because they’re at the groomer, but she will soon.
Then, as I’m scanning the keycard to my room, another hotel staff member approaches me with a piece of paper. “Ms. Steinberg. I’m supposed to give you this. It’s from your sister.”
“Great. Thank you.” I take it, and my stress level ratchets up. This is a twenty-seven-item list, all things that need to be done ASAP, and this doesn’t even include what I have to do for the top-secret special dessert statue that I created just for Paige. It’s made of chocolate, so it has to be stored at just the right temperature and cannot be bumped or moved.
I have five days of televised events: a kick-off cocktail mixer, a bachelorette party, a dinner cruise, a rehearsal dinner, and a dream wedding to pull off. Yes, Bridesmaid to Bride offered to provide Paige a professional wedding planner, but she didn’t trust having outside help. She only wanted me, which is equal parts flattering and overwhelming.
Which reminds me, I need to coordinate with the producers right away to make sure they know every tiny detail of what Paige wants.
As if reading my mind—Paige does this a lot—she texts me.
Paige: Thank God you’re finally here. Everything is a disaster. It’s all wrong. The flowers, the cake order. I need you, Evie. You’ll fix everything like you always do. I know you will.
Ugh, I need to unpack my clipboard, first thing.
When I step inside my enormous room, I go wide-eyed. It feels like an over-the-top log cabin complete with a massive stone fireplace, sky windows, and a king-sized knotty-pine poster bed.
I jump right in on Paige’s task list, and after dropping off the doggie bridesmaid dresses, I return to my room to get some case work done as I wait for my dad’s scheduled visit. An hour later, a knock at the door makes my heart skip-hop like it always does when I’m about to see Dad. He’s punctual to a fault, which means it must be eleven a.m. on the dot, visiting hours according to Neil Steinberg’s time schedule. Like my own.
“Coming!” I open the door, and there he is, larger than life, in his crisp linen shirt that costs more than most people’s entire wardrobes. A waft of his cologne—smelling like success and leather—fills the space between us.
“Evie,” he says, that familiar twinkle in his eye as he pulls me into a hug that feels like every childhood birthday squeezed into one. “I’ve missed you, kiddo.”
“Missed you, Dad.” And I mean it, despite the churning in my stomach, reminding me of all the things unsaid, the expectations hanging over my head like one of his iron-clad legal documents.
His eyes survey the room—my open suitcase spilling over with sundresses and the pages of the Abrams’ brief scattered on the desk. It’s a snapshot of my chaos, my new normal since kicking off Dad’s satellite office in Atlanta, which will give me the training I’ll need to take over his firm one day. But that’s a way off, and thank God because I love living in Atlanta, and I’m nowhere near ready for that. My two-year stint in the food business didn’t help matters.
“Working already.” He grins, his gaze settling back on me. “That’s my girl.”
I hope my smile makes me look more confident than I feel. His approval means everything to me. If only I was Paige, who can do no wrong in his eyes. “Yes. I drafted the Cooper brief before I left and filed the Johnson documents at the airport, too.”
He smiles proudly, and that fills my heart.
“Fantastic. Come on, let’s sit.” He motions toward the balcony overlooking the water. The ocean’s putting on a show, sparkling and endless.
We settle into the cushioned chairs; the breeze whipping my hair. I remind myself that things between him and me are good again, as I’m working to become the daughter he’s proud to brag about at his charity galas.
“Tell me everything,” he says, leaning back with that charm that wins him almost all his cases. “How’s the Abrams’ account coming?”
“Really well,” I say, grateful for the opening to showcase the work I’ve done. “They’re close to settling.”
“Excellent.”
As we talk, for a moment, it feels like enough. Just me and Dad, no pretenses, no grand plans.
But then the sound of the crashing waves fades as my father shifts in his chair, a telltale sign that our light-hearted chatter is about to take a turn down Serious Street. He straightens his cuffs—lawyer mode activated—and I brace myself.
He says, “As you know, Schmidt Easel and I go way back, and he’s coming to the wedding.”
“I saw him on the guest list.” He and Dad went to law school together, and now, Schmidt Easel is State Senator Easel.
“Right. And he’s bringing his son, Foster, whom I’ve arranged for you to meet.”
Um, what? Now Dad’s trying his hand at the matchmaking game? And although I’ve never met Foster, I’ve seen him on FaceSnap, and he’s not my type. “Oh, great.”
Notgreat, but I nod, feigning excitement.
“Good-looking chap,” Dad continues, his sales pitch gearing up. “Young, successful New York lawyer. You two will hit it off.”
Foster Easel—even the name screams old money and political clout. “Because nothing says romance like a strategic pairing,” I say, but the humor fizzles under his hard gaze.
“Evie, he’s perfect for you.” His eyes twinkle with visions of matrimonial mergers. “And if there’s chemistry, it could mean great things for you and the firm.”
There it is—the double whammy. Date the guy, get dragged back to New York in a heart-shaped lasso, and oh, side bonus, help Dad’s firm get a boost courtesy of Foster’s senator father. No pressure.
“Wow, when you put it like that, how could a girl resist?” I plaster on a smile.
“Exactly.” I know he doesn’t miss the sarcasm, but he’s ignoring it. “It’s a win-win.”
“If winning is daily discussions of torts over tortes.” I can’t help it; I have to push back against the tidy box he’s trying to fit me into.
“Peanut,” he says, his voice softening, “just give him a shot. That’s it. And if there is a love connection, it’d be great for both of us.”
And just like that, the breeze of conversation turns into a gale. I swallow the sigh clawing its way up my throat. This isn’t just about me—it’s about family duty, about being Neil Steinberg’s daughter, about proving I can still shine and marry someone who can help me take over Dad’s law firm. For the record, I don’t want any help, but I know I’m not ready to be a boss yet. That said, part of me wonders if in Dad’s eyes, I’ll ever be ready.
Adding Foster to my already overbooked schedule feels impossible, but in the end I have to be the rock Dad can rely on. I failed him when he needed me most, and I vowed never to let that happen again.
When I started my catering business, I was on the verge of losing my investors. I was working day and night to keep them and didn’t travel home when Dad fell ill. I lost them anyway, and he ended up having a mild heart attack, and I wasn’t there. I’ll never forgive myself for that.
At the same time, I’m swamped, and I really need to put my focus into pulling off this wedding. “Let me think about it,” I say.
“Thank you, sweetheart.” Relief blooms across his face. “He’ll be at tonight’s cocktail party.”
I remind myself that Dad knows what’s best for me. He warned me about pursuing a career in the food industry, and he was right. I’m glad I’m back on track, working at his firm. Plus, I’m damn good at what I do. Food is a fun hobby, and I just need to leave it at that. “Okay. I’ll arrive ready to make an impression.”
“Wonderful.”
I stand, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in my sundress, ready to face the rest of this day. I’m already mentally sifting through conversation starters with Foster that scream I’m charming and semi-successful, but also down-to-earth and not at all interested in your father’s influence.
“I’m off. Gotta noon tee-time,” Dad says. “I’m in a foursome with the groom, Foster, and West.”
He flashes me a look, and I can see it in his eyes—the glimmer of hope that Foster Easel could be more than a pawn in his game of familial chess.