Chapter 6 Gracie
Seven Weeks Before the Wedding
Agreeing to plan my ex-boyfriend’s wedding is something not even my wildest nightmares have prepared me for.
If only. I could have used a hint on how to endure this.
But after leaving Sofia’s house last night and weighing all my options (no, I haven’t ruled out chaining myself to the cottage), I haven’t come up with a plan that feels morally better than this one.
Obviously, the more conventional path forward would be to just accept what’s happening and start scouring job sites while I resist the urge to toilet-paper Jude’s car. But after years of struggling with my business, I’ve finally found something I’m great at with people I love working with.
And still, as I tossed and turned last night, I tried to convince myself to go quietly.
I know this plan is ridiculous and will probably be shot down by Jude in an instant.
But not trying leaves me with an image I can’t shake.
Larkwood, languishing as some celebrity’s rarely used fifth home while Agatha looks on from above, cursing their love of bland neutrals and wall-to-wall carpeting.
So while my odds of saving Larkwood might be worse than a cockroach finding true love (and by “a cockroach,” I mean Jude), I’m not ready to give up yet.
I open the video call app on my phone. On the screen, my dark eyes, dark hair, and sun-fearing skin make me look like an anemic vampire.
I’ll bet anything Brooke is naturally blond, tan, and so full!
after her daily green juice breakfast. But since the universe is a kind and benevolent ruler (did you hear that, Universe?), I probably won’t have my suspicions confirmed on this call. Right?
Swallowing hard, I hit the Call button.
“Gracie, hi!” Calvin says, picking up after one ring. “I was beginning to think I’d never hear from you!”
I force my face not to reveal how lovely that alternative would have been as I’m confronted by the same kitchen I used to make coffee in, wearing just his T-shirt. “Hi, Cal. How are you?”
“Completely depends on you, I guess,” he says, flashing me a nervous grin. “Have you made your decision?”
“Right to the chase, huh?” I ask, reaching for a small zombie toy on my desk. Its cute little eyes and brain pop out when you squeeze it, like the world’s weirdest stress ball.
“Sorry,” he says, running a hand through his straight blond hair. “This call is all I’ve been thinking about.”
A flutter of unthinking pleasure takes flight in my stomach at the idea of him wanting to talk to me.
I squash it. “Of course,” I say, hoping I come off as understanding and not like I want to throw darts at his butt.
Here goes nothing. “Well, I’ve given it a lot of thought and decided to help you and Brooke out, if the new owner approves the wedding. ”
Calvin exhales like he’s been holding his breath for the last two weeks. “Oh, thank God. You’re really saving my ass here, Gracie.”
“Nothing is set in stone yet,” I warn him. “Larkwood is in the middle of changing hands, and the owner doesn’t want any more weddings here. But I’m going to talk to him and see if he’ll make an exception.”
“Goodness,” he says with a worried tilt of his sandy brown eyebrows. “Do you have any idea when you’ll know for sure?”
“I’m hoping to see him sometime this week. But it will also depend on my vendors—this would be an extremely tight turnaround for them.” And me, I mentally add.
He nods with a guilty expression. “I totally get that. But I’ll do anything to give her the day she deserves.” His eyes go glassy and desperate. “She’s the love of my life, Gracie.”
Can hearts get nauseous? The answer is yes. “Do you have a rough guest count yet?” I ask in a tight voice.
Again, he winces. “Probably around two hundred.” At this, I feel the little color I have leech away from my face, while my little zombie’s eyes and brain get stuck in bulge-state from my grip. “But I know if there’s anyone who’s going to pull this off, it’s you—”
“I haven’t given you my terms yet,” I cut in, my voice turning as shrill as any self-respecting spinster’s.
He sobers at once. “Anything,” he says. “Just name your price.”
I blink, startled by his blank-check offer.
Calvin has never hurt for money. He grew up with an actual, God-as-my-witness pony, which later molted and became a series of increasingly larger Land Rovers.
Knowing this still doesn’t make asking for what I need any easier, though—I’ve become an expert at not making waves, or even ripples, for that matter.
But even people pleasers need to pay their bills.
So after telling him Larkwood’s standard fee for a five-hour event, I sit up straighter, spine buzzing, and force myself to look into his eyes.
“Because I’ll need to coordinate vendors on such late notice and do the same amount of work in a fraction of the time it usually takes, I’ll need an additional ten percent rush fee.
Up front. Not including gratuity,” I tack on quickly.
It’s a physical effort not to apologize, but in the end, I have nothing to worry about. Calvin looks a little taken aback by my unusual display of assertiveness but then nods with a casual shrug of his shoulders. “No problem. And do I make that rush fee out to you directly or to Larkwood?”
My armpits are basically sprinkler systems when I stammer out, “Just me. Please.”
“Sure thing,” he says with a smile. I hear a door close in the background of his house, and Calvin looks in the direction of the noise.
“Babe, you’re home early!” he calls out, and the affection in his tone is an uppercut to the stubborn bit of my heart that still wishes I were the one walking through his front door. “Come meet Gracie—she’s just given us the best news.”
My brain is repeatedly smashing an Emergency Eject button as I blurt out, “Oh shoot, I’m getting a call from my…
dermatologist!” Obviously, a lie. Even if doctors’ offices made calls at seven thirty at night, having a dermatologist would suggest having both health insurance and a budget for skin-care products.
“I’ll be in touch soon, thanks, Calvin!”
I hang up before he can say anything else, my heart pounding. What the hell is wrong with me? It’s not like I’m never going to meet Brooke—she’s my client now, too, just like Calvin.
Calvin is my client.
The full implications sink into me like a flaming shipwreck. If Jude agrees, I’ll be helping my ex say “I do” in the slimmest, barest hope of saving Agatha’s legacy, my vendors’ incomes, and my own future here at Larkwood.
I cover my face with my hands and try not to cry.
Honestly, I don’t have time for it. With that call, my deadline to cobble together a two-hundred-person, black-tie wedding has officially begun to count down—if Jude lets me.
I glance at my beat-up laptop with its duct-taped power cord.
What I should do is get a head start and create a new client file.
But then my eyes slide to my tiny kitchen, where a dusty bottle of suspiciously cheap wine labeled BIG RED calls to me with a siren song.
You just agreed to plan your ex-boyfriend’s wedding, it seems to say.
You deserve to wallow just a little bit.
I swallow hard. Tomorrow, Operation Save Larkwood begins. But tonight, I’m listening to Big Red.