Chapter 2
May The Best Planner Win
HUDSON
The ma?tre d’ at Abélard greeted me. It was a restaurant so exclusive they didn’t bother with a sign. “Mr. Gable, welcome. Your private dining room is prepared.”
I followed him through the restaurant, glancing around as we walked. It was quite a beautiful setting with soft but sufficient lighting. The table settings were elegant, dressed up with real floral arrangements.
The private dining room was perfect for our meeting.
It was away from the rest of the chatter of the restaurant with comfortable chairs around an oval table.
I took a moment to arrange my materials just the way I liked them, making sure everything lined up properly.
I couldn’t help straightening the floral arrangement on the table too. It was a bit off-center.
My phone vibrated with a text from my father.
Meeting with the Kussikov-Martin team today?
Sighing, I ran a hand through my hair.
Yes. 11:30.
Don’t disappoint. There’s a lot riding on this. Remember, the Gable name means something in this industry.
No “good luck.” No “proud of you.” Just the ever-present reminder I wasn’t living up to the Gable wedding empire legacy. Three generations of wedding planning excellence, and I was the disappointing heir who couldn’t quite match their success.
I closed my eyes, briefly transported to the day I told my parents I was starting my company instead of joining Gable Weddings it’s annoying. And suspicious.”
I remained standing, maintaining the height advantage. Not that she’d have one even if I were sitting and she were standing. The she-demon was short, even wearing heels. “They’re likely interviewing multiple planners. It’s standard practice for high-profile clients.”
“At the exact same time?” Her eyes narrowed further. “Since when do celebrities save time?”
Valid point.
“Let’s get something straight,” Mari continued, leaning forward. “Whatever happened between us—”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I stated, trying to sound detached.
“Don’t play dumb with me, dickhead.”
“Do you get off on calling me names as much as you did with my tongue on your clit?”
The question escaped before I could stop myself. I had never spoken—would never speak—to a woman like that. But Mari Landry brought out a side of me I’d spent too many years trying to hide behind perfection. In thirty seconds, she’d bulldozed every safeguard I’d put in place to remain professional.
The damn bitch.
I was even swearing, albeit in my head.
“Bastard.” Color flooded her cheeks. “If I had known you were a condescending, perfectionist asshole, I would have ordered room service and watched pay-per-view instead.”
“That’s a lie,” I replied, noticing how her pupils dilated further when I held her gaze. “By the way you reacted that night, I doubt another man has ever even found your clit, let alone made you climax hard enough you nearly stopped breathing.”
“You—”
“Multiple times.”
Her lips parted, the bottom one fuller than the top. I’d noticed that little detail two weeks ago when those same lips had been wrapped around my cock.
Shit. I needed not to picture that while standing in the middle of a public restaurant.
“You—” she started again, but the door opened.
We both snapped to attention, professional masks with too-wide smiles sliding into place.
Manny Kussikov entered first. He was shorter than I expected, and his fiancée, director Lia Martin, was a few inches taller than him. She followed with a smile on her face.
“Mr. Gable,” Manny nodded to me, then turned to Mari. “Ms. Landry. Thank you for coming.”
“We hope you don’t mind the joint meeting,” Lia added.
“Not at all,” I replied, catching Mari’s slight eye-roll in my peripheral vision.
“Actually,” Mari countered, her professional voice considerably less profane than her normal register, “I’m curious why you’d schedule two wedding planners for the same meeting slot.”
“It’s more efficient like this,” Lia said, taking a seat at the head of the table. “Please sit.”
I finally lowered myself into a chair, maintaining perfect posture while Mari leaned back in her chair across from me.
Mari’s portfolio continued its invasion of my space. I reached across to straighten it, earning a glare.
“Touch my stuff again and you’ll pull back a stump,” she whispered, her smile never faltering for the clients.
“Your stuff is contaminating the presentation space,” I whispered back.
“Your face is contaminating the presentation space.”
“Is that really the best you can—”
“So,” Lia interrupted, “I assume you’re wondering why we’ve invited you both here today.”
“I assume it was to talk weddings, so let’s talk weddings.” Mari launched into her pitch without being asked. “Knot Your Average Wedding specializes in creating emotionally resonant events that tell your love story through immersive, authentic experiences.”
“Perfect Day Planning brings precision and excellence to every detail,” I countered, “ensuring a flawless experience with nearly perfect client satisfaction and minimal errors.”
Manny and Lia exchanged a look that made me uneasy. Something wasn’t right.
“Yes, we’ve researched both of your companies extensively,” Lia said, reaching for her phone. “But what really caught our attention was this.”
She slid it across the table, showing a video that made my stomach drop.
There we were at the wedding expo, locked in a wrestling match.
The video was taken after Mari had knocked over the candle, my backdrop had ignited, and both of us had been doused by the sprinkler system.
It showed the aftermath; both of us covered in soot, golden glitter, and water.
I had her in a headlock, and she was trying to bite me. Again.
The view counter showed 12.7 million.
“You’ve gone viral,” Manny said. “The Wedding Planners War, they’re calling it.”
Mari looked like she might vomit, which would have been unfortunate for my suit positioned in the likely trajectory. I maintained my neutral expression.
“I can explain,” Mari began, her voice uncharacteristically small.
“We don’t want explanations,” Lia interrupted. “We want exactly what we’re seeing in this video.”
I blinked, unable to process this response. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Passion. Intensity. Creative friction,” Manny clarified, leaning forward.
“Our wedding isn’t just a personal celebration,” Lia continued, her hands sketching a frame in the air as if visualizing a shot. “It’s also a professional statement. The event will be featured in multiple publications and spread across social media.”
“We want it to be unforgettable,” Manny added. “Not another predictable celebrity wedding with Edison bulbs and farm tables.”
Mari and I exchanged glances.
“So here’s our proposal. We want both of you to plan our wedding,” Lia said with a wide grin.
“Together?” Mari and I asked simultaneously, horror written across her face, and likely my own.
“Not exactly,” Manny clarified
“We want you to compete. You’ll both work on planning our wedding over the next two months, leading up to our engagement party. You’ll collaborate on logistics but each bring your unique vision.”
“After the engagement party, we’ll make our final decision about who will execute the actual wedding.” Manny held Lia’s hand, a smile on his face.
I tried to wrap my head around this completely unexpected proposal.
“The publicity for both your companies would be substantial from the wedding itself,” Lia pointed out. “Even the planner who isn’t ultimately selected will benefit enormously from the exposure.”
“And we would of course pay for the two months for both of you, no matter who gets chosen.”
Being associated with the wedding would establish Perfect Day Planning in Chicago with near certainty. And if I won the competition? My father might finally regard my career with something other than thinly veiled contempt.
“I’m in,” Mari declared, apparently needing far less time to decide than I did. “Knot Your Average Wedding accepts your challenge.”
They all looked at me expectantly. The logical part of my brain identified many reasons this arrangement was problematic, starting with the professional ethics of competition-based selection and ending with the catastrophic probability of spending two months in close proximity to Mari Landry without either killing her or—
Nope, don’t go there.
“Perfect Day Planning accepts as well,” I said, extending my hand to Manny. “I look forward to creating your perfect day.”
Mari made a sound suspiciously like a snort, which I ignored as Lia detailed the arrangement. Weekly progress meetings. Shared vendor appointments. Separate creative proposals. Collaborative logistics.
“One more thing,” Manny added as the meeting concluded. “We’ve arranged a shared workspace for you both. Neutral territory, so to speak.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I began, the thought of sharing space with Mari already making my stress levels spike.
“We insist. The creative tension between you is exactly what we’re looking for, and we can’t exactly get that with you two working in your own spaces,” Lia said.
Creative tension. An interesting euphemism for what the video revealed was barely contained hostility with unmistakable sexual undertones. Visible to anyone with basic observation skills.
We said goodbye, and the couple left. Probably a mistake because that meant no witnesses for the murder about to happen. Hers or mine. It was a bit of a crapshoot, though I’d gotten her in that chokehold pretty easily last time.
“If you think for one second that I’m going to let you win this, you’re delusional,” Mari said, standing to gather her materials. “I need this contract.”
“Me too,” I replied, collecting my portfolio. “But I don’t need to resort to sabotage or pyrotechnics. Quality speaks for itself.”
“Says the man who rearranged my display and told clients my designs were outdated.”
“I merely offered them a superior alternative.”
“Superior?” She stepped closer, invading my personal space with the scent of citrus and vanilla beneath it. “Your booth looked like it was designed by a robot with a protractor fetish.”
“And yours looked like a unicorn vomited glitter onto a Pinterest board.”
“At least mine had personality.”
“Personality doesn’t guarantee structural integrity. Or fire resistance.”
We were standing dangerously close now. Close enough that I noticed the flecks of darker blue in her irises. Close enough to notice the slight increase in her pulse visible at her neck. Close enough to remember vividly how her skin had tasted when I’d traced that pulse point with my tongue.
I tried to focus on anything but the memory.
Turned out my brain was in complete rebellion when it came to Mari.
“This is going to be a disaster,” she said, her voice dropping to a register that sent an unwelcome heat through my body.
“Only if you make it one,” I replied, maintaining eye contact despite how it made my thoughts scatter. “I’m perfectly capable of maintaining professional boundaries.”
“Are you?” Her gaze dropped before snapping back up. “Because your trousers are evidence to the contrary.”
Yeah. Fuck. She was right.
A memory flashed in my mind. Mari above me, head thrown back, blonde hair wild, as I struggled to maintain control.
“Two months,” I muttered, ignoring her question and the reaction it triggered. “May the best planner win.”
“Oh, I will,” she replied, gathering the last of her materials and moving toward the door. She paused at the threshold, turning back with a mischievous expression.
“By the way, Hudson?” She pointed at my chest. “Your tie is crooked.”
I glanced down automatically, my hand rising to adjust it before I realized two things:
1. My tie was perfectly straight, as I’d checked it minutes ago.
2. Mari Landry had just successfully manipulated me using my own compulsions against me.
When I looked up, she was gone, the echo of her laughter echoing in my mind.
Damn it.