Chapter 1
A PINOT GRANDE
Ivy
Things I didn’t have on my bucket list till right now—watching a hot guy strip naked on a rooftop while watering his eggplant.
It must be my lucky night, though, because my bestie just nudged me and handed over his birdwatching binoculars, whispering: “Free dick.”
Jackson and I are across the street from the show, hanging out on the rooftop patio of our new favorite neighborhood bar, The Great Dane. Usually when I’m here, I enjoy a glass of white and a view of San Francisco. Tonight? I’m enjoying an eyeful of peen with my pinot gris.
Oh, excuse me. Let me revise that drink. “Did I actually order a Pinot Grande tonight?”
“Full-bodied, no less,” Jackson says as I peer at the sight unfolding on the top of the building at the end of the block, where Jackson and I share an apartment. And where, on the penthouse roof, the gardening stud of my dreams has whisked off his gym shorts.
Hello, new neighbor.
The side view leaves little to the imagination. The strapping man is dressed in nothing but big-ass headphones, sunglasses, and slides, and he’s sporting a very nice hose to go with his hose. “Gotta love his commitment to gardening,” I say approvingly, getting a kick out of the show.
Then, the naked gardener turns our way, and all the air escapes my lungs.
He’s going full-frontal fiesta in the sunset, strumming an epic chord using the green hose as his guitar.
“This is not a drill. This is a sign that tomorrow I’m getting that promotion,” I whisper.
Since I’m nothing if not a good friend, I thrust the binoculars back at Jackson. “Don’t ever say I don’t love you.”
“You love me madly.” Jackson jams them against his eyes while whistling a happy tune.
After a few seconds, he lowers the binoculars with a satisfied sigh.
“Show’s over. He went inside. Aubrey is so going to curse her bladder for having missed this,” he says, nodding at the hallway leading to the restroom.
“She is.” I lean against the stone railing, gazing at the pink and lavender sky. “Also, I apologize for ever mocking you for carrying pocket binoculars.”
Jackson gives a stately nod, conferring his royal pardon. “You’re forgiven. It’s your night.” He sips his mocktail. “I can practically taste the promotion you’re getting in the morning. That gardening striptease was like your pre-ward for it.”
No one celebrates things that haven’t yet happened better than Jackson, and I’m all in with this pre-ward evening out.
After three shitty post-break-up months—cheating exes who insult you can suck it—and late nights busting my ass for Simone, my fashion influencer boss, I have a good feeling about tomorrow morning’s meeting.
I’ve been angling for my own channel under her online fashion umbrella, and she’s been dropping hints that she has something big to share with me tomorrow.
My fingers are crossed.
I’m lifting my glass when the quick click of heels on the concrete heralds Aubrey’s return. She charges at us, waggling her phone, nostrils flared, auburn hair flying.
“Your ex,” she hisses when she reaches us.
Prickles of worry slide down my spine. What the hell could that philanderer have done while Aubrey was in the little girls’ room?
“What about Xander?” I ask, not quite alarmed but definitely concerned.
Aubrey shoves the phone at me, her face a cocktail of anger and empathy.
It’s open to a pic on her social feed. Grabbing the phone, I squint at the picture, hold it close, hold it far, and then show it to Jackson for a second opinion on everything wrong with this picture.
My heart pounds and races, and my blood goes from a simmer to a boil.
He recoils. “Why is your boss blowing your ex?”
“That’s a very good question.” I’m shaking with…is this shock? Rage? Betrayal? Actually, it’s all of the above.
“Well, at least it’s a mock BJ,” Aubrey points out.
The photo is clearly staged. My ex—also a fashion influencer, The (self-proclaimed) Dapper Man—is decked out in a pastel blue ruffled suit and posing against a redwood tree as he gets his knob polished.
The woman in the punk rock bridal dress, kneeling on the mossy floor, is the same one I’m meeting for breakfast tomorrow morning.
The same one who consoled me and took me out for mojitos the night Xander broke it off. He’d told me he’d fallen for someone who was more popular online, thus better future-wife material.
I guess better future wives suck dick in the forest.
Fine, Xander’s dick isn’t technically in Simone’s mouth in this shot. You can’t even see his schlong, since he’s wearing pastel blue briefs with that pastel tux jacket. But—and I can’t believe I have to say this, even in my head—faux fellatio is hardly better than real fellatio.
I grip the phone until my thumb cramps, reading the caption. Xander Arlo and Simone Vega have been blown away with a whirlwind courtship and will be tying the knot in two months. Hold the date—our wedding is going to be a blowout bash.
I nearly blow a fuse. “My ex cheated on me with…” I stop, take a deep breath, then hiss, “my boss, and he’s marrying her.”
“So when he infamously told you he was upgrading,” Aubrey spits out, “he meant to the woman who signs your paychecks.”
I nod, slow-mo, then turn to Jackson. “Simone always updates her look books on Sunday night. Can you drive me to the office?”
“Say less.”
We’re out of there in seconds.
* * *
I fume as I thrust framed photos of my family into the standard I’m quitting box, then stuff in my collection of Kindly Fuck Off and Eat a Bag of Dicks mugs I won at book club.
Finally, I drop my hot pink New Day planner on top.
This planner is too good to have even visited this office.
I add my favorite pens with a loud huff.
Oblivious to my ire, Simone sings under her breath at her nearby desk. Pretty sure that tune is Tiffany’s “I Think We’re Alone Now,” and what used to be quirky and fun to me—Simone’s love of eighties tunes—is beyond cloying in this moment.
“Hey, girl,” she calls out. She’s one of those hey girl people. Every woman beneath her is a hey girl. “Can you grab those samples from Charlotte Everly? I want to do a whole vid on retro meets chic.”
“Oh, so sorry. I’m fresh out of fucks,” I say dryly as I jam a succulent in the box.
Missing the sarcasm, she says, “Okey-dokey. I’ll do it myself.”
What the hell is wrong with her? Does she think it’s okay to diddle my ex-boyfriend while telling me what a social-climbing jackass he was for leaving me on account of his “girlfriend upgrade?” What happened to the sister solidarity she espoused?
The we girls have to stick together mantra she spewed when Xander said he wouldn’t settle for me?
I stuff another plant in the box then scan my workspace. There’s nothing left to pack, so I march to Simone’s desk, where she’s twirling a strand of her bright blonde hair that’s held back in a Rosie the Riveter-style bandana.
“Hey, girl,” I say, faux upbeat.
She looks up with a grin, still clueless to my mood, and wiggles her fingers at me. “Hey, girl to you too.”
She is too much. They both are too much. A blowout bash? Please.
But when her big, Barbie-blue eyes linger on me, I see her put two and two together. Her smile falters and she points to the box. “What’s going on?”
I don’t have a job, don’t have a plan, and don’t have a parachute. But I still have one thing—my pride. “I have exciting news, and it’s all thanks to you.”
“It is?”
“Absolutely. You’ve been such a great mentor. I’ve looked up to you so much and truly relished the chance to write for your social channels,” I say, winging it. “And since you were always so encouraging of my work, I finally decided to start my own channel and newsletter.”
I mean, technically I’m rage-quitting, but I don’t need to spell out everything for her.
“Oh, is it fashion for average girls?” she asks, like that’s not fucking insulting. She’s five ten to my…well, not five ten at all.
“It’s everything,” I say. I have no clue what my schtick will be, but I know this—regular girls rock.
“And you’re doing it so soon?” She sounds devastated.
“Well, the timing seemed…fortuitous,” I say, swallowing all the how could yous that I want to unleash.
But I won’t. My deadbeat father was wrong about most things, but he imparted one useful life lesson—don’t let anyone know they hurt you. If I tell Simone why I’m really leaving, she’ll think I’m a wounded little bird. She doesn’t get to enjoy that privilege.
Her lips part in an O, followed by a long, “Oops.”
This is an oops situation? Like oops, she just accidentally sat on his dick for three months while commiserating with me over the most insulting breakup ever?
I can’t even speak, but I don’t need to. Simone grabs her phone. Her fingers scroll-fly over the screen, then she winces. “Shoot. I’m so bad with social, Ivy, and you’re so good with it. I meant to post that engagement shot tomorrow morning at six a.m., not at six tonight.”
“AM and PM can be hard,” I say with fake sympathy.
“Right?” She pops up from her chair, smoothing a hand over her rockabilly dress patterned with red roses that match the tattoos snaking down her bare arms. “And listen, I planned to tell you at breakfast tomorrow. I figured I’d soften the blow with avocado toast.” She grins sheepishly. “Your fave, right?”
Oh god, that’s a pity smile. A worse realization hits me right in the gut. Tomorrow was a sympathy breakfast. She wasn’t going to promote me. She was going to tell me about her upcoming wedding, letting me down gently with the avocado-and-chia-seed special.
“Yeah. It’s, um, great,” I say, trying to figure out what the hell my next move is.
“I’m sure it must be hard for you,” Simone says with a too-kind smile. “So I totally get why you’d need to move on and do your own thing. And you know I’ve always supported you.” Oh, there’s the sisters in solidarity bullshit that was missing when she was on her knees giving my ex a faux blow job.
Then, her eyes widen, her lashes blink and her lips round in an exaggerated O. I know that look—it’s her light bulb moment face. “I just need one tiny thing from you before you go,” she says.
“What is it?” I ask, armor on.
She gives a helpless grin. “Can you cover my wedding? You’re the best fashion writer I’ve ever worked with, and I need someone good to cover it for my socials.
And you can cover it for your own little channel too.
Obviously, I can’t do it, and it’s a great opportunity for you. You could bring a plus-one, of course.”
She truly thinks I’d want to go to my cheating ex’s wedding? Where he marries my backstabbing boss? That I’m up for pretending her forest wedding is some sort of fairy tale instead of two trend-chasers dappering it up with choices that will be dated by next week?
It’s going to be a train wreck.
Wait.
Holy shit.
It’s absolutely going to be a fantastic freaking train wreck, and she just offered me a front row seat. I can use this to launch my own fashion channel at last. I’ve been writing about the business for others for the last few years. Now it’s my turn.
I smile and take the invitation for what it is—a pre-ward.
“I’d love to,” I say.
* * *
Jackson and Aubrey are waiting for me when I leave the office. I slide into the back seat of Jackson’s ride, equally livid and delighted. “You’re so not going to believe this,” I say.
“Try us,” Aubrey instructs.
I spill all the tasty tea, finishing with, “And somehow, I have an invitation to cover their wedding. Everyone who loves fashion will want to see them tie the knot. And, bonus, I won’t even have to try to make her look like an asshole; she’ll do it all by herself.”
Jackson hoots as he navigates his matte black electric sports car through Sunday evening traffic in the city. “So when is the wedding? What are you wearing and who are you bringing? There are rules, obviously. First, you never show up at an ex’s wedding solo.”
In the passenger seat, Aubrey nods vigorously. “Second, you must bring someone hotter, richer, and more fabulous than said ex.”
I give them the upcoming date then smile, patting Jackson’s shoulder. “I know just the guy.”
Jackson and I have been friends forever. Our older brothers—both of them star hockey players in this city, Ryker Samuels and Chase Weston—were best buds growing up. Our moms are best friends, so Jackson and I became besties too. “You have to come with me and be my emotional support hottie,” I say.
Over the years, he’s been my perma-plus-one, and I’m his. It doesn’t occur to me this time would be different.
At the light, Jackson glances back with an apologetic smile. “You know I love being your fill-in man, but I can’t go, sweets. I have an animation job in Los Angeles then.”
All the air leaks out of me. I slump in the back seat. “Where am I going to find a decent plus-one?”
“We have time,” Aubrey assures me. “We’ll get on the apps, Ivy.
We’ll talk to Trina.” Trina’s her longtime bestie, and after she started seeing my brother over a year ago, she’s become my friend too.
“We’ll get the book club gals involved. We are women, hear us roar.
” Aubrey adds a bestial sound effect. “We’ll find someone so much better. ”
She’s right. I’ll have to start a manhunt as well as a job hunt. Starting my own channel isn’t going to equal instant income. Finding a gig, freelance or otherwise, as a fashion writer won’t be easy. Neither will finding a fantastic date.
“I don’t know where I’ll find him,” I vow, “but with the Goddess of Fucked Over Girls as my witness, my plus-one will be perfect. And I will show up at that woodland wedding with my head held high, my mighty pen ready, and a Mister Perfect by my side.” I take a beat.
“And after that, I’ll just have to, you know, find a new freaking job. ”
“You’re about to start your own newsletter,” Aubrey points out.
I rub my thumb and fingers together. “Mama needs a side hustle till it makes me some money.” Until then I’ll be busy, too, trying to find any openings covering the fashion industry.
“The only job opening I’m even remotely aware of is one Ryker mentioned a few days ago, but it’s not quite in fashion. It’s more fashion adjacent.”
“How adjacent?” Aubrey asks, arching an eyebrow. She knows my flair for the dramatic.
“Tangentially adjacent. I mean, it involves costumes, so there’s that.”
“Then, Ivy,” Jackson declares, “it’s glow-up time in every single department.”
We drop off Aubrey then head to our building, where Jackson lets me out in front so he can wrestle the beast that is San Francisco parking.
Clutching my quit-my-job box, I head inside and across the lobby.
At the elevator, I spot a stranger with a newly familiar profile.
Dark brown hair, a little messy in the front, just enough stubble to look the right kind of dangerous, and muscles for days.
It’s my new neighbor—the naked gardener.