“I’m single,” Brooke said, deliberately keeping her voice light. “Super single.”
Jessie skidded to a halt and turned around to face Brooke, eyes wide, before putting a hand on her arm. “Oh. My. Gawd. I’m such an idiot. I’d totally forgotten about all that crap and the guy you almost married, and . . . you know what? Let’s not even talk about it right now. That’s what we do in my house back home. We don’t talk about things that pull us down. Not at first. Unless of course you want to talk about it.”
Brooke’s head was spinning. “No. I’m good. I mean, the topic’s not off-limits, it’s just—”
Jessie held up a hand. “Say no more. Okay, here we go. You ready to swoon?”
Jessie opened the door to Brooke’s new office, and Brooke made an involuntary happy noise.
It was bigger than she’d expected—heck, it felt nearly as large as Brooke’s entire apartment in Yorkville. A white desk was pushed against the window, and though the view was of bare, leafless trees, Brooke had to imagine that in the spring it would be lovely.
Or even better, what must it be like in autumn? As someone who’d grown up surrounded by palm trees, Brooke had always wondered what it would be like to experience true fall, with all the bright, vibrant colors of the changing leaves and the crisp air . . .
“Right?” Jessie said, correctly reading Brooke’s silence. “Mel had a heck of a time leaving. She loved this office. Loved the job, really. But when you push, like, three kids out of your V in just a couple years, I guess maybe you have more important things to worry about. Kegels and breast pumps and stuff.”
“And raising children,” Brooke said wryly.
Jessie wagged a finger at her. “Right. And that. I like you. I know it’s dorky, but the Belles are kind of like a family, so I’ve been hoping that you’d be awesome. And you totally are. And super pretty.”
Brooke rolled her eyes.
“I’m serious! You look like you’re from LA with that blond hair, blue eyes, and the tan, and I mean that in the best way possible.”
“Well, the tan won’t last long,” Brooke said. “It’s freezing out there.”
“I want to tell you that you’ll get used to it, but you, like, totally won’t. Or at least I haven’t.” The redhead gave her an apologetic smile. “Bet you’re missing California right about now, huh?”
“Not really,” Brooke said, determined to ward off the wave of homesickness that swelled the second Jessie had mentioned her home state. “I mean, I love it there, but I think I’ll love it here, too.”
Jessie tilted her head. “A positive thinker. I like that.”
Brooke smiled and shrugged. It was how she’d always rolled. Looking on the bright side just seemed smart.
It would take more than one rotten fiancé to change that.
“I should probably get back downstairs,” Jessie was saying. “That phone, like, never shuts up, and sometimes we get walkins. But let me know if you need anything. And we should for sure grab drinks later. If you’re not busy?”
“Not unless you count unpacking my kitchen,” Brooke said.
Jessie waved her hand. “Oh, honey. That can wait for weeks. We New Yorkers don’t cook much.”
“Thank goodness. My fridge is the size of a toaster, and I’m pretty sure the stove doesn’t turn on,” Brooke said.
“Yeah, well, welcome to New York. Alexis said you found an apartment in Yorkville?”
“That’s what they tell me,” Brooke said. “I haven’t quite wrapped my brain around all the neighborhoods yet.”
“Well, like I said, ask me anytime. I dated a broker when I first got here, so I know, like, everything. And mark your calendar for Friday-night martinis. Heather knows all the best places, and I’m her aspiring apprentice in all things slightly dirty.”
“I’d like that,” Brooke said, meaning it. Jessie was slightly exhausting but fairly impossible not to like.
Jessie left with instructions to make herself at home so she’d never ever want to leave, and Brooke started unpacking the few belongings she’d brought with her.
Her MacBook Pro. Her favorite polka-dot mug. A couple of framed photos, one of her parents, and one of her sorority sisters at the beach house they’d rented for her bachelorette party.
It was one of the few wedding-related items that had made it with her on the move from California to New York. One of the few that didn’t make her cringe.
It burned a little. No, it burned a lot that the wedding planner had finally gotten the chance to plan her own wedding to the love of her life, and it had ended with the groom in handcuffs, and not the sexy, kinky variety.
Because Brooke had planned the hell out of her wedding.
It had been her best work because it was her most important work. The wedding to top all weddings, even in the land of celebrity nuptials, where one pop star recently gave out purebred puppies as her wedding favor. Brooke was well aware that her own nuptials would be her most telling calling card, and she had been determined to put on the wedding of the century.