Tell me about it.
“He’ll be there on Friday, right?” Seth asked. “How about the three of us go out for a late lunch after the meeting with the wedding planner?”
Maya nodded. “Perfect. You’re going to love him. And he can’t wait to meet you.”
Me and my wallet, I’d bet.
“Friday, two o’clock,” Maya said, kissing his cheek one more time. “Don’t be late, ’kay?”
Seth blinked. “Have I ever been late?”
His sister laughed. “Good point. Would you be less grumpy about the whole thing if I told you we’ll do an open bar at the wedding, stocked with all your favorites?”
Seth only had one favorite: Four Roses Bourbon. And if the ever-increasing tension in his chest was any indication, he was going to be drinking a lot of it in the coming months. Starting with tonight.
He told his sister good-bye, and then went straight to his bar cart in the corner and poured himself a generous tumbler of his beloved bourbon—hell, he deserved it. Then he went immediately to his computer to search for every possible detail he could find on one Neil Garrett.
Chapter Two
BROOKE BALDWIN DOUBLE-CHECKED the weather app on her phone. Then triple-checked it.
Nope. The numbers hadn’t changed. Twenty-four degrees freaking Fahrenheit, but “feels like twelve.” Really? Once it got below freezing, did it even matter what the “feels like” temperature was?
Brooke wouldn’t know. She could count the times she’d been in subfreezing temperatures on one hand. A hand that was likely to turn into a Popsicle the second she got outside because she didn’t own a pair of gloves.
Reason number 412 why moving to New York City from Los Angeles on a whim had been . . . an adjustment.
So many learning experiences. Wearing stilettos on the subway. Trying to find a taxi in the rain. Finding out that having a washer and dryer in your unit was a Manhattan rarity.
Brooke cast a look downward at the professional-yet-fashion-forward ensemble she had painstakingly assembled for her first day on the job and sighed resignedly. The freeze-your-butt-off weather definitely required a last-minute wardrobe change. Off went the sexy but paper-thin wrap dress, on went the blue turtleneck sweater and leggings. She opted for gray platform boots instead of the pink Louboutins she’d splurged on for Christmas last year. Not her trendiest attire, but it was the warmest thing she owned.
Just like her cute ivory peacoat was the warmest jacket she owned.
Not warm enough, it turned out.
The bite of the cold January air took her breath away the moment she stepped outside, and Brooke wanted desperately to turn right back around.
But there was something else she wanted more. She forged ahead.
She burrowed her face in her scarf and lifted her hand for a taxi. In spring and summer, the restaurant would probably qualify as being within walking distance.
But in the dead of winter? No. Just no.
Miraculously, a cab took pity on her, and five minutes later she was standing inside MOMA, one of the most famous museums in the country, as well as the upscale eatery where she was about to meet her new colleagues.
Or, as Brooke liked to think about it: Step Two of Life After Clay.
Step one had been getting the hell out of LA.
Step two commenced today, and involved accepting a job with the uber-elite Wedding Belles.
Brooke wasn’t entirely sure what step three would be, but she was pretty sure it would involve wine and Celine Dion sing-alongs à la Bridget Jones.
In better news, swanky as the restaurant was, it was also very LA. The modern decor, efficient waitstaff, and surplus of designer handbags reminded her of the upscale haunts she used to frequent back home, and she felt her shoulders relax as she blew out a breath she did not even know she had been holding. Brooke had been one of the top wedding planners on the West Coast—fancy working lunches were her jam.
Still, her hands might have been just a tiny bit clammy as the hostess led her to her table. She might have been a wedding planner in California, but she was a long way from the Pacific.
Now she’d be coming face-to-face with the top wedding planners on the East Coast. If Brooke was at the bottom of her game, courtesy of The Wedding That Didn’t Happen, the Wedding Belles were at the top of theirs.
And yet, they wanted you. Buck up, Baldwin. You’ve got this.
A curly-haired blonde spotted her first, smiling in welcome as Brooke approached the table. Brooke had practically memorized the Wedding Belles’ website, so she immediately recognized the woman as Heather Fowler, one of the assistant wedding planners.
Actually, the only assistant wedding planner.
The Belles were a tiny company, managing to climb to the top of the Manhattan wedding scene with only two wedding planners, an assistant wedding planner, and a receptionist.
In recent months they’d been running even leaner, as one of the wedding planners had left the company to raise a family in Connecticut.