That’s where Brooke came in.
Her gaze shifted to the other woman at the table, already knowing what she’d see, and yet somehow surprised that Alexis Morgan looked exactly like every picture Brooke had ever seen of her.
In fact, for all the expression on the other woman’s face at the moment, Brooke might as well be looking at a photograph now, too, instead of the real thing. A cool customer, this one.
“Brooke,” Alexis said, standing and extending a hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Alexis’s voice was very much like the woman herself. Smooth, polished, and pretty. Very pretty, Brooke amended. She was shorter than Brooke’s own five eight by a few inches, but had that sort of exceptional posture that made her look a good deal taller than she was. Her chestnut-brown hair was pulled into a sleek chignon, her eyes wide and brown with just enough perfectly applied makeup to look put together without being obvious. The outfit was also spot-on. Gray slacks and a white blouse, simple pieces but perfectly tailored to cast a sleek appeal.
“It’s so nice to meet you, too!” Brooke said, hoping her voice didn’t sound too gushing. It wasn’t that Brooke was bubbly. Not really. But she was aware of the fact that she was quick to laugh, even quicker to smile, and eager to see the best in people.
Not so long ago, the ready smiles and optimism had been genuine. She hadn’t even been aware of them.
Lately, though . . .
Well, fake it till you make it, right?
She shook Heather’s hand as well, and the three of them sat down at the low granite tabletop. “We ordered champagne,” Heather said with a little wink. “Hope that’s okay.”
“Definitely. I wouldn’t be in this job if I didn’t love champagne.”
“Have you taken any classes?” Alexis said, leaning forward.
Brooke blinked. “Um. Classes?”
“Champagne classes.”
“Maybe we should let her drink a glass before we send her to school, hmm, boss?” Heather asked.
“Yes, of course,” Alexis said, sitting back. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, please,” Brooke said as Heather motioned for a server to pour their champagne. “I’m on your turf now. If you want me to go to bubbly school, I’m all for it.”
“It’s actually a blast,” Heather said. “They let you drink the stuff, and plenty of it.”
“They also have a spit bucket,” Alexis said mildly.
Heather waved this away. “Please. Who spits French champagne? Crazy talk.”
Brooke smiled, warming to the younger woman. Heather was every bit as pretty as Alexis, although where Alexis looked like she held the world’s secrets in some vaulted part of her enormous brain, Heather gave off a friendly what-you-see-is-what-you-get vibe. Her hazel eyes were sharp and intelligent, but there were no pretenses there.
She seemed like the type of friend who’d tell you when your haircut sucked, but only after you’d asked, and the one who’d go on a doughnut binge with you after a breakup and wouldn’t breathe a word about the calories.
Not that Heather was a friend. Yet. They’d just met. But Brooke had every intention of making her one. Alexis, too.
“So, Brooke,” Heather said. “Tell me honestly. Was your adjustment to New York as rough as mine?”
“If by rough you mean trying to get to Brooklyn and ending up in the Bronx and nearly freezing my face off . . .”
Nodding, Heather picked up a roll from the basket in the center of the table and pointed it in Brooke’s direction. “I hear you on the subway bit. Nobody ever really tells you that the entrance to the uptown and downtown trains are rarely on the same side of the street.”
“The guidebooks tell you. And the Internet,” Alexis said.
Heather rolled her eyes. “Ignore her.”
Brooke gave Alexis a nervous glance, curious if the other woman took issue with Heather’s informal tone—they were, after all, boss and assistant. But to her surprise, Alexis was smiling. She was not, however, touching the bread basket.
Impressive self-control on Alexis’s part, but Brooke had never met a carb she didn’t like and followed Heather’s lead, grabbing one of the crusty, still-warm rolls and spreading a bit of aioli-infused butter on it.
Before she could dig in, though, Alexis lifted her champagne flute. “Shall we toast?”
“Hells yes,” Heather said, lifting her glass. “To the newest Belle.”
Belle. I like that, Brooke thought as she picked up her champagne. For the past two years, Brooke had thrown every bit of energy into starting her own wedding-planning company, determined to work for herself.
And while being the boss had come with plenty of perks, it had also been . . . lonely. She wondered if this was maybe the way to do it—to belong to something.
“To the newest Belle,” Alexis said, echoing Heather. “And to new beginnings.”