That afternoon, by the time Greer was done rewatching the very first episode of Season One of Breaking Bad, she decided if Walter White and Jesse Pinkman could survive all their dangerous encounters, she could handle running into her ex-boyfriend and his future wife, two harmless doctors out to save the world. What was she worried about? Besides, she had a life to live. If she hid like a hermit that week—and then for a whole year—she’d miss out on the farmer’s market, the azaleas blooming on the Battery, the beautiful winter stillness around Colonial Lake, all the great restaurants and rooftop bars, a million fun times with her friends. She wouldn’t see Ford, either. Who knew how long he was staying in Charleston?
“I am a coffee drinker,” she reminded herself aloud several times as she made herself a cup of Earl Grey tea—in a fancy rose china cup, no less. She took a few sips and stopped. Got a hold of herself. Poured it down the kitchen sink drain. Why was she thinking of Ford at all? It was useless to daydream about an Englishman whose last name she didn’t even know and probably never would.
It was why she’d already gotten her friendly neighborhood dry-cleaner delivery service to swing by and pick up her Stella McCartney pantsuit. If it was in her apartment, she’d see it and think about sitting on Ford’s thigh. In fact, she decided, maybe she’d leave it at the dry cleaner for a while.
The phone rang, and she immediately thought of the girls at The Price Is Right. Had one of them won something? She hoped so! She needed some good news today. Or were they still waiting to tape the show? God forbid not one of them got called up to the stage to bid on something. They had too much personality to be overlooked.
But when she looked at the number, she recognized it as belonging to one of her clients, Jill.
Jill was one of Ella’s sisters. There were a lot of Mancini sisters. Jill was the youngest. Everyone doted on her. She was sexy and gorgeous but didn’t believe it. That was her problem.
Greer, Macy, and Ella had a special policy when it came to helping close friends and family members find love: let the co-owner of Two Love Lane with the least history with that person take him or her on as a client. Money might not exchange hands, depending upon the family/friend client’s financial status and wishes, but the relationship would be handled professionally, just like all the others: advisor-client confidentiality would be upheld, as always. And no one else in the office would be privy to that client’s file unless he or she gave written permission.
Since Jill was Ella’s sister, and Jill had known Macy a long time because they were yoga friends, Greer became her advisor. So far, Jill hadn’t wanted Greer to share any information about her matchmaking status with Ella.
“She already knows everything anyway,” Jill said just last week. “Everyone in the family does. And now she thinks she’s the worst matchmaker at Two Love Lane because I told her you rocked. Even though I still haven’t met anyone. And … and I probably never will.”
Greer had reassured her that she was highly likely to meet someone compatible. She’d run the numbers using Two Love Lane’s highly accurate algorithms, and everything looked really positive. It didn’t hurt that Jill turned men’s heads right and left, either.
“Please, please meet me at Carmella’s,” Jill said now. “I have to talk to you.”
Carmella’s was Greer’s favorite dessert shop, so that was no hardship. “Is everything okay?”
Jill groaned. “No. I’ve got a very awkward situation. I can’t tell you over the phone, but we’ll have to speak really low about it at Carmella’s.”
“All right.” Greer was used to clients wanting to whisper to her. Generally, they were spilling their guts. “Half an hour?”
“I’m already here,” said Jill. “If you could get here sooner, I’d appreciate it. I’ve already eaten one of their mini birthday cakes. They’re so good. I’ll order you something to drink and a cannoli.”
“Great. Black coffee will do. I can be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Perfect!” Jill sounded relieved, yet still agitated.
Greer hopped up, stuck a few more bobby pins in her chignon, and left Baker House. She’d take her bike because even if she walked fast, it would take twenty minutes, not fifteen. She saved the red Vespa for times when she needed to get somewhere even faster.
While she cycled down Broad Street, enjoying the breeze on her neck, she remembered she might see Wesley and Serena at any moment. She really didn’t feel like running into them. But what could she do? She had a company to run, especially as she was the only one in town at the moment to do so. She couldn’t hide out at Two Love Lane and her apartment for a whole year! Being a fraidy-cat wasn’t allowed.
And Jill needed her.
Besides, she was over Wesley. She was all about Ford. Yet, try as she might to pedal that feeling away, she felt a sharp stab of lust course through her. She really needed a vacation.
Or maybe she just needed a wild romp between the sheets with a hot guy. Greer didn’t shy away from the truth. She hated to admit it, but it had been years, in fact, since she’d slept with someone. She could barely admit Wesley had been her only long-term sex partner. She’d slept with two other guys since their break-up—one time each, hoping she’d feel a spark that never happened. After both those prospects fizzled, she followed the crème brulée rule on dates: she wasn’t going to sleep with anyone unless she was willing to knock over a whole tableful of crème brulées to get to that person.
Now she might as well be a nun—a nun with easy access to Charleston’s best crème brulées. She had a running list on her phone of where they could be found. Carmella’s was one of them.
When she got there, Jill was sitting at a small table and not at the long communal table in the middle of the space—Greer’s favorite spot because she always met interesting people there. Jill looked ravishing in a black pencil skirt, a white twin set that showed off her fabulous décolletage, and an emerald green silk scarf wrapped artfully around her head, allowing her curly brown hair to spill out around it. Big gold hoops graced her ears.
Greer pulled out a small wrought iron chair and sat down. Her coffee and cannoli were waiting. She bit into the cannoli and sighed. “Delish,” she said. “Thanks.”
Not as good as crème brulée but very close.
“You’re welcome.” Jill wriggled forward, and Greer noticed a couple of guys eyeing her in that casual-cool way guys had in restaurants, which in this case involved pretending to talk to each other while sneaking looks around their pint glasses at the pretty girl in the green scarf.
Greer told Jill about the auction and went into great detail about the wedding gown, but she left out the part about Ford.
“Wow,” said Jill. “I love knowing you bid on a wedding gown without even having a boyfriend!”
“That gown was a good investment.”
“You make a spectacle of yourself over investments?” asked Jill.
Greer shrugged. “Haven’t you ever seen people losing their cool at the stock market exchange?”
“I guess. But this was a charity event in Charleston. People protect their dignity here.”
“Sure,” said Greer, embarrassed. “But the gown had royal history and a cool story associated with it. Now let’s talk about you.”
“Okay,” said Jill. “I’d tell you to brace yourself, but you’re such a rock, I’m not going to bother. That’s why I’m confiding in you. And it’s not about my love life directly. It’s about something else. But I still want client-advisor privilege … or just friend privilege, okay? We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“Of course,” said Greer, her curiosity piqued.
“Okay.” Jill looked around, then back at Greer. “Do you watch HGTV?”
“Sometimes,” Greer said. “I love Fixer Upper.”
“I do, too,” said Jill. “In fact, I want to be a decorator.”
“That’s awesome,” said Greer. But Jill sounded kind of down when she said it. “Isn’t it exciting that you’re figuring out what you want to do?”
“Oh, yes.” Jill frowned. “But in a way, no. Maybe it would have been better if I’d never discovered my passion.” She pouted, which only made her look more beautiful.
Greer grabbed her hand. “I know it’s scary. Following your passion isn’t easy. It’s usually hard, in fact. But it’s extremely rewarding. You can do it.”
“Thanks for the pep talk,” Jill said quietly, but at least her voice sounded more hopeful. She leaned closer. “Here’s the thing,” she whispered. “I don’t want to be just any kind of decorator.”
“What do you mean?”
Jill hesitated a half-second. “I want to build love nests.”
“L-love nests?”
“Yes!” Jill’s face lit up. “I want to create spaces where you can hide away from the world with your sensual soul mate.”
Whoa. The person at the table next door looked over. Greer put her coffee cup down.
Jill’s boy brows arched earnestly. “And if you’re single, it’ll be a place where you can indulge in your wildest fantasies.…”
Fantasies. Greer couldn’t believe Jill said that word out loud. She was one of the most inhibited sexpots she knew.
“I want my business to be called Erospace Designs,” Jill said. “Get it? Eros. For the god of love. But it’s a play on ‘aerospace,’ like NASA. On my logo I’m going to have girls in pearls riding on rockets.”
“A phallic symbol,” Greer said, blinking stupidly.
“For you, I’d do a pink chair studded with fake diamonds,” Jill said, and whipped out a folder from her large canvas bag. She spread it open and showed Greer a scene she must have come up with online from one of those decorator sites. “We’d use a matching pink ottoman, fringed lamp, black wrought iron canopy bed with a faux zebra skin comforter, and a dresser decoupaged with Elvis publicity pics.”
“My … goodness.” Greer scanned the page and tried not to act too stunned.
“That’s my ‘Working Diva Without a Man’ theme,” Jill said in a cool, professional voice. “You never realized this, Greer, but it’s specifically intended to gratify the yearning passions of the sexually frustrated working single woman.”
“Yearning passions,” Greer murmured, wondering if she’d eaten too much cannoli. She felt kind of bloated. “And … and you’ll do themes?”
“Yes. We can mix and match. For one room or the whole house. And the company’s motto will be, ‘We’ll make your living space your loving space.’ Do you like it?”
“I-I love it! But is there a market for what you do here in Charleston?”
Jill laughed. “Is there ever. Have you seen the racy ads in the back of the City Paper? Charlestonians just take everything behind closed doors, which is why I think I’ll do particularly well here.”
“So you’ve done some research.”
“I’ve even driven to North Carolina to the annual furniture market in High Point and made friends in some fabric companies and furniture lines.”
“Wow! That’s showing some initiative. And I think this career sounds right up your alley. When will you start?”
“Just today the bank approved my loan request.”
“You’re on your way. If there’s anything I can do to support you, just let me know.”
“You can,” Jill said, her eyes lighting up. “Please let me do a makeover of your bedroom. Believe me, Greer. It will work.”
“Okaaaay.” Greer couldn’t believe she was agreeing. “Does it have to be pink?”
“Yes,” said Jill. “I’ll have a moving crew put all of your bedroom stuff—even your mattress—in storage so I can work with a blank canvas. I have a local mattress guy who’s giving me great discounts. I can tell already your mattress isn’t doing you any favors.”
“You can tell?”
Jill nodded. “It’s too firm.”
“It is firm, but—”
“I promise you, you’ll love everything.” She opened her folder again and pulled out a contract. “I’ve already put the details in here. There will be no charge. Eventually I might want a testimonial to put in my brochure. You won’t mind? I want the marketing materials to be very professional looking, so I’d like to use your full name.”
Oh God. Greer’s name in a brochure about Erospace Designs? A brochure sporting a woman in pearls riding on a rocket as the logo? What would her family think back in Wisconsin?
They’d never know.
And as for everyone in Charleston finding out she had made her living space her loving space … Ford’s face popped into her head. What would he think? He’d be long gone, probably, by the time Jill finished decorating. As for her clients, Greer could tell them she was only participating in a consumer research project, which was true.
Her “Working Diva Without a Man” bedroom theme wouldn’t be seen by anyone but her. No way, no how. She’d either be too busy setting up Charleston’s bachelors with other people or choosing crème brulée over canoodling.
“It’s fine,” Greer said, and gulped down the last of her coffee.
“Great,” said Jill. “Sign here.” She handed Greer a pink pen.
Which Greer found out a second later used pink ink.
Jill leaned forward. “Just you wait. Merely signing this contract means you’re making an inner commitment. Your working-diva mojo is brewing. Don’t be surprised if your sex life takes off before I even get your room set up.”
“Oh, okay,” said Greer with a cheerful smile. Inside, she was, um, skeptical, but she’d gladly indulge Jill, who needed someone on her side.
Jill winked and stood. “Ready to go?”
“Sure,” said Greer, then froze.
There were Wesley and Serena. In Carmella’s. Leaning over the dessert counter and holding hands.