“I need to get laid,” Brielle said as she finished off the rest of her lychee martini.
“I’ll drink to that,” Willa agreed.
“Another round?” Jazz asked.
“Might as well,” Brielle said.
I reached for another piece of edamame. “Let’s order dinner when the server gets back.”
“Seb’s already taken care of it,” Brielle said. “I told the server about your dietary restrictions, so Seb will make a bunch of stuff you can eat.”
“You’re a doll,” I commented.
Brielle’s friend Seb was a chef at an Asian fusion restaurant that had just opened. He’d invited Brielle to check out the menu, and she’d asked Jazz, Willa, and me to come along.
Not only were we about to enjoy wonderful food, but we were getting time to chat. I was loving this aspect of my life. Change always brought different opportunities, and I was rich in new friendships.
The server came by, and Brielle ordered us another round, including my juice-and-seltzer combo.
“Hold on a second,” Brielle said, facing Willa. “You’re telling me you’re not getting laid, even though you have two super-hot bikers around you constantly?”
“That’s what I’m telling you,” Willa said. “We’re best friends. You don’t sleep with your best friends.”
“I’d sleep with my best friends if they looked like your best friends,” Brielle muttered.
The server returned to our table and dropped off our drinks, and another server trailed behind her. He set down several plates of pork and vegetable dumplings.
“Enjoy,” she said.
“Thank you.” Brielle smiled up at her.
Jazz took her chopsticks and reached for a dumpling and set it on her plate to cool. “If I had a friend who cooked this way, I’d definitely be sleeping with him.”
“Yeah, too bad Seb bats for the other team,” Brielle joked. “Otherwise, I’d totally sleep with him for his dumplings.”
“I’m surprised Slash let you out of the house,” Jazz said to me.
I frowned. “Let me out of the house? He may be protective, but he’d never stop me from having a girls’ night. In fact, he encouraged it.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” Jazz said. “I meant, I can’t believe he let you put on clothes and leave the house.”
“Well, thank God for dim lighting, because I think you just made me blush.” I put a hand to my cheek.
“Yeah, that guy—whew,” Willa said. “Totally has it bad for you.”
“How’s the cohabitation going?” Brielle asked. “Didn’t he just get back into town?”
I nodded. “It’s going well, I think. No complaints on my end, anyway.”
“Does he pick up after himself?” Willa asked. “Or does he, like, leave his socks in the living room after he takes off his boots?”
I frowned.
“What?” Jazz asked. “What’s that frown for?”
“I just realized, it’s like he doesn’t even live there,” I said.
“What do you mean?” Willa took a drink of her full martini.
“I mean, he never leaves dishes in the sink. He never leaves his boots strewn about in the middle of the floor.”
“What about beard hairs in the sink?” Brielle asked.
“Guys do that?” Jazz asked.
“I have three brothers,” Brielle said. “I know about all the things. So?”
“Not those either,” I admitted. “Although, I’ve never seen Slash actually shave. He just seems to have perpetual scruff.”
“Do you think—well, is he commitment shy?” Brielle wondered.
“He asked me to move in with him.”
“He let you pick out the furniture,” Jazz said slowly.
“Yeah, he did.” I sighed. “Fuck.”
“Hold on a second,” Willa said. “There’s got to be an explanation for all of this. It’s probably stupid simple.”
“I’ve never lived with a boyfriend before,” I said. “But I’m pretty sure you leave your crap lying around and the other person is supposed to get annoyed by it.”
“You said Slash doesn’t have a lot of crap though. I mean, he’s been on the road for years, right?” Willa asked.
“Yeah.”
“Well, maybe give him the benefit of the doubt. I’m sure he’s just used to cleaning up after himself because he’s been single and older than you are.”
“Yeah, I guess,” I said.
Conversation drifted, and more food was brought to the table. The server kept the drinks flowing, and before I knew it I was full and all my concerns about Slash had slipped away.
“Well, how’s the food?” Seb asked as he stood at our table dressed in his white chef’s coat.
Brielle looked up at him. “It’s a smash.”
“Speaking of smashed,” he grinned. “How many of those lychee martinis did you have?”
Brielle looked at Jazz, who looked at Willa, who looked at me.
“Three,” I said with a grin, answering for Brielle.
“Have a drink with us,” Willa said. “Can you?”
“Yeah, I can have a drink. The rush has died down.”
“Take my seat,” I said. “I need to go to the ladies’ room.”
I walked through the restaurant, down the hallway near the host stand and turned the corner. The restroom was empty when I entered. It was painted navy blue and the mirrors and lighting fixture were silver. If I hadn’t known any better, I would’ve thought I was in a fancy club in Manhattan.
As I washed my hands, the door blew open and a red-headed glamazon stormed in. Mascara tracked down her cheeks, and her face was white. She wore a gold dress that hit just above the knee, but it had the lines of a modern flapper style. Her gold heels were Manolo Blahnik.
“Oh,” she said upon seeing me, and then promptly burst into tears.
Feeling overcome with emotion lately myself, I wasn’t the least bit uncomfortable by her tears. I went to the tissue box resting on the sink counter and pulled out a few.
“Here,” I said, handing them to the woman.
“Thanks,” she mumbled, taking the tissues and shoving them at her dripping eyes.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
She paused and then answered, “I’m getting married in three weeks and my pastry chef broke her arm and now I won’t have a wedding cake!”
She broke down again, and I grabbed the entire box of tissues and set them next to her. “What kind of cake was it going to be?” I asked.
“Chocolate and raspberry. Six tiers high.” She sniffed. “That’s not the only problem though. It’s an all-weekend affair. She was supposed to make the desserts for the rehearsal dinner on Friday and the dessert pastries for the brunch on Sunday. I can replace a cake, but the theme wouldn’t match, and no one wants a weekend-long job. I’m fucked. Well and truly fucked! And the worst part is Southern Living Magazine is coming to do an entire spread on my wedding. My dream wedding is turning into a nightmare.”
“I might be able to help you,” I said.
“You? How?”
“Have you heard of Pie in the Sky bakery?”
“No, sorry,” she murmured.
“Well, that’s okay. I’m the owner,” I said, sticking out my hand. “Brooklyn Palmer.”
“Imogene Oglethorpe.” Her fingers with French-tipped manicured nails wrapped around my palm, and she gave me a hearty shake. “Have you catered an event before, or are you just a pastry chef?”
“As it happens, I’ve shifted focus recently from in-store purchases exclusively to catering.” I smiled. “Also, I used to work as a patisserie chef at The Rex Hotel in Manhattan. I’m positive I can handle anything you want. Hold on a second.” I riffled through my purse and pulled out my phone. I navigated to my photos and showed her my creations from recent parties. “This is the kind of stuff I can do.”
She quickly scrolled through the pictures, her eyes widening. She looked at me. “You’re hired. Oh my God, you’re a lifesaver!” Imogene handed me back my phone and then reached into her clutch to pull hers out. “Put your number in here. Can we meet tomorrow?”
“Sure thing, but we haven’t even talked about your budget—”
“Oh, honey, money’s not an issue.”
“Wow, okay,” I said, punching my digits into her phone. “I’ll be bringing my business partner, who will help arrange everything.”
“Wonderful. You’re seriously amazing. I’ll text you the address. Is nine in the morning too early?”
“No. That’s perfect.”
Long enough for me to wake up, puke, and then be on my way.
I left Imogene in the bathroom to fix her makeup and then I rejoined my friends. Seb was gone by the time I got back to the table.
“What happened to you?” Brielle asked.
“Yeah, I was wondering if you were going to send up a flare for emergency help in there,” Jazz teased.
“I met a new client,” I said as I plopped down in my chair.
“In the bathroom?” Jazz asked, her eyes wide.
I quickly recounted my meeting with Imogene.
“Imogene. Imogene Oglethorpe?” Brielle asked.
“Yeah.”
“Oh my God,” she said with a laugh. “Do you have any idea who she is?”
“Someone important enough to have her wedding featured in Southern Living,” I quipped. “But aside from that, I have no idea.”
“Huge Dallas socialite. Her daddy is in oil and her fiancé comes from a long line of cattle ranchers,” Brielle informed me.
“And you just, like, pitched us, like it was no big deal,” Jazz said. “I’m in awe.”
“She was really upset,” I pointed out. “And we can help her. Why wouldn’t I offer? I didn’t know she was a big deal. I mean, she mentioned the magazine, but she didn’t act like a snob. So, are we doing this, or not?”
“She probably appreciated you treating her like a normal person and not fawning all over her,” Willa said.
I shrugged. “We have a meeting with her tomorrow at nine. She’s going to text me the address.”
“Shit,” Jazz said. “I can’t be there. My mom—”
“I’ll sit with her,” Brielle said.
Jazz squeezed her hand.
“Not to be a total weenie, but I’m kind of tired,” I said. “Can we pay the bill and get out of here?”
“Seb took care of our bill. We’re just leaving a tip,” Brielle explained.
“Glorious, glorious man. It was excellent.” I reached into my purse to grab my wallet. I set down a few bills and then stood, but the other three remained.
“Ah, so that’s how it goes,” I said with a grin. “The pregnant one goes home while the three hot young women stay out for a night on the prowl.”
“Girl, if I had your man to go home to, I’d be out of here so fast,” Brielle said.
“Say hi to Slash for me,” Jazz said.
“Will do.”
When I got home, Slash was stretched out on the couch, a book propped up in his lap and a pair of reading glasses on his nose.
“You wear glasses?” I asked in surprise.
“Just for reading.” He took them off and set them aside. “Did you have fun?”
“Yeah, I had fun.” I kicked off my heels. “But I’m glad to be home.”
He patted the spot on the couch next to him, and I stretched out, resting my head on his chest. “What are you reading?”
Slash flipped the book to show me the cover.
One Second After.
“It’s about a nuclear war between superpowers and an electromagnetic pulse that destroys the fabric of America, and how people have to fight for their lives to survive the end of the world as we know it.”
“So it’s a comedy,” I quipped.
Suddenly, all my concerns about whether he was completely domesticated or not melted away. “You look sexy in glasses.”
“Yeah? Glad you like them.”
I placed my hand on his chest. “Slash?”
“Hmm?”
“Why don’t you act like you live here?”
“What do you mean?”
“You never leave dishes in the sink, or your clothes in piles, or your shoes by the door…”
He began to laugh.
“What?” I leaned up just enough to be able to stare at him. “Why are you laughing?”
“Because you might be the only woman in history who’s complaining that her man cleans up after himself.”
I smiled. “Is that what you’re doing?”
“Yeah, of course that’s what I’m doing.”
“Okay.”
“Look, I’ve been taking care of myself for years. Cleaning up after myself is just part of life. I’m not twenty. It’s ingrained in me by now, you know?”
“Well, can’t you find a way to be a bit of a slob?” I grumbled. “So I don’t feel so guilty about leaving dishes in the sink.”
“Whatever you want, woman,” he said with a laugh. “Whatever you want.”
The next morning, I leaned over and brushed my lips across Slash’s scarred forehead. He stirred ever so slightly. “You leaving?” he muttered, face smushed into a pillow.
“Yeah.”
“Any idea when you’ll be done?”
“No. I’ll call.”
He sighed and burrowed deeper into the pillow and then went back to sleep. I texted Jazz that I was on my way.
When I drove up to her apartment complex, she was already standing outside, sunglasses on her nose and a travel mug in her hands.
“You look nice,” I said.
“Nice enough to meet a socialite?” she asked as she slid into the passenger side.
“Definitely.” I pulled out of the lot. “So, what went down after I left?”
“Nothing,” she said. “We stayed for another round, and then Willa had Duke come get her and Homer got Brielle and me.”
“And Brielle crashed with you?”
She nodded. “Yeah. She’s watching my mom right now.”
“How’s your mom doing?” I asked gently.
Jazz shrugged and then looked out the window.
I didn’t push her into talking about it. I understood. There were certain things that were hard to discuss, even with people you considered your close friends.
“How was your night?” she asked finally. She attempted to take a sip from her travel mug, but a stretch of highway was particularly bumpy, and she almost spilled the drink. “Shit.”
“At least you didn’t wear white,” I pointed out.
“I never wear white,” she explained. “Not after getting my period unexpectedly at fourteen when I was wearing white jeans. My wedding dress will be a color. Probably blue.”
“What a traumatizing experience,” I said.
“Yeah, it wasn’t the best. I had to walk around with a sweatshirt tied around my waist. God, I’m glad high school is long past over.”
“I have this theory,” I began. “Where if you had a good high school experience, you peaked. You know, captain of the football team who doesn’t get to go pro. Peaked. Class president on her way to Harvard and then you find out she slept with the recruiter. That kind of thing.”
“Wow, you sound so bitter and jaded. I like it.”
“I was invisible in high school,” I said.
“Opposite for me. I stood out, but sometimes you just want to blend in.”
“Sometimes you just want to stand out,” I argued.
“Man, if you could go back in time, what would you tell your younger self?”
“Go for your dreams and don’t let anything get in the way. Not naysayers, not parents, not even life. Because you never know when it’s all going to change. Decide what you want and go after it with zealous, blind determination.”
She paused. “That’s quite a speech.”
“Oh, and eat more bacon,” I added.
“That’s just a good idea in general.”
We drove to the address we were given and then stopped at the white security cottage at the edge of the property and checked in. A massive wrought iron gate on electric motors opened and we drove up the newly paved driveway to a palatial and pristine estate.
“Whoa,” Jazz said as we parked in the roundabout out front of the home. “This is very…’off with their heads’, isn’t it?”
“Little bit.”
I got out and reached in the back seat for my purse and sketchbook. I assumed Imogene already had an idea for what she wanted her wedding cake to look like, since we were only three weeks out, but it didn’t hurt to be prepared.
We walked up the brick steps to the front door. I rang the bell, and a moment later the door opened to reveal a man dressed in black and white attire.
“Hello,” I greeted.
“Good morning, Ms. Palmer. Ms. Valentine,” the man replied. “Please come with me.”
We followed the butler through an expansive front room that had a large round table with a vase of fresh white flowers in the center. Down the hall we went, past a living room and a dining room with furniture so expensive it didn’t even look like people were allowed to sit on it. We turned, and the butler stopped. He gestured to an enclosed outdoor patio where Imogene sat. There was a pitcher of orange juice in front of her.
She stood immediately when she saw us. “Thank you, Langston.”
“My pleasure, Ms. Imogene,” he said and then retreated.
Imogene embraced me. “Did you have trouble finding the place?”
She pulled back to look between me and Jazz.
Jazz, being Jazz, said, “It’s kinda hard to miss.”
Imogene blinked and then let out a tinkling laugh. “You’re so right!” She held out her hand. “You must be Jazz. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
“Sit.” Imogene gestured to two vacant chairs. “I thought we could discuss things over brunch. You haven’t eaten, have you?”
I didn’t think saltines counted as a meal, so I shook my head.
“Wonderful. Our chef makes a wonderful crab and lobster omelet,” Imogene said. “Oh. I didn’t think to ask if you’re allergic to shellfish.”
“I’m not,” Jazz said.
“I’m not either. But I am pregnant.” I smiled. “So, no shellfish for me.”
“You’re pregnant!” Imogene squealed. “That’s so exciting! How far along are you?”
“Still in the first trimester,” I admitted.
Imogene stood up. “Let me tell the chef to make you something else. Whatever you want. Tell me and I’ll have it made.”
“I’d kill for poached eggs on toast,” I admitted.
“Done and done.” She stood back up and left the enclosed patio.
“You weren’t lying,” Jazz said when she was sure Imogene was gone. “She’s lovely.”
I nodded.
Imogene returned and retook her seat. “It’s all settled. Langston will be out in a minute with fresh-squeezed orange juice for you.”
“What do you call that?” I asked, pointing to the pitcher.
She grinned. “Mimosas.”