She looked me up and down. “Honey, it’s kind of obvious.”
I shot her a look that had made florists cry. “I date.”
“The chai latte guy asking if you want an extra shot doesn’t count as a date.”
Before I could defend my completely adequate personal life, Devonna appeared with her tablet, now displaying what looked like a small explosion.
“The DJ just played the groom’s mother’s forbidden song,” she reported. “She’s threatening to do an interpretive dance to it.”
“On it,” I said, already moving toward the dance floor. “Tell him to transition to ‘YMCA’ immediately. No one can resist group choreography, not even vengeful mothers-in-law.”
“I refuse to be the wedding planner who can’t pay her rent.” I slumped in my office chair later that night, staring at our books. The McMurty wedding had been a triumph, but its payment would barely cover next month’s expenses.
Our office, a converted loft in Chelsea with exposed brick walls and windows that leaked both air and street noise, was the perfect metaphor for our business: stylish on the surface with structural issues we pretended not to notice. Kind of like my dating history, but with better furniture.
“We’re not that bad off,” Mari argued, feet propped on my desk as she scrolled through Instagram, posting carefully selected shots from today’s wedding. “The Fisher-Lu wedding next month is a big one.”
“And after that, we’ve got nothing but small ceremonies until next year.” I rubbed my temples. “We need a whale, Mari. A client big enough to float us through the rest of the winter slump.”
“What about the couple who wanted their dogs as ring bearers?” Devonna suggested, looking up from her meticulous organization of our emergency supplies. She was restocking my thigh holster with extra bobby pins and what appeared to be mini bottles of tequila.
“The Great Danes with anxiety issues? Hard pass. I still have nightmares about what happened during the consultation. That, and there’s still a giant brown stain on the rug by your foot.”
“Ew,” Devonna wrinkled her nose and stepped to the side. “How do I keep forgetting about that? Anyways, what about that socialite who called yesterday? The one planning the Christmas wedding for next year? A deposit from her might help.”
“She’s a bridezilla with a budget too small for her expectations,” I sighed. “She wants ice sculptures of herself and the groom riding matching unicorns. The unicorns need to cry actual tears that fill champagne glasses.”
“Classy,” Mari snorted.
“I told her we were booked. Right after I checked whether our insurance covers ‘death by falling mythical ice creature.’”
“You turned down business?” Mari dropped her feet to the floor. “Since when do we turn down paying clients?”
“Since this one would cost us more in therapy bills than we’d make on the contract.” I began packing up my laptop. After fourteen hours in four-inch heels, my body was screaming for a hot bath and the leftover pad thai waiting in my fridge. “What about the politician’s daughter?”
“Wants to get married on a glacier to make a statement about climate change,” Mari said. “I told her nothing says ‘environmental consciousness’ like flying two hundred guests to the Arctic Circle.”
“The Pekchov-Winstein wedding?”
“Groom’s mother called six times today,” Devonna reported. “She’s now requesting we provide emotional support alpacas for guests who find the ceremony overwhelming.”
“What the hell? That’s... creative,” I admitted.
“She also wants them in tuxedos that match the groomsmen.”
“Of course she does.” I sighed. “Anyone else promising actual money instead of exotic livestock and therapy bills?”
The office phone rang, and we all stared at it.
“Nobody answer that,” I warned. “It’s after nine. Whoever it is can leave a voicemail like a normal person.”
Mari’s eyes gleamed. Her rebellious streak had both created and nearly destroyed our friendship multiple times since college. “Could be a whale,” she sang, reaching for the phone.
“If it’s the unicorn bride, I will end you,” I threatened. “And I know how to make it look like an accident. I’ve worked with enough murder mystery themed weddings.”
“Knot Your Average Wedding,” Mari chirped into the receiver. She listened for a moment, then frowned. “Yes, she’s here, but we generally don’t do consultations this late?—”
She paused, eyes widening. “I see. May I ask what this is regarding?” Another pause. “Of course. One moment.”
