I ignored her, focusing on replying to Devonna’s text as we walked. The wedding expo was our biggest marketing opportunity of the year; a chance to showcase our services to hundreds of potential clients in one weekend. We couldn’t afford any mistakes.
Thinking about the expo was good. Professional. Safe. Much better than thinking about Callan and Angelina and their perfect compatibility and what his hand looked like resting on the small of her back as they left the restaurant.
This was just protectiveness toward a client. Nothing more. I wanted him to make a good choice, to find someone who would respect the arrangement and not take advantage. That was all.
It certainly wasn’t jealousy. Because jealousy would be unprofessional. And if there’s one thing I always was, it was professional.
Always.
“No no no no no,” I muttered, staring at my phone screen in horror. “This is not happening.”
Dying.
Mari’s text read.
Literally dying. Fever of 102. Can’t move. Send soup and priest for last rites. If I don’t make it, tell that hot barista at Starbucks I’ve been stalking that my ghost will still watch him shower.
I typed furiously.
You can’t be sick TODAY. The expo starts in THREE HOURS. You were fine yesterday.
Tell that to my immune system. It’s not taking calls. Also, I think I might be patient zero for the zombie apocalypse. If I bite anyone, shoot me in the head. Unless it’s Callan. Then just let nature take its course.
I groaned, dropping my head into my hands. The Manhattan Wedding Professionals Expo was one of the biggest events of the year. We’d been planning our booth for weeks, and now Mari was out of commission on the day we needed all hands on deck.
My phone pinged again. This time from Devonna.
Won’t be in today. Food poisoning. Spent night on bathroom floor. So sorry. P.S. If you need me to drag myself in anyway, I will, but fair warning that I projectile vomited six feet across my bathroom. Twice.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I said to my empty apartment. Both Mari and Devonna out on expo day. The universe was clearly punishing me for something. Possibly for those thoughts about Angelina Mercy and the fountain. Or for mentally setting fire to her perfect bouncy hair.
I took a deep breath, trying to center myself. I could handle this. I was Anica Marcel, wedding planning extraordinaire. I’d managed a ceremony during a blackout with only the headlights from guests’ cars for lighting. I’d coordinated a last-minute venue change when a hurricane flooded the original location. I could certainly manage a simple expo booth by myself.
After speed-showering and throwing on my most professional navy dress, I loaded the booth materials into my car and headed for the convention center. Everything was fine. This was fine. I was fine.
By the time I arrived, it was clear that nothing was fine. The booth next to ours—Enchanting Endings, our main competitor—had a three-person team efficiently setting up an elaborate display with a literal champagne fountain. Meanwhile, I was struggling to haul boxes from my car while balancing a tray of sample mini-cakes that were already listing dangerously to one side like the wedding cake Tower of Pisa.
“Need a hand with that?” a voice drawled from behind me.
I whirled around, nearly dropping the cake tray, to find Callan leaning against my car. He wore dark jeans and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, looking more like amodel for a luxury watch ad than someone who belonged at a wedding expo.
“What are you doing here?” I blurted.
“Good morning to you too, darling,” he replied, straightening. “And here I thought you’d be happy to see me. Most women generally are, what with all...” he gestured vaguely at himself, “...this.”
“I’m—I didn’t—” I took a breath. “We had to cancel our meeting. I texted you.”
“You did,” he agreed. “Something about being shorthanded for some expo thing. So I thought I’d stop by and see if I could help. I’m very good at helping. Also lifting heavy things, reaching high shelves, and looking decorative in a corner if needed. I make an excellent Christmas tree.”
I stared at him and Mari’s numerous comments about climbing him like a tree forced their way to the front of my brain until nothing useful was left except–
“You came to... help?”
“Don’t look so shocked.” He reached out and took the cake tray from my hands before I could protest. “In fact, I once helped an old lady cross the street. Granted, it was Gram and she threatened to disinherit me if I didn’t, but still. Helpful.” He nodded at the boxes in my car. “Where does this stuff go?”
“Table at the back of booth thirty-five,” I said automatically, still processing his presence. “But you don’t have to?—”
“I know I don’t have to,” he interrupted. “I want to. Now, what else needs to be brought in? And please say it’s something heavy so I can impress you with my manly strength.”
