Isign my name across the bottom of the contract with a flourish that feels pretty damned good, if I do say so myself.
After weeks of client wooing, the Crescent City Film Festival after-party is locked and loaded. Twelve hundred guests, an open bar with signature cocktails, a seven-course tasting menu, and a planning fee that will cover my mortgage for the next four months.
After the summer from hell, things are finally looking up.
For me,andmy favorite city.
I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking softly, feeling grateful.
Outside my second-story home office window, my staff is busy prepping for Parker and Makena’s engagement party. The air is filled with the cheerful clink of champagne flutes being arranged on tables, snippets of live music as the band tests the sound system, and Molly’s bright laughter as she directs the food truck into position.
The weather gods have blessed us with a high of seventy-eight with no chance of rain, the decorations are perfection, and the photo booth, lawn game station, and couple-themed trivia challenges should keep the fun flowing. So far, the setup is going off without a hitch, every piece falling seamlessly into place.
This is clearly an event planned by a woman who has her shit together.
Idohave my shit together.
Finally.
After years of prioritizing the wrong things—andpeople—my life is smooth, happy, peaceful, and filled with folks who treat me well and never take my friendship or generosity for granted.
Life is good.
And then, as if warning me not to drop my guard just yet, my phone buzzes on the desk beside me, bringing tidings from the world beyond…
It’s Dara, a lovely woman who happens to be married to my veryunlovely ex-boyfriend’s college roommate, Vick. I would have called us friends back in the day, before Teddy and I ended our on-again-off-again relationship, but I haven’t heard from her much in the past year.
I’d assumed she’s been forced to choose Teddy in the “friend divorce,” due to Vick’s closeness to him and his well-connected family.
But maybe I was wrong.
Maybe Dara wants to reconnect and be closer than we’ve been in the past year…
I should have known better, of course.
Things have been going well lately, but Teddy always seems to come back to haunt me, sooner or later…
Dara: Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. I can’t believe this! The nerve of that man. I can’t believe he opened his mouth and let THAT come out. Call me when you can? And seriously, just say the word, and Vick and I will both skip the wedding. Fuck college friends, and fuck Teddy.
My stomach drops.
I stare at the link at the end of the text, sitting there like a snake coiled in the grass. I don’t want to click it. My every instinct is screaming that I should delete this text, jump into the shower to get ready for the fabulous party I’m throwing for my fabulous friend, and pretend Teddy Delacorte doesn’t exist.
But I’ve never been good at looking away from ugly truths.
I’d rather feel the pain than stay in the dark, waiting for reality to ambush me when I least expect it.
So…I click the link.
The page loads, and there they are, Teddy and Madison, my ex and my former protégée, wrapped around each other in the New Orleans Botanical Garden, all soft focus and golden hour light. Madison in a white couture sundress, I know she can’t afford on her second-tier wedding-and-party-planning company salary. And Teddy in the lux, Italian linen shirt I bought him three Christmases ago, the one he said made him feel like he was “trying too hard,” when I asked him to wear it to my aunt’s wedding.
Apparently, he doesn’t mind getting caught trying now…
The headline—New Orleans’ Newest “It” Couple Opens Up About Love, Life, and the Unstoppable Magic That MakesThem… Well, Them—threatens to trip my gag reflex, but I force myself to keep reading.
The journalist coos about their “compelling energy” and “refreshingly earnest approach to modern romance.” Madison is then quoted as gushing,“I finally understand what all the love songs are about. They’re literally about this feeling. Love. The real thing, though, the kind you don’t find very often these days. I’m just so grateful God led me to this incredible man.”
“Wow, love songs are about love. Who would have thought, you intellectually deficient traitor,” I mutter, feeling uncharitable.
