CHAPTER 1
Expo-nentially Bad Decisions
MARI
Two weeks ago, I had the best sex of my life with a man who turned out to be my professional nemesis. The universe didn’t just fuck me. It fucked me, filmed it, and is now selling tickets to the show.
“Call me when you land,” I said, hugging my best friend Anica at the airport security line. She’d pulled her dark hair into its usual perfect bun, not a strand out of place despite our mad dash through O’Hare. “And if Callan tries to convince you that letting him fly the plane would be more fun, please remind him that billionaires who die in private aircraft accidents become cautionary TED Talks with titles like ‘How One Man’s Ego Created a New Crater.’”
Anica rolled her eyes. “I’ll keep him in coach class with the rest of the peasants, I promise.”
Callan, her obscenely rich and irritatingly handsome husband of one year, raised an eyebrow. “Ladies, I’m standing right here.”
I squealed, opening my mouth and grinning. “Oh my god, hi Cal! I didn’t see you there.” As if I could miss the tall, broad-shouldered Apollo wannabe. “We were just talking about you,” I said, patting his cheek. “Now go back to Manhattan and make more money while Iexpand your wife’s empire. Try not to buy any small countries while I’m gone unless you’re going to give them to me for Christmas.”
“If I find any countries looking for psychotic blond dictators, I’ll make sure to put in a bid,” he promised, slipping his arm around Anica’s waist in that casually possessive way that made my ovaries simultaneously sigh and tell my brain to shut up about my perpetually single status.
“You’re going to do amazing, Mar,” Anica said, squeezing my hands. “You’ve got this. I wouldn’t trust anyone else with our Chicago office.”
My stomach twisted like I’d swallowed a live squid that was now attempting to escape through my bellybutton. Knot Your Average Wedding had been our baby since college. Well, Anica’s baby that I’d enthusiastically co-parented by adding equal parts creativity and chaos. It was weird to think that she trusted me enough to fly solo with the new expansion. Just me, alone in Chicago, responsible for making or breaking our Midwest presence.
God, she was an idiot.
“Text me about the celebrity meeting tomorrow,” Anica called over her shoulder as they headed toward security. “I want every detail! No improvising without running it by me first!”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be a perfect little Anica-clone!” I shouted back, making a face that she couldn’t see but definitely knew I was making.
Aw, shit. I was going to miss her. Damn it.
I watched until they disappeared into the TSA line, Callan’s arm around Anica. They were disgustingly perfect together, like someone had designed them in a laboratory where they grew ideal couples from celebrity DNA and fairy tales. I was only slightly jealous. Okay, moderately jealous. Fine. Watching them made my uterus do the entire floor routine from the national women’s gymnastics team, but I’d rather lick the bottom of a groom’s shoe after an outdoor farm wedding reception in the middle of a shitstorm than admit that out loud.
I tugged my blonde waves into a messy bun. As I headed to my car, I was already mentally preparing for tomorrow’s meeting with celebrity chef Manny Kussikov and his film director fiancée Lia Martin. Landing their wedding would be like shooting the Chicago expansiondirectly into wedding planners’ heaven, complete with gold-plated harps and champagne waterfalls.
Our Chicago office was a converted industrial loft in the West Loop that made me feel like I was starring in my own romcom montage every time I walked in. Exposed brick walls. Massive windows. The kind of hardwood floors that had definitely witnessed at least three murders back in prohibition days.
I spread my materials across the reclaimed wood conference table that Anica had shipped from some sustainable forest collective in Oregon. Tomorrow’s meeting needed to be perfect. Not Anica-perfect, which was impossible without surgically removing my personality, but Mari-perfect. Creative, memorable, and the perfect amount of holy-shit-did-she-really-just-say-that.
My phone rang from an unknown number. I answered with my Professional Voice™, which was just my regular voice minus the swearing and sexual innuendos.
“Mari Landry, Knot Your Average Wedding, how can I help you?”
“Ms. Landry, this is Mr. Radfordt from First Chicago Bank.”
My stomach dropped. Banking calls were never good news. They were the equivalent of your gynecologist calling you personally instead of having a nurse do it.
“I’m calling about your business loan application for the Chicago expansion.”
I perched on the edge of the conference table, needing something solid under me. This loan was everything. The difference between Knot Your Average Wedding: Midwest Empire and Mari Landry: Crawling Back to New York with Her Tail Between Her Legs.
“Yes! I was just reviewing our projections, and?—”
“We have some concerns about the viability of the expansion without more substantial assets or existing Chicago clients.”
Condescension dripped through the phone. Translation: We don’t think you can hack it in the big city, little girl with the funny ideas and ridiculous blonde hair.
“I understand your concerns, Mr. Radfordt, but I actually have a meeting tomorrow with Chef Manny Kussikov and Lia Martin. You know, the Oscar-nominated director? They’relooking for someone to plan their wedding here in Chicago.” I forced brightness into my voice. “Their wedding would immediately establish our reputation in the Midwest market.”
“Celebrities are notoriously fickle, Ms. Landry,” he replied in a tone that suggested he found my prospects about as promising as a cash bar at a Kardashian wedding. “Send over the details if you secure the contract, and we can reassess. Until then, I’m afraid we’ll need to put your application on hold.”
