The office felt too quiet without Anica. She’d always been the steady one, the planner, the voice of reason to my creative chaos. I was the emotional one, the one who once threatened a DJ with garden shears when he tried to play the Chicken Dance after the bride specifically banned it. (“It wasn’t a threat,” I’d explained later to Anica. “It was a promise. With visual aids.”)
My phone rang again. It was a bride calling about an emergency cake crisis for her wedding this weekend. This I could handle. Wedding emergencies were my jam, my specialty, the thing that made Anica keep me around despite my tendency to say “fuck” in front of grandmothers and accidentally set things on fire.
“What’s wrong with the cake?” I asked, already reaching for my emergency vendor contact list.
“The bakery just called. Their refrigeration system broke down overnight, and my cake is ruined!” Her voice had reached a particular pitch that only dogs and wedding planners could hear.
“Okay, first, take a deep breath,” I said, using my Calm The Fuck Down Voice. “Second, cancel your plans for the next hour. I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes.”
“Where are we going?” She asked, the panic in her voice dialing back from ‘imminent meltdown’ to ‘manageable crisis.’
“We’re going to visit the three best bakeries in Chicago, and by the time we’re done, you’ll have a cake that makes your original look like something from a gas station vending machine.”
“But my cake had hand-painted sugar flowers that took weeks to?—”
“Trust me,” I interrupted. “I got a replacement cake once with six hours’ notice during a flour shortage. This is practically luxury timing.”
By seven that evening, I’d secured a last-minute cake from Chicago’s most exclusive bakery, confirmed all the details for tomorrow’s celebrity meeting, and stress-eaten half a pizza while going through our presentation one more time.
The bank’s rejection still stung, but I was Mari Fucking Landry. I’d built a career out of making the impossible happen on deadlines that would give normal people aneurysms. One snooty banker wasn’t going to stop me.
I gathered my materials and headed out. Tomorrow’s meeting needed me at my absolute best.
Which meant I had approximately twelve hours to exorcise both the ghost of sex past and the nightmare of professional disaster from my brain before I faced the clients who could save our Chicago dream.
Maybe I needed to stop at the liquor store first…
CHAPTER 2
May The Best Planner Win
HUDSON
Iarrived at Abélard exactly seventeen minutes before my scheduled meeting with Chef Manny Kussikov and Director Lia Martin. Early enough to appear eager but not desperate. Late enough to avoid looking anxious. I’d perfected the timing over years of client meetings. I checked my watch, 11:13 AM, and adjusted my tie, even though it didn’t need adjusting.
The maître d’ at Abélard greeted me. It was a restaurant so exclusive they didn’t bother with a sign. “Mr. Gable, welcome. Your private dining room is prepared.”
I followed him through the restaurant, glancing around as we walked. It was quite a beautiful setting with soft but sufficient lighting. The table settings were elegant, dressed up with real floral arrangements.
The private dining room was perfect for our meeting. It was away from the rest of the chatter of the restaurant with comfortable chairs around an oval table. I took a moment to arrange my materials just the way I liked them, making sure everything lined up properly. I couldn’t help straightening the floral arrangement on the table too. It was a bit off-center.
My phone vibrated with a text from my father.
Meeting with the Kussikov-Martin team today?
Sighing, I ran a hand through my hair.
Yes. 11:30.
Don’t disappoint. There’s a lot riding on this. Remember, the Gable name means something in this industry.
No “good luck.” No “proud of you.” Just the ever-present reminder I wasn’t living up to the Gable wedding empire legacy. Three generations of wedding planning excellence, and I was the disappointing heir who couldn’t quite match their success.
I closed my eyes, briefly transported to the day I told my parents I was starting my company instead of joining Gable Weddings & Events. “You want to compete against us?” my father had asked. “After everything we’ve built?”
Eight years later, they still referred to Perfect Day Planning as “Hudson’s little experiment.”
The sound of the door opening shattered my memory. I glanced up, professional smile already in place.
