“We want it to be unforgettable,” Manny added. “Not another predictable celebrity wedding with Edison bulbs and farm tables.”
Mari and I exchanged glances.
“So here’s our proposal. We want both of you to plan our wedding,” Lia said with a wide grin.
“Together?” Mari and I asked simultaneously, horror written across her face, and likely my own.
“Not exactly,” Manny clarified
“We want you to compete. You’ll both work on planning our wedding over the next two months, leading up to our engagement party. You’ll collaborate on logistics but each bring your unique vision.”
“After the engagement party, we’ll make our final decision about who will execute the actual wedding.” Manny held Lia’s hand, a smile on his face.
I tried to wrap my head around this completely unexpected proposal.
“The publicity for both your companies would be substantial from the wedding itself,” Lia pointed out. “Even the planner who isn’t ultimately selected will benefit enormously from the exposure.”
“And we would of course pay for the two months for both of you, no matter who gets chosen.”
Being associated with the wedding would establish Perfect Day Planning in Chicago with near certainty. And if I won the competition? My father might finally regard my career with something other than thinly veiled contempt.
“I’m in,” Mari declared, apparently needing far less time to decide than I did. “Knot Your Average Wedding accepts your challenge.”
They all looked at me expectantly. The logical part of my brain identified many reasons this arrangement was problematic, starting with the professional ethics of competition-based selection and ending with the catastrophic probability of spending two months in close proximity to Mari Landry without either killing her or?—
Nope, don’t go there.
“Perfect Day Planning accepts as well,” I said, extending my hand to Manny. “I look forward to creating your perfect day.”
Mari made a sound suspiciously like a snort, which I ignored as Lia detailed the arrangement. Weekly progress meetings. Shared vendor appointments. Separate creative proposals. Collaborative logistics.
“One more thing,” Manny added as the meeting concluded. “We’ve arranged a shared workspace for you both. Neutral territory, so to speak.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I began, the thought of sharing space with Mari already making my stress levels spike.
“We insist. The creative tension between you is exactly what we’re looking for, and we can’t exactly get that with you two working in your own spaces,” Lia said.
Creative tension. An interesting euphemism for what the video revealed was barely contained hostility with unmistakable sexual undertones. Visible to anyone with basic observation skills.
We said goodbye, and the couple left. Probably a mistake because that meant no witnesses for the murder about to happen. Hers or mine. It was a bit of a crapshoot, though I’d gotten her in that chokehold pretty easily last time.
“If you think for one second that I’m going to let you win this, you’re delusional,” Mari said, standing to gather her materials. “I need this contract.”
“Me too,” I replied, collecting my portfolio. “But I don’t need to resort to sabotage or pyrotechnics. Quality speaks for itself.”
“Says the man who rearranged my display and told clients my designs were outdated.”
“I merely offered them a superior alternative.”
“Superior?” She stepped closer, invading my personal space with the scent of citrus and vanilla beneath it. “Your booth looked like it was designed by a robot with a protractor fetish.”
“And yours looked like a unicorn vomited glitter onto a Pinterest board.”
“At least mine had personality.”
“Personality doesn’t guarantee structural integrity. Or fire resistance.”
We were standing dangerously close now. Close enough that I noticed the flecks of darker blue in her irises. Close enough to notice the slight increase in her pulse visible at her neck. Close enough toremember vividly how her skin had tasted when I’d traced that pulse point with my tongue.
