“I mean it. On my mother’s grave,” I say and she pouts.
“Your mom died?”
“She was seventy-five,” I say.
“Still…”
“She was a vibrant lady who lived on a diet of grilled cheese and the devil’s lettuce. She died a happy woman,” I tell her. It’s true. “Yes, Charlotte. I promise that Ben will never know the truth. You’re not the one with the relationship at stake here, so trust me when I say I do not want my son to pay the price of his bride-to-be having to find a new wedding planner because of a conflict of interest.”
After a pensive moment, Charlotte nods. It’s a small nod, an unconvincing nod, but a nod nonetheless. I know that’s aboutthe most water I am going to squeeze out of the rock that is Sweater Dress Charlotte. I stand up and offer her a hand. She takes it and comes to her feet.
“I guess we should have talked more about the wedding planning,” she says.
“What’s there to talk about?” I ask. “I have faith in you.”
“There are a lot of details to hammer down, Gavin. The wedding is in less than a month. We need to discuss?—”
“There’s no budget,” I say, and she stops.
“Okay, when you say no budget…I’m going to need at least a ballpark. Because landing caterers and music arrangements and things like that are going to come down to bidding.”
“No budget means no budget,” he says, pulling a card from his wallet. “That’s a business card. Do whatever you have to do. Whatever makes the bride and groom happy. Whatever you think is best.”
Charlotte blinks at the card in her hand. Then she nods and clears her throat. “Alright then. Well. I guess I should get back.”
“Sounds good,” I nod.
Charlotte turns to leave but then stops right before the door. “Oh and Gavin,” she says, turning back around. I already know what she’s going to say, so before she can say it, I cut her off.
“Charlotte.” I say before making a zipper motion over my lips with my fingers.
She nods and walks out, and I wait until she is gone to grin. Good Lord. What have I gotten myself into?
Chapter 11
Charlotte
“You won’t believewhat I found,” Josie says as she bust through the door of our apartment, her arms full of bags.
“First thing I want to know is where you found it,” I say without looking up from my laptop. “Thrift store? Yard sale? Oh, it’s Saturday. Flea market?”
“Better!” she beams as the door slams behind her. “It’s trash day in Brickman Heights!”
“Trash day on a Saturday?” I ask. “I’ve never heard of a neighborhood having trash picked up on Saturdays.”
“I don’t know. They’re rich. They’re weird. I went racooning, and I found this!” she says. I finish the sentence I am typing before looking over to see what she’s holding. “Is that a bust of Frida Kahlo?” I ask.
“In the flesh! Or…the bust. But yes! Can you believe someone was just going to throw this away?!” she asks.
“I can’t believe someone bought it in the first place,” I answer. I don’t have anything against Frida. But it doesn’t look a whole lot like her, which is probably why someone left it on the curb.
“Well, finders keepers,” she says, finding a spot in the apartment for it. It’s been tight quarters here since Ben and I broke up and I moved in with Josie. I don’t mind living here. If anything, I’m very grateful I had an immediate place to go. Between my work desk and shelves and her thrift shopping habits, it’s a little cluttered.
“So how are you feeling?” she asks. “Hungry?”
“I just had a turkey wrap, but thank you,” I tell her as I click through the list of caterers available on the date of the wedding. Usually finding things on such short notice is difficult, if not impossible. Winter weddings aren’t the most popular, which has made it easier.
“So you don’t want to order Thai food? Because I really want some Singapore noodles,” she says.
