For Better or Worse (11 page)

Alexis let out a horrified laugh. “Jessie! She's a client! How many mimosas have you had?”

Jessie looked chagrined, but barely. “Sorry, but she is. We all think so.”

Brooke sipped her own drink and patted Alexis's arm. “It's true. The woman's a nightmare. What kind of woman shows zero interest in planning her own wedding but also insists it be the event of the ­century?”

Josh snorted. “Sounds like Danica.”

“You know her,” Heather said, her voice speculative.

“That happens when you date someone, 4C,” he said.

“No, I mean you
know
her. What she likes. What she doesn't like . . .”

“You're not about to get kinky on me, are you?” he asked, giving Heather a wary look.

Her smile grew wider. “You know what this
means? I no longer have to plan this wedding blind. It means that I have an inside track.”

Josh dropped the spoon back into the bowl. “Tell me you're not suggesting what I think you're suggesting.”

She patted his arm. “Let's just say I think we figured out how to make amends for all those sleepless nights you've caused me.” Heather looked around at the other Belles' encouraging expressions and smiled almost maniacally. “You, Josh Tanner, are going to help me plan this wedding.”

Josh stared at her before glancing around the table to see if anyone else was concerned that she was losing her mind. To his horror, the women were all nodding in awed agreement. Seth Tyler gave him a sympathetic look and handed him a nearly full champagne bottle.

“Yeah, that's not happening, 4C.”

She sat back in her chair with a little huff. “Hardball, fine. What'll it take? Banana bread? I'll make you banana bread. Whatever you want, 4A, name it.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to say that he didn't want banana bread—or anything—badly enough to help with his hideous ex-girlfriend's wedding.

But as he met Heather's hopeful green eyes, her lips pursed in a sexy little pout that made him remember exactly how sweet she'd tasted, he realized that maybe there was something he did want that badly.

He wanted Heather Fowler.

In his bed.

Chapter Twelve

L
ATER THAT DAY, STILL
flying high from the unquestionable success of her first hosted brunch, Heather hunkered down for another treasured weekend ritual: a cup of cinnamon apple tea and her requisite Sunday-evening phone chat with her mother.

It had been Heather who'd initiated the weekly routine years ago when she'd gone away to college. She'd insisted that it was for her own sake—that she was missing being away from home. But she suspected her mother knew the truth—that Heather's weekly check-ins had been more for her mom's sake than for hers.

Not that Joan Fowler was the clingy type. Far from it, in fact. Heather had grown up with her mother working two, sometimes three jobs, which meant they'd gotten used to being apart. Heck, Heather's junior year of high school, her mom had taken the night shift at a twenty-four-hour diner, and it had seemed like they'd gone an entire year without seeing each other.

But college had been different. Although Michigan State was only an hour's drive from her hometown, the distance meant Heather hadn't been able to ensure her mom had healthy groceries stocked. Hadn't been there to move her mom's work uniform to the dryer before it started to smell mildewy.

It wasn't that her mom was flaky; it was just that the two of them had always taken care of each other. Something that had been hard to do an hour away in college, and was even harder now that Heather had followed her dreams to New York.

Her mom had never begrudged her that. Not once in Heather's entire life had her mom made her feel guilty for leaving. Quite the contrary, Joan had been her biggest cheerleader. The one who insisted that Heather not only aim high, but act on it.

When Heather's friends' moms in the trailer park had been encouraging their daughters to be realistic, Joan was telling Heather to reach for the stars.

The brightest star in Heather's case being New York City.

Her mom's blessing didn't ease the guilt though. Nothing could, although maybe the Sunday phone calls helped a tiny bit.

“Hi, honey,” her mother chirped the second she picked up the phone. “How's my darling girl?”

“Wonderful,” Heather said, settling into the couch and pulling her legs up to her chest, resting her mug on her knees as she made the expected response. “How's my darling mom?”

“Red.”

Heather's eyebrows went up. “Hot flashes again?”

“No. Well, I mean, yes. Menopause has officially sunk its teeth in. But no, I meant red haired.”

“I thought you were already red haired.”

“No, I went chestnut for a while. Remember?”

“Oh right,” Heather said, even though she rarely had a clue what color hair her mother had on any given day. Her mother had worked a good number of odd jobs in an effort to keep food on the table and, later, to help Heather pay for textbooks in college, but her bread and butter had always been hairdressing. The waitress gigs came and went, as did the occasional housekeeping duties, but Joan always said that she was a hairdresser through and through.

“You do it yourself?” Heather took a sip of tea.

“Nah, Sissy helped,” her mother said, referring to her longtime best friend and neighbor. “I helped her go gray.”

“How is Sissy not already gray? Isn't she pushing sixty?”

“Mind your tongue,” Joan said without bite. “And yes, but it takes a rare skill to make the gray look intentional. Lucky for Sissy, I have that skill.”

Heather smiled at her mom's complete lack of modesty.

“You'll see one day, darling. Or maybe not. You always did have exceptional hair.”

Exceptional? Hardly. But then it was always people
without
the curls who wanted them.

In almost every way, Heather was a miniature of her mother. The same wide eyes, same slow-to-smile grin. Same narrow figure and sharp-winged brows.

But whereas Heather's hair was a mess (okay, tangle) of curls, Joan's hair was stick straight. The curls were the one and only thing Heather had gotten from her long-gone father. Though Heather didn't like that any physical link connected her to her good-for-nothing absentee dad, she could appreciate the irony that a hairdresser would have a daughter whose locks were virtually untamable—the shoemaker's children have no shoes, and all that.

“The girls at the shop nearly lost their minds when I told them you were doing Danica Robinson's wedding,” her mother said.

“Mom! You know the Belles aren't supposed to talk about the weddings we work on. We sign confidentiality agreements.”

“But
you
talked about it.”

“Yes, to my
mom
,” Heather said, rubbing her temple.

“And I talked to my
friends
. They won't tell a soul, don't you worry, sugar.”

Heather snorted. Joan Fowler's friends were a loyal bunch, but discreet they were not. Still, she doubted the gossip in Merryville would ever make it to Danica Robinson's ears. And it's not like the wedding was top secret. Jessie said she'd been fielding calls from the media for weeks.

“Just . . . no more details for the girls, okay?” Heather asked, keeping her voice as gentle as possible.

“No, no, of course not,” her mother said. “But things are going well? I know you were stressed about it last time we talked.”

“Eh, I don't know about well,” Heather said,
adjusting her mug atop her knees. “I toured a bunch of places yesterday and sent Danica my feedback, and she wrote back saying to pick ‘the best one.' ”

“Well, that's good. That she trusts you.”

“I suppose. And I'm glad she's not being a total diva about it. But don't you think it's weird?” Heather asked. “I mean, she's this huge reality star, and her wedding will be everywhere, and she doesn't care enough to get involved?”

“I just watched her show the other day,” Joan said. “She's busy launching her shoe line. Maybe she doesn't have time.”

“For her wedding?”

“Well, not that I've ever been married,” her mother said slowly. “But maybe she's smart enough to know that the wedding is just a day and that it's really about the marriage.”

Heather rolled her eyes. She'd heard that before. Hell, she'd
said
that before. It was a common refrain for people trying to calm down brides-to-be. She just wasn't convinced that that was what was at work here. Danica hadn't struck her as a romantic soul in touch with what really mattered in life.

“I did have a little stroke of luck,” Heather said slowly.

“Oh?”

“So, there's this guy—”

“Oh!”

“No, not that kind of guy,” Heather said with a smile. Like mothers everywhere, Joan Fowler thought her daughter's life would be a little bit better if she could find a nice boy and settle down. Heather never
wanted to make her mom feel bad, but she hadn't exactly had a stable picture to model her relationships off of when she was young. Joan flitted from man to man like flavors of the week, and sometimes Heather had gotten caught in the crosshairs. She'd concluded that a life without a man was a calmer, steady sort of life, just the kind she'd always wanted. “But in a crazy coincidence, the guy that lives next door actually used to date Danica.”

“Huh.”

“Huh what?”

“Is this the same neighbor that plays his music too loud?”

“Yes.”

“The cute one.”

“I don't recall saying that he was cute,” Heather said warily.

“But he is, isn't he?”

Heather snorted.
Cute
wasn't the word for Josh Tanner's appearance.
Ridiculously hot
, maybe. It was almost handy, how good-looking he was. It was like a constant reminder not to fall for him, because men who looked like that were not the kind you fell in love with. They were the ones you admired from afar, sparred with occasionally, and kept at a very, very safe distance.

Even if they did seem to have a knack for planting very hot, very skilled kisses on you when you weren't expecting it.

“
Anyway
,” Heather said, “Josh and Danica dated for a couple years. If anyone has a sense of what this woman wants, it's the guy who she had jumping through hoops to please her.”

“And he agreed?”

“Actually, yeah,” Heather said, still a little surprised by the ease with which Josh had agreed to let her run a few things by him. But then if there was one thing she'd learned to expect from Josh, it was to be surprised. “He's even agreed to go to look at a couple places with me tomorrow.”

“Hmm.”

“Mom.”

“He likes you,” Joan said gleefully.

“Well, yeah. Because we're friends.”
Friends who've kissed.

“I've had a few friends like that in my day. One of them resulted in a daughter.”

“Gross,” Heather muttered. She was all for the
Gilmore Girls–
type relationship she and her mom had, more friends than mother/daughter, but she drew the line at sex talk.

“You're young, honey! A little fling might be just what—”

“Nope. Not doing that,” Heather said. “Subject change . . . have you thought about my offer for Thanksgiving?”

The moment of silence from her usually chatty mother was all the answer she needed, and Heather tried to ward off the stab of frustration, but it came anyway.

“The new manager at the restaurant is thinking of staying open,” her mom said. “If I worked a shift, it'd be double pay.”

“Mom, if you need money—”

“No,” her mother said, a sharpness to her tone
that Heather was unaccustomed to hearing. “I appreciate it, I do, but I'm doing just fine. And you know I'd love to see you on Thanksgiving, if you want to come out—”

“Mom, I've been in New York for nearly five years now,” Heather said quietly. “You haven't come out to visit once.”

Her mom didn't respond, and Heather's frustration made the usual transition into hurt. She knew that New York was her dream, not her mother's. Knew that her mother was perfectly happy back home in her trailer in a way that Heather never could have been.

But despite repeated offers to pay for her mother to come to visit, Joan always found an excuse. It always ended up that Heather trudged back to Michigan for the holidays, falling into old habits as she and her mom crowded around the tiny kitchen table and had ham sandwiches or canned soup because her mom's grand plans of “cooking something new” had been derailed by a new TV show or a phone call from Sissy.

“New York just isn't for me,” Joan said in a conciliatory tone.

“How do you know?” Heather asked with more snippiness than usual. “You've never been here.”

Her mom sighed. “Honey, you know that I'm proud of all you've accomplished, but you need to accept that I'm happy here.”

“I'm not asking you to move here. I don't need you to live my life. I just want you to see it,” Heather said with a bit of pleading.

“I do see it. I always like everything you put on Facebook, and—”

“That isn't the same, Mom.”

“What do you want from me, honey? You want me to put on high heels and come drink martinis with you?”

“You don't have to mock. That's not what I'm asking for, and you know it.”

There was a long sigh on the other end. “Maybe we should both cool off a little bit,” Joan said. “I hate fighting with you.”

“I hate fighting, too,” Heather said. “But it shouldn't be a fight just because I invite you to my home for Thanksgiving.”

“I have to get going, sweetie.”

For what? One of your shows?
Heather said to herself, and then immediately regretted the unkind thought. Her mom worked hard, harder than almost any other woman Heather knew, and she deserved the chance to take a load off. But she couldn't help but feel like she was leaving her mother behind in a way, and the thought made her almost unbearably sad.

“All right,” Heather said, forcing brightness into her voice so her mom wouldn't sense her bitterness. “No problem.”

“Good luck with the wedding stuff. I can't wait to hear all about it next week!”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“I love you. You know that, right? And I mean it. I'm so proud.”

“I know,” Heather said. “I love you, too.”

They said their good-byes, and after hanging up,
Heather pulled her blue throw blanket off the back of the couch and wrapped it around her, trying to ward off the stab of loneliness.

Her mom had Sissy and her salon friends and her restaurant clients. Heck, even the noisy, sometimes-bickering trailer-park community was there for each other.

Heather had . . . no one. Sure, there was Alexis and Brooke, and they were friends as much as they were colleagues, but they also had their own things going on. Heather worked so much that she hadn't really had time to develop a social circle in New York outside of the Belles. She supposed she could call up her old Brooklyn roommates to go out, but the thought of them all catching each other up on their lives left her more exhausted than elated.