Frenched Series Bundle (31 page)

This moment called for some whiskey.

I pulled out the bottle of Two James Grass Widow Bourbon I kept stashed in my bottom desk drawer and poured myself two fingers. It was only three o’clock, but it was Friday and I had no clients coming in this afternoon, so I took a sip for courage and crunched the numbers.

Sixty-two thousand dollars. That’s what I needed if I wanted to put twenty percent down on the house and get a mortgage payment I had a prayer of making. Fuck. I took another sip.

Thirty-one thousand dollars.

That’s what I needed if I wanted to put ten percent down and struggle each month. Goodbye lattes, La Mer, and Laphroaig.

Then there were closing costs, bank fees, taxes, and moving expenses. Plus the arm, leg, breast, eyeball, elbow, and ass cheek it was going to cost me to renovate the hundred-year-old place.

I took a third glug of bourbon and propped my forehead in one hand.

Twenty bucks.

That’s what I needed to buy a hammer at Sears and pound my head in, which was going to happen if I didn’t get out of my parents’ house soon. I’d moved back home eight months ago to save some money for a down payment, but living with your parents and Lebanese grandmother at age twenty-eight is a special kind of torture. They were perfectly nice people, but they had an opinion about everything, from my wardrobe to my hair color to my love life, and they weren’t shy about sharing it.

That skirt length isn’t really right for you, is it?

Why is your hair blue at the bottom? Was there an accident at the salon?

Don’t worry, habibi. Plenty of girls don’t get married. In my day we call them old maids, but I bet there is nicer name now.

I cracked open the whiskey a little early that day too.

Tucking one side of my bottom lip between my teeth, I checked my savings account balance. The crazy thing was this flutter of hope I had in my belly, as if maybe it had grown overnight on its own, magic beanstalk style.

Nope—less than fifteen grand.

I released the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, my shoulders slumping in defeat. There was no way I could afford this house. And yet there was no way I could let go of the idea of living there, either. It was my house, dammit. I knew it the moment I walked in, even if it did smell like cat pee circa the Kennedy administration.

Twisting my brown hair with blue tips (not an accident, thank you very much) into a knot at the top of my head, I stuck two pencils through it and looked again at the numbers I’d scribbled on my note pad. My real estate agent had just called to tell me someone else was going to make an offer on the house. If I wanted it, she said I’d have to act fast, as if indecision was my problem. I was totally willing to act fast. When it came to something I wanted, waiting around was not my style.

But act fast and do what? Get a second job? Rob a bank? Sell my eggs?

Don’t think I wasn’t considering it.

I took a bigger swallow of booze and contemplated asking my parents for the other seventeen thousand I needed to put ten percent down, which is what my agent thought I should do. They had plenty of money, and they probably wouldn’t even make me pay it back, at least not right away. But they’d think offering their financial help meant they got A Say in what I bought, and I could just imagine all the arguments we’d have over my buying a hundred-year old, five thousand square foot fixer-upper by myself.

Redo the kitchen? That’s absurd. You’ve never even picked up a hammer!

A yard? Don’t be silly. You don’t know how to mow a lawn.

A house like that needs a man.

I slugged the last of my Two James and eyed the bottle, seriously considering pouring another, even though the numbers I’d scribbled were beginning to swim a bit.

“I’m heading home.” Mia poked her head into my office and grinned. “Gotta start packing my bags.”

Grateful for the distraction, I popped up from my chair and rushed over to embrace her. “Eek! This is so exciting! I wish I were going with you!” Mia was leaving on Tuesday for France, where she would be married two and a half weeks later. Erin and I would fly over six days before the wedding.

Mia let me squeeze her slender frame and laughed when I didn’t let her go. “Me too. There’s so much to get done before the eighteenth. And I wish I spoke French; it would make things so much easier.”

She sniffed. “Have you been drinking?”

Releasing her, I put one hand in front of my mouth. “Just a little.” But then I couldn’t resist taking her by the shoulders, shaking her gently. “God, Mia. I can’t believe you’re getting married in two weeks—to Lucas! At a villa! In Provence!” Both of us jumped up and down a few times.

“I know!” She bit her lip. “But don’t jinx me, Coco. I don’t want anything to go wrong this time.”

Mia had been engaged once before, but her asshole fiancé had called off the wedding a week before it was supposed to happen.

“Stop it.” I squeezed her upper arms. “Nothing is going to go wrong this time. This is totally different. You and Lucas are made for each other, the wedding is going to be the most beautiful thing we’ve ever planned, and every little detail will be perfect.”

Mia closed her eyes, as if saying a quick prayer.

“I hope you’re right.”

“I am. Want me to come over and help you pack?”

She shook her head. “It’s OK. I’ve got my lists made already.”

“Of course you do.”

She pinched my arm. “Don’t make fun of me. It’s my wedding; I get to make lists. And you’re on your own here for the next two weeks. I’m sure you’ve got things to do.”

“Yeah, like obsess over the house I can’t afford.”

Mia frowned. “Which house?”

“The one in Indian Village. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“The old one? Coco, are you drunk? They’re asking over three hundred grand for that place! It’s huge! And it needs so much work!”

Fidgeting, I admitted, “It would be a project, I know. But I love old houses! And when I walked through it, I got a feeling.” I shivered as I recalled moving through rooms with high ceilings, creaky wood floors, lead glass windows. Maybe there were a few cracks in the plaster and some smelly carpet—not to mention a kitchen that hadn’t been remodeled since 1975—but there was an old newspaper covering a broken windowpane and it was dated September twenty-sixth, which was my birthday. It was clearly a sign.

“A feeling?” Mia asked dubiously, her upper lip curling.

“Like I was supposed to live there. Like it’s been waiting for me. And that newspaper in the kitchen—it was a sign!”

“A sign that that window has been broken since your twenty-first birthday.”

I held up my hands. “I know it sounds crazy, but I felt a connection to the place. I can’t explain it completely. I mean, we were in that neighborhood looking at another house entirely.”

“Yeah, one you could afford.”

“I know, but then I saw that one and fell in love. I think it was fate.” I clasped my hands over my heart and rose up on tiptoe. “I want it, Mia. And my agent just called and said there’s going to be an offer on it. She said I better be prepared to act soon.”

“Of course she did. They all say that.” She shook her head. “Don’t let her push you. Buying a house is a huge investment and you need more time to think it through. You need a plan.”

My heels returned to the ground. “I gotta get out of my parents’ house, Mia.”

“I can understand that.” She shrugged. “You could stay with me and Lucas for a while. We have a spare room.”

I gaped at her. “What? You’ll be newlyweds! No way.” Not only would it be a gross intrusion on their privacy, it would serve as a painful reminder that everyone else on the planet was having sex and I wasn’t, even if the drought was self-imposed. I wasn’t looking to get married, much to my grandmother’s chagrin, but it would be nice to meet someone attractive, fun, and fucking stable to hang out with.

The last couple guys I’d dated either had prior records, vicious exes, or Mommy Issues. I was done with that.

“Fine, then with Erin.”

My chin slid forward and I stubbed the toe of my red wedge sandal into the floor. “I want that house. I need it.”

“Coco…” Mia’s voice held a warning note.

“What?”

“You can’t afford that house. Promise me you’re not going to do anything rash while I’m gone.”

My eyes shifted to the left. “I’m not, I promise.”

“Coco!”

“What?” I leaned down and fussed with the straps of one shoe to avoid meeting her eyes.

“You are the worst liar in the world. Listen to me.” She grabbed my arm and brought me up to eye level. “I know how you get when have a feeling about something. But you can’t buy a house with a feeling.”

“I had a feeling about you and Lucas, remember?” I asked brightly. “Look how well that turned out!”

“Coco.” Her voice was stern and her grip tight. “Yes. You are a very intuitive person. But you’re also very impulsive. We just got your finances in order. Your credit card balance is down and you have a good amount of cash saved up. You just need to stop the crazy spending.”

My eyes slid left again. “I don’t crazy spend.”

She let go of my arm. “Oh no? What about the four-hundred-dollar sets of Le Creuset cookware you bought for all of us last year?”

I twisted my fingers together. “Well, it was Christmas…almost.”

“And the two-hundred dollar Beachwaver curling irons?”

I threw up my hands. “That was a limited time offer on QVC! I can’t be expected to pass those up.”

“Uh huh. And the trapeze lessons?”

I opened my mouth but nothing came out. Yeah, I couldn’t really defend that one. Exhaling, I shook my head, my spirits wilting like a week-old wedding bouquet. “But this isn’t like that—this feels different!”

Mia spoke in a calmer tone. “Look, after the wedding, I’ll sit down with you and we’ll make a list of all the other houses we’ve seen and discuss pros and cons of each of them.” Either she didn’t see me wrinkle my nose or she ignored it. “And if you still don’t feel like one of those is right for you, we’ll keep looking, OK?”

Grimacing, I tried to resign myself to the fact that she was right, and I was stuck living with my parents for the time being. Endless nights of cribbage and criticism loomed in front of me. My shoulders slumped. “I think I need another drink.”

She patted my head. “What you need is a little boost. Tell you what. Any business that comes in while I’m gone is all yours—the entire twenty percent commission.”

I gasped. “Really?”

“Really.”

Throwing my arms around her, I squealed. “Thank you! You’re the best friend ever!” With any luck, I’d book a wedding or two in the next week. If they were big enough, I could count on earning at least ten grand. Granted, I wouldn’t see that money for a while, but with it guaranteed to come in, maybe I’d revisit the idea of borrowing from my parents.

Please God, send me a bride. A sweet, lovely angel bride with exquisite taste and deep pockets!

As if on cue, I heard a voice. “Hello?”

I let go of Mia and peered around her to see a short young woman in my office doorway. She had long, impossibly platinum blond hair blown perfectly straight, and she wore skinny black jeans, a zebra-print tank top, and a lot of eye makeup. A tangle of gold necklaces rested between breasts unnaturally large for someone her size, and a tiny white dog peeked out from a Louis Vuitton bag she carried under one arm.

I smiled at her. “Hello. Can I help you?”

“I don’t know. I’m looking for Devine Events.”

For an angel, she had a very shrill voice. And an amazing tan.

“You found us. Please come in.” Mia held out her hand. “I’m Mia Devine, and this is my partner, Coco Thomas. I’m on my way out, but she’ll take good care of you.”

Instead of shaking Mia’s hand, the girl handed her a business card. “Angelina Spackatelli.”

My heart raced. Even her first
name
was seraphic! But she placed a little extra emphasis on her last name, and my stomach tightened up when I realized why. She had to be the daughter of Tony Spackatelli, sometimes called Tony Whack. Officially he ran a sanitation company, but unofficially he controlled Detroit’s arm of the mafia. Mia must have recognized this too, because she glanced at me behind Angelina’s back, eyebrows raised.

Maybe this wasn’t my angel.

“Nice to meet you.” I took a card as well, gesturing to a chair in front of my desk. “Please have a seat.” Her card was hot pink with white print. On one side was a picture of her and her little dog, both wearing tiaras, and the other side listed her name and social media information. The fancy font was hard to read but under her name I thought her title said Italian American Princess.

Interesting. I didn’t know we had those.

The bottle of Grass Widow beckoned from its place on my desk next to the empty glass, but I quickly tucked them back into the drawer before sitting down.

“What can we do for you, Angelina?”

After lowering herself into the chair, she snapped her gum and set her dog-in-a-purse down by her feet. “Well, first I wanna make sure—are you the ones that did that wedding on TV this year?”

I smiled. “Yes, we are.” Earlier this spring Devine Events had been chosen to design Detroit’s Wedding of the Year, and it had been a huge success. We’d gotten a lot of great press out of it. “Are you looking for someone to plan your wedding?”

“Not yet. But I want you to plan my engagement party.” She flashed her ring at me.

As prompted, I cooed appreciatively at the crab-apple-sized diamond set in gold. “Wow. Congratulations. What kind of party would you like?”

“A blowout.” She made a little exploding motion with both hands. “For five hundred people.”

Five hundred people for an engagement party?

Jesus, how big would her wedding be? And more importantly, if I did a good job planning the party, would she let me do the wedding too? I glanced over at Mia, and she gave me a thumbs-up.

“That sounds like fun.” Lifting my eyes to the

ceiling, I said a quick thank-you to God for sending me this miracle and pulled up a blank contract on my laptop. “So when were you thinking? Something later this year?”

“That’s the thing. It’s a little bit short notice.”

“Short notice?” Mia, who was still lingering in the doorway, looked a little panicked.
Short notice
was her least favorite expression. “How short?”

Personally, I didn’t care how short the notice was—I needed this gig. Flashing Mia my best I Got This grin, I shooed her out of my office. “Go on home, babe. You have lists, remember? I’ll talk to you later.”

“But—“

“I’ll take care of everything here. You be on your way now.” I did everything but put my foot on her butt and shove her out the door.

She smiled. “You’re right. Sorry.” Lifting her hand in farewell, she disappeared into the hallway and might actually have cleared earshot if Angelina spoke at a normal volume.

“It’s next weekend. Saturday, August fourth. It has to be then because of the TV people. I’m gonna be on a reality show.”

I could practically hear brakes screeching in the

hallway. Glancing at the door, I expected to see Mia pop back into the frame and brace herself against it, her eyes wild with panic. I held my breath.

No Mia.

But my phone pinged with a text.

NO NO NO NO NO

“Wow.” Swiping my phone off the desk and into my lap so Angelina wouldn’t see it, I turned off the sound and cleared my throat. “That is short notice. And what’s this about TV people? You’re on a reality show?”

“I’m not exactly on it yet. But I’m being considered for this show called Italian-American Princesses. They’re looking for girls to star in the premiere season, see. So I applied, and they think I might be the perfect fit. Some producers are coming to scout the location and meet me and everything, and I figure what better way to show them my star potential than to throw myself a big party? Right?”

“Right.” While she was talking, my phone buzzed in my lap, three times with only a second in between.

TV PEOPLE???

DON’T DO IT!

NOT ENOUGH TIME!

“Look, I can pay extra or whatever,” said Angelina. “I already sent the invitations. And I know exactly what I want, so all’s you have to do is arrange it.” She made it sound like she’d already done all the hard work, and I’d just have to make a couple calls. In reality I’d have to bust my ass to pull off an event that big in such a short time because I was guessing her list of exactly-what-I-want was long, specific, and ridiculous.

Which meant expensive.

Bring it on, princess.

My phone continued to blow up with texts from Mia as I broached the subject of cost. “Angelina, I’d like to help you, but parties this big can get expensive. What’s your budget?”

5 REASONS YOU SHOULD NOT TAKE ON THIS PARTY

She pursed her frosty pink lips. “I don’t care what it costs. The important thing is to make a good impression. A big impression. Unforgettable, you know?”

1. HER TWITTER HANDLE IS @SPOILEDROTTENBITCH

“Unforgettable, yes. OK, well, ballpark it. What are you comfortable spending?”

“I dunno.” She shrugged. “Fifty thousand maybe? A hundred? I got no idea what this shit costs but my dad said he’d pay for whatever I wanted.”

2. CREEPY LONG FRENCH MANICURED TOENAILS + FROSTY PINK LIPS WITH DARK LINER = BAD TASTE.

I blinked at her. Twice. Had I heard right? Fifty to a hundred grand? For an engagement party? Visions of myself mixing up cocktails in my cat-pee-free dream house danced in my head. “Uh, for that kind of money, you can have more than big.”

She smiled and snapped her gum again. “Good because I want ginormous. But it has to be perfect.”

3. SHE CARRIES AN ANIMAL IN A PURSE. IT WEARS A CROWN.

“Ginormous it is.” As long as she didn’t expect me to don a tiara, I didn’t give a crap what she put on her dog’s head.

“Ginormous and perfect.” Her voice was slightly sharper. “You’ll get all the things I want, right?”

At this point, I experienced a frisson of doubt. I had faith in my ability to design an amazing event, but Angelina might be a difficult-to-please client with over-the-top taste. As if Mia was mind-melding me, which she sometimes did, her next text said,

4. SHE WILL CHANGE HER MIND EVERY FIVE MINUTES AND BLAME YOU FOR NOT KNOWING WHAT SHE WANTS.

My hand shook as I typed in the date on the contract. “Of course I will.” Crap. Maybe I should have asked what all she wanted before saying I’d do it, but it was too late now. “Shall we talk details?”

“Sure.”

“Venue?”

“Easy. My parents’ house. Outside on the lawn.” She gave me a tony address on Lake Shore Road and I wrote it down. It actually wasn’t too far from where my parents lived, which would be helpful. So far so good.

5. HER FATHER’S TRUNK IS PROBABLY FILLED WITH BODY PARTS OF EVENT PLANNERS WHO GOT THE DETAILS WRONG.

At this point, I turned my phone off and dropped it into my purse. “OK. I assume the yard is big enough for a couple tents?”

She stared at me. “Uh, yeah.”

Of course it was. At that address, you could probably set up the Ringling Brothers Circus on the front lawn, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that was on her list of requests. Grabbing my note pad and pen, I elbowed my laptop aside and glanced at the page with the real estate numbers on it. Suddenly they didn’t seem so depressing. Smiling, I flipped to the next blank page and jotted Spackatelli Party at the top. “All right, what else do you have in mind?”

“I want a champagne fountain, a big dance floor lit underneath by sparkly colored lights, a band and a DJ, fireworks, a ice sculpture of me and Lorenzo, and—”

“Wait a minute.” I held up one hand and paused my frantic note-taking. “You want an ice sculpture? In August?”

“Yeah. I saw it on Bridezillas once.”

God help me.
“I’ll see what I can do. How about food?”

“Ciao Bella’s gonna cater dinner. The owner is a friend of my dad’s.”

“Great,” I said, relieved. “I’ve worked with them a lot. That makes it easy on me. Are they doing dessert too?”

“Yeah, they’re doing a cake and some pastry trays. I love those anus cookies they have there.” My pen froze mid-word, and I looked at her without raising my head. Had she said…anus cookies? I glanced over my shoulder toward the door, halfexpecting to see a cameraman there, filming us. This had to be a joke. “I’m sorry…what kind of cookies?”

She looked annoyed. “Anus or something? Or maybe it’s Annuss? I don’t know how you say it. But they’re really good. They taste kinda like licorice.”

“Oh,
anise
.” Relieved, I sucked my lips between my teeth so I wouldn’t laugh and lowered my chin in case my eyes gave me away. Fucking
anus cookies
. I couldn’t wait to tell Mia about that one.

We went over more details, including tables and chairs, flowers, bringing in the bar, hiring servers and bartenders, arranging for bathroom trailers, and we discussed a few local bands. To my relief, other than the ice sculpture and maybe the fireworks, nothing Angelina wanted seemed impossible, especially with her huge budget. Outlandish, maybe, but not impossible, especially once I explained to her that the city probably wouldn’t let her have caged tigers on the property (apparently her fiancé was a rabid Detroit Tigers fan). I held my breath as she took in the disappointment, but she handled the news OK. While she was there, I made some calls and was able to book vendors I knew and trusted for all rental items, a florist, and a DJ. We put in a call to the talent agent I used for live music, and touched base with the woman in charge of catering for Ciao Bella.

Holy shit, I might actually pull this off.
A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth as I noted the vendor names on the contract. No, not might. I would absolutely pull this off by myself, and it would be fabulous. Huge without being impersonal. Fun without being tacky. Elegant without being stuffy. Mia would be proud of me, we were bound to get good buzz if this reality show took off, and with the estimated total cost—at which Angelina didn’t even bat a fake eyelash—I’d make enough money to put ten percent down on the house. I could make an offer next week, even.

See? Stop worrying. This was all meant to happen.

It’s fate.

And then.

“Oh! I almost forgot. I want that Italian chef, Nick Lupo, to do burgers at midnight,” announced Angelina. “Right after the fireworks.”

The floor dropped a few feet, or maybe it was my stomach. I gripped the edge of my desk. “What did you say?”

“I want that Italian guy. You know, the one who won first place on that reality show about hot chefs last year, Lick My Plate? He’s from here and he has a restaurant downtown called The Burger Bar. He’s there like every night. I saw him in there this week.”

“Yes, I know who he is. I just…”
Haven’t seen him since he snuck out of our hotel room in Vegas seven years ago.
“…think he might be difficult to get.”

Angelina blinked at me. “Why?”

“Well, because he’s, um…”
My ex. Famous now. The best sex I ever had and the worst mistake I ever made.
There were any number of ways I could’ve finished that sentence, but finally I went with “probably not available.”

“I want him.” Angelina poked an index finger onto my desk. Unlike her pink and white pedicure, her fingernails were painted corpse gray. “Get him.”

“Uh, I don’t think Nick Lupo does private parties.” I hadn’t said his name out loud in years, and the sound of it, the feel of it on my lips brought back powerful memories—the taste of whiskey and apple pie. A warm, muscular body moving over mine. The crunch of leaves beneath my back. A wide, lush mouth closing over my breast as he filled the hollow ache inside me—

I crossed my legs and squeezed my thighs together.
Don’t.

“This isn’t just any private party. Tell him who it’s for,” said Angelina, like duh. “Tell him who my father is. He’ll do it.”