Ready to Wed (5 page)

I needed to remember who I was before Grant and the wedding had eclipsed everything else.

Chapter Six

Get Ready to Wed
by Dakota Halifax

Hair-Raising Tales

Perfect hair isn’t essential to your big day, but why would you want anything less than your best? So here are some hair dos and don’ts. Avoid specials from unknown stylists. Sure, they
might
be great, but is discount hair what you really want? You don’t want to be looking at those wedding photos for the rest of your life, wishing you’d gone with the sure bet instead.

Choose a style that’s still true to you. You need to be comfortable, and the hairdo needs to last through a ceremony and a reception that might include dancing, and then there’s the weather. I know, it’s hard to predict the weather, unless you happen to be psychic. How’s this for psychic? If it rains, your hair will get ruined. Have a covered area as a backup.

Make sure your hair, accessories, and style of dress go together. They should all complement, not fight one another. Avoid all drastic changes, especially before the big day, but also before having engagement photos taken. Remember, dyeing and perming are also hard on your hair, so even if you’re only looking for highlights and volume, you might end up with more of an I-just-got-electrocuted look. The good news is most problems are fixable as long as you’re willing to lose a little length or pay for hair extensions, and you can always find a bigger veil. My number one tip is to find a hairdresser who knows what he or she is doing. Always do a practice run, and do all cutting and coloring two weeks in advance. You’d hate for an oops to happen, but you’d hate even more if you didn’t have time to fix it.

I’d like to give a shout-out to Fusion Locks, my favorite place for all hair needs. Book an appointment and book it early. Trust me, you won’t be disappointed.

…

With my heeled feet propped up on my desk, I finished reading through my article one last time before hitting send. At some point, I was probably going to have to address the subject of my failed nuptials, but how would that get people ready to wed? Right now, hair was much more important. Admittedly, I’d admired my new do each time I’d passed the mirror. And deciding to get back to who I used to be helped me look at the smiling bridal pictures in my office without wanting to maim them.

In fact, I was doing so well I decided to change the color of my “get over my bitterness toward love” to-do list item from Fuchsia to Tangerine. No anger, but I wasn’t quite at Wary Canary yet. I’d get there, though.

My cell rang, and since it was Jillian, I picked it up. “Have you seen Phoebe’s social column today?” she asked.

“No. Why?” I swung my feet to the ground and sorted through my pile of mail, searching for my copy of the
Beacon
. “Did I miss someone famous?” Most of the time, the column was filled with what celebrities were performing where, or who was seen at what nightclub. I didn’t know why anyone would want to read it, but apparently Phoebe’s column was popular.

While I’d come a long way from the days when I couldn’t be friends with girls, Phoebe Pratt, gossip columnist, was an exception. She considered herself the social butterfly of Las Vegas, and unfortunately, she did seem to know everyone, which meant she attended a lot of my clients’ weddings. She always had something negative to say about the weddings, too, and she liked to tell me how she would’ve done it better. I’d heard from one of the other columnists that she’d pitched an idea that got turned down in favor of Get Ready to Wed, which had her hating me from the get-go.

There was also an incident where she threw herself at Grant. So needless to say, I avoided her as much as possible—it wasn’t too difficult, considering I didn’t have to go into the newspaper office very often.

“Just don’t read it,” Jillian said. “But if you do, I’m totally down for jumping the woman in whichever nightclub she’s trolling tonight.”

The pages of my paper stuck together, and I thought I probably should’ve just pulled up the
Beacon
on my computer instead. But I was prideful enough to have it delivered to my office so I could see my articles in print, so I might as well use it. I scanned to Phoebe’s column—she was forever trying to get me to give her dirt on my clients, especially the more well-known ones, like when I did the governor’s daughter’s wedding. I’d told Phoebe that I didn’t want to be involved, and told her I wouldn’t comment due to planner/client confidentiality.

“Seriously don’t read it,” Jillian said as I skimmed the beginning that covered a young starlet drinking in a nightclub.

My name stood out, and I blinked, thinking I must be seeing things.
I
shouldn’t be mentioned in the social column—I wasn’t even social.

A few weeks ago, well-known wedding planner and fellow newspaper staff member Dakota Halifax wrote about her upcoming nuptials with all the excitement of a blushing bride. It turns out that her best-laid plans didn’t prevent her from being stood up at her own wedding. The exact details are unknown. Her friends haven’t responded to my calls, and her now-ex-fianc
é
claimed he didn’t want to talk about the disastrous day. I finally squeezed the following response out of him. “I love Dakota and I always will.” So, was it a case of cold feet, or is our wedding planner off her game?

My breaths came faster and faster with each sentence, and angry heat traveled through my veins. No more Canary. As far as anger levels went, I was pushing into the Fuchsia zone for sure. I crumpled the paper in my hands. “I’m going to kill her.”

“Like I said, you need an accomplice, I’m here for you.”

“How could they even print this? How would they know that I was stood up? Did she call you?”

The hesitation on the other end was answer enough. “I ignored the call and the message asking me to call her back. I thought she’d leave it alone—that she was just curious. I never thought she’d print anything about it.”

“This is
so
embarrassing. It makes me sound desperate.” Right now, I felt desperate. Desperate to corner Phoebe Pratt and make her eat her words—literally. I was going to jam my paper down her throat. “I’m going down to the office. If I need bail money, I’ll call you. I suggest Barry from Barry Bonds.” I’d had to deal with him before when bachelor parties got a little out of control. He was faster than most, and easy to deal with, which was always important when brides were screeching at levels that could shatter glass. Plus, he used a play on a sports star’s name, and that made me oddly happy.

“I know it sucks,” Jillian said. “But I called to check in and help you talk crap about Phoebe if needed, not send you on a rage spree. Besides, it’s Friday afternoon, and everyone will be leaving for the weekend, with her already off to some social event.”

I exhaled. “Fine. I’ll have to hunt her down Monday, because there’s no way I’m searching through every club this weekend.” I did wonder if she’d actually answer her phone if I called. She probably would, and she’d be all smug, and then I’d be angrier, and I wanted to have the confrontation face-to-face.

“I’ve got a bat mitzvah to cater tonight. Not sure how late it’ll go, but I’m hoping to have everything cleaned up and be home by nine. You’ll be cool till then, right?”

“Yep. I got a new office supply magazine today.” I ran my hand down its glossy surface, the thought of all the pretty organizational tools inside helping calm the throbbing pulse beating behind my temples. “And I’m an independent woman now, remember?”

“Right. At least until you get arrested for assault on a socialite wannabe.”

“All good things have to end sometime,” I said with a laugh, then wished her luck at tonight’s job and hung up. This was why we were good for each other. Whenever one of us got angry, the other one knew just what to say to make it all okay, while still acknowledging the suckiness of the situation.

My door chimed, and Brendan stepped inside. His height and the fact that he was so built compared to the scrawny boy I used to know struck me again. Today he had on a navy button-down and a black tie, and his hair was smoothed into place, a total business look that was part intimidation and part yum.

Okay, I did
not
just think of Brendan West, the guy I used to climb trees with and have sleepovers with, where
The Sandlot
and
The Mighty Ducks
were the main forms of entertainment, as
yum
.

“Hey,” he said, his boyish grin taking the edge off the serious look.

Yep, yum. He’s definitely yum.

As he came closer, I noticed he smelled nice, too. Something crisp yet earthy. “I know you said your life is crazy now, but I was driving by your office, saw the light on, and thought I’d take a chance and see if you had plans.”

“Sad pathetic plans involving takeout and kicking back on the couch that also currently doubles as my bed.” I lifted the thick magazine I’d just been admiring. “But I do have my office supply porno mag, so not totally pathetic.”

Amusement crinkled the corners of Brendan’s eyes as he glanced at it. “Kinky.”

I laughed and slid the magazine into my bag. “What did you have in mind?”

…

“I swear this is the best Italian in the city,” I said.

“I lova good Italian joint,” Brendan said in the worst Italian accent I’d ever heard.

I shook my head but couldn’t help laughing. “You’re still a total ham.”

“You know what they say. If it ain’t broke…” He reached in front of me and opened the door to the restaurant. As I passed, he picked up a strand of my hair. “This is different than it was the other day. Looks good.”

“Thanks. I just had it done, actually. I can’t believe you noticed.” Grant often complimented how I looked, but he didn’t notice haircuts or new outfits or jewelry. Which was fine, but it was nice that someone appreciated Raquel’s handiwork besides me.

“Well, my job is all about the details.”

“Just like the devil,” I said, and Brendan’s eyebrows drew together. “You know. The devil is in the details.”

One side of his mouth kicked up. “Yes, just like the devil, then. My mom’s so proud.”

I laughed again, relieved things between us were so easy so quickly. I couldn’t handle any more complicated relationships.

“Dakota, Dakota, Dakota.” Antonia, the woman who ran the restaurant with her husband and sometimes catered my smaller weddings, came forward, shaking her head as she looked at me, which wasn’t the reaction I usually got when I came in to pick up dinner. “I read about it in the paper today. Your failed wedding.” She picked up my hand and patted it. “Are you okay? I read Enrico the article, and he says, ‘What kind of a guy would stand up that sweet girl?’”

She stared at me like she actually expected an answer, then her eyebrows lowered as she looked at Brendan. “That’s not him, right? I remember him being shorter. Darker hair.”

Heat crept up my neck and into my cheeks, and I was back to feeling like I should hunt Phoebe down and throttle her again. Leave it to her to make my humiliating situation mortifying. “This is a friend of mine. We’re just here for dinner.”

“Oh. Well, I have a nephew who’s single. He works in the kitchen. Maybe I introduce you sometime?”

Instead of brushing her off, or even attempting to explain that the last thing I was in the mood for was a setup, I said, “Hey, if he can make lasagna, I’m sold.”

A huge smile stretched across her lips, and I wasn’t sure she got that I was kidding. “You want to eat here tonight, or you picking up to go?”

I’d been thinking here, but now that everyone was going to be asking about my failed wedding, I eyed the door, wanting an escape.

Brendan put his hand on my elbow. “Wanna go to my place? Kick back and relax?”

All our years apart, and he could still read my thoughts. “Sounds perfect.” Brendan and I ordered, and then we stood in the lobby to wait for our food. I glanced at him, and he gave me a tight smile, not the easy one he’d been flashing earlier.

“I don’t want pity.” It came out harsher than I meant it to, but I needed to not have him looking at me like that. I’d gotten too much of it lately, and after the mention in the column that reeked of desperation, I couldn’t take any more. Especially not from the guy who’d made it all disappear for a few magical minutes. I wanted the careless vibe back.

He held up his hands. “No pity. A girl who marries for lasagna obviously has her priorities straight. In fact, I’d call it admirable.”

I clamped my mouth shut, fighting a smile. He thought he was too funny for his own good. I failed at not smiling, so I shoved him for good measure.

“You’re as violent as I remember,” he said with a laugh.

“And don’t you forget it.”

He grinned at me, and I was again reminded of all our time together growing up. The football, baseball, and soccer games. Running through the desert and hiding under poky bushes to keep the nearby “cops” on four-wheelers from catching us. And it all started in second grade, the day he threw a stick at my head and I stormed over and punched him—I didn’t want to be the girl who got pushed around. I was already the new kid who moved in halfway through the year, not to mention I was dealing with my parents’ divorce. I wasn’t about to add wimp to the list.

As Brendan had rubbed his jaw, he’d said he was sorry about the stick, claiming he didn’t realize I was a girl—which almost made me punch him again. In his defense, that was the year I’d had my hair cut super short—not sure what I was thinking, but let’s just say it was the opposite of flattering, although very little maintenance, which used to be my main concern.

But after that day, Brendan and I started playing together, and I ended up being the only girl in a group of guys. The games changed over the years, but it was almost always something physical, with the occasional video game thrown in. The other guys were fine, but Brendan and I really clicked. On my ninth birthday, he even proposed with a Life Saver.

“What?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at me as if he suspected I was up to no good.

“I was just thinking about you and me as kids. It still trips me out to look at you and see the guy I knew, yet totally different.”