Toss the Bouquet (3 page)

Hello, Bridezilla.

Tara recognized the symptoms from the score of magazine articles she'd read about
not
being Bridezilla. Obviously this bride—Aislynn—hadn't read the articles, or didn't care. With a single glance, Tara put a mental check mark in both columns.

“I don't do princess anything,” Aislynn announced with an authority more at home in a boardroom than a bridal showcase. “And I'm not a bit froufrou. My style”—she paused with purpose, elongating the word as if it had multiple syllables while aiming a chilled look at Tara's skater skirt, loose
blouse, and bolero jacket—“is Hepburn elegant splashed with Hepburn chic.”

“Perfect,” Tara exclaimed, ignoring the condescending once-over because she thought this outfit was super cute.
Take that, Bridezilla.
“I love both Hepburns too.”

Tara's quick take on the bride's riddled request lightened Aislynn's expression, a definite plus. “Katharine's humor made her movies some of my all-time faves,” Tara continued, “and Audrey's fragility?” She sighed. “Breathtaking. So why don't we start with Dona Dona's Vintage line?”

“You have the Vintage gowns in?” Aislynn appeared impressed, and Tara was willing to bet that not much impressed Aislynn. “I thought only select stores were allowed to carry that collection.”

“Stores in classic, vintage, and/or historic locations got the nod for the Vintage line because the backdrop complements the gown. You won't find these in malls because Dona Dona decided a classic gown needed a similar setting and Elena's is the only shop in the greater Philadelphia area allowed to carry them.”

“Aislynn, aren't you glad I made the appointment here instead of at the mall? This is perfect!” Aislynn's mother preened from the side.

“New York has plenty of shops, Mother. Well staffed with amazing designer connections.” Aislynn trained an impatient look on her mother. “But I wanted you happy, so I'm spending my last free Saturday for the next month here at”—she pursed her lips as if saying the words proved distasteful—“Elena's place.”

Maisy almost growled. She didn't, but Tara recognized the temptation because she felt the same way. She thrust two gowns at Maisy, excused herself, and went to the front desk to grab a new wedding folder from Greg. He angled his eyes toward the grumpy bride, then dropped his gaze to hers.

Those eyes. The kind a girl could get lost in. Lashes that should be considered wasted on a guy, but on him?

Not wasted at all.

Strong facial planes, a hint of dark stubble already dusking his chin, and the cleft in that chin? It matched the little wrinkle in his forehead, and they were both to die for.

“What's up with her attitude?”

His question brought her straight back to the task of the day: winning a job in this bridal shop. She scrunched her brow. “Classic ‘it's all about me' type. Every bridal operation gets a few, and we treat them like we do any Very Special Customer.” She drew a bright pink heart on the outside of the folder and tapped it lightly. “With lots of tender, loving care.”

Greg noted the pink heart and grinned. “Great idea.”

“Thank you.” She took the folder back to the sales floor while Maisy pulled a few more dresses. By the time the late-afternoon appointments arrived, Tara had pulled over sixty dresses, which meant she'd re-hung almost as many.

Greg did the paperwork for the sales, relieving her of that task. Maisy showed her how to get accurate measurements to assess the best possible size to order, and by the time the last young woman left the shop at 5:05, she'd booked three bridesmaid parties totaling sixteen people. On top of that she'd sold
three stunning wedding gowns, had info on the other three, and met Greg's grin of approval with a matching smile.

“I'm amazed,” he confessed as he turned the key in the lock. “I thought we were doomed.”

“Well, it wouldn't have gone so smoothly without Maisy.” Tara turned and gave the older woman a spontaneous hug. “That meant everything, having you here to help get the girls dressed while I was jumping from room to room with the bridesmaids.”

“Not our normal method of operation,” Greg admitted. “Mom always liked each bride to feel like they had our undivided attention from start to finish. That was her hallmark, and she made it work.”

“Which is fine when there's enough help on hand,” Maisy reminded him, and the strength of Maisy's tone suggested she liked to speak her mind. “But we've had times in the store where folks drop in without an appointment, and your mother knew to spread herself thin as needed. Sales are the bottom line, and she would have been proud of how well Tara did today. How long have you been here, dearie?”

“One day.”

Maisy pretended to clean out her ears. “You don't mean that, surely. I've been off for a few weeks because December is slow. You started today?”

“On a bit of a challenge, yes.” She turned back toward Greg. “So what's the verdict, boss? Did I meet the challenge? Do I have the job?”

“You crushed it.” He bumped knuckles with her and handed over an old-school application. “Fill this out and
we'll talk hours. Is your final semester class schedule light like it usually is for third-year law students?”

“To the point of boredom, yes, so I'll fill this out and return it on Monday. Did you book appointments for next week?” she asked. “Because this is the season for girls to be out shopping, planning summer and fall weddings. We don't want to miss the opportunity to strike while the iron's hot. Who knows how many girls found engagement rings under their Christmas trees? Bridal stores thrive on locking in those winter and spring sales.”

“I did book appointments, actually, although I berated myself every time the phone rang.” He tipped his head, watching her. “How do you know this stuff?”

She exchanged a look with Maisy that said all women knew this stuff, but cut him some slack because he was a guy. In Tara's book it was okay that most men didn't know this kind of thing.

On top of that, she loved weddings. She loved the gilt, glitz, and glamour right alongside the simple and the vintage and—

Everything.

The planning, the implementation.

She'd married off her fashion model dolls on a regular basis years ago. The advent of bridal reality shows mushroomed her dream into something bigger and bolder. While she was busy making top grades in her law classes, her heart was planning seating charts and floral arrangements for friends.

She
loved
it. Being here, immersed in the wonderful world of weddings at Elena's Bridal, was a dream come true, but a temporary one because in four short months she'd
become a law school graduate. Her duty then was to return to her hometown in upstate Pennsylvania and help serve the people of Kenneville, a pledge she made long ago.

But for now she'd revel in the joy of being Tara Simonetti, bridal consultant extraordinaire.

An amazing woman.

Greg wasn't thinking about Tara's looks, although they fit the bill.

And he wasn't weighing up how well she did today, bouncing from customer to customer, remembering names, occupations, wedding details, then gathering that wellspring of information into locked-in sales with a final total of over ten thousand dollars. And that was without the bridesmaids' dresses and the accessories.

What truly astounded him was her appetite.

She wolfed down a Philly cheesesteak, an order of cheese fries, and a Rita's lemon ice with barely a pause except to talk about wages and hours.

She was incredible. Focused. And hungry.

He thought back to his third year of law school and cringed. The lighter course load meant too much partying. And he'd still done well. He didn't remember being short on funds or hungry, though, which meant he should have appreciated his mother more than he already did.

“I've seen truckers eat with more finesse.” He nudged her shoulder as she finished the last bit of lemon ice and was glad when she laughed, un-insulted.

“I was hungry. I've learned to camel-pack food because when I get caught up in a project or a job, I forget to eat.”

Greg couldn't imagine forgetting to eat because food was, well . . . food. And delicious. But something about Tara made him think that maybe she didn't forget food as much as she pushed the thought aside as unaffordable. That realization seemed to fit her profile. Driven. Tough. Short on funds.

But at ease with herself and her body, unlike most women he'd met lately. Tara liked herself, and that was a refreshing change.

“So what are you doing tomorrow?” She swiped a napkin across her mouth, tossed it away, and looked up at him.

“You asking me out?” He grinned because the thought appealed to him instantly.

She made a funny face that said,
Um . . . no
, and he found himself wishing she'd at least considered the idea. “Not in this lifetime. Never date the boss: sage advice from where I'm standing. But the store will be open on Sundays starting next week. It's closed tomorrow, and if I can take the afternoon to go through things, I can familiarize myself with the dresses, the manufacturers, the layout of the files. I can also see who's got spring weddings coming up, because those girls need to be reminded to make their fitting appointments, try on their veils, double check for shoes and accessories. Did you know that some of the more savvy manufacturers are designing dresses with deep pockets?”

He didn't know that and wasn't sure why it was significant. “And that's important because—?”

“A bride needs to have things on hand on her wedding
day. A purse is a terrible inconvenience. A maid of honor with an emergency bag is wonderful, but just when you need her help, she's dancing with the best man's brother, so if the bride has pockets”—she patted the right hip of her jacket—“she's got a miniature arsenal at hand. Pretty solid.”

“I never would have thought of such a thing,” he admitted, but the thought of a bride facing a whole long day with nowhere to put anything made her logic sensible. “I can see where it would come in handy. But I'm going to bet those mermaid dresses don't have pockets. There's barely room in them for the bride.”

She made a face of agreement as they walked toward her brick apartment building. “If you're sporting the perfect hourglass shape, they rock. Right now the mermaid look has taken command of the advertising end of the industry, über-dramatic and crazy chic, but those dresses aren't comfortable, you can barely dance in them, and I've seen brides have to be lifted into limousines because they can't move their legs enough to climb into the car unassisted.”

“You're kidding.”

Her expression said she didn't kid about bridal, and Greg was beginning to believe it. “Glamour and comfort
can
go hand in hand. I wish more girls realized that. The way your mother's shop is laid out, I can see she understood that premise. It's not just the fashion of the moment. It's the timelessness of the fashion.”

She had the common sense of an established businesswoman in a fairly young package. Sure, she had to be pretty smart to get into the law school at Temple, but smart and sensible didn't always mesh. He worked with a lot of smart folks,
but a fair percentage of them had trouble finding their way in out of the rain.

Based on today's observations, he was pretty sure Tara would know how to get out of the rain and equally sure that if she got wet in the meantime, she'd handle it just fine.

“Thanks for walking me, Greg.” She turned her gaze to the plain front door, quite different from the colonial-style upscale row house he lived in. “Is it all right for me to check out the shop tomorrow? You don't have to hang around. I'm sure you've got other things to do.”

Football playoffs.

His buddy Tim was having a bunch of the guys in for football and wings. He'd been an Eagles fan from the time he was a pup; he even had one of their old-style bright-green jackets to prove it. He'd played football and run track, racking up good grades and great scores.

In the end, education won. Sensibility grabbed hold and wouldn't let go, urging him to make his success on the paper-pushing side of higher education. His big self-reward on fall and winter weekends was football. “I'm tied up tomorrow, but I can let you in. Then I'll swing by later to lock up or just leave you the key and the security code.”

“Perfect.” She stuck out her hand.

He grabbed hold, and for the life of him, he didn't want to let go. He stood there, looking down, meeting her gaze, hands locked, and if a bus hadn't rumbled by just then, they might have become frozen in time, one of the many Philadelphia sculptures pigeons and tourists adored.

“Well, good night.” She pulled her hand free as if the
electricity of the moment had no effect on her, and that was just as well.