Page 61 of Perfect (mis)Match

“Piper,” he said with a patient smile. “Your first glass was five hours ago, and you’ve been snacking to soak it up—you’re perfectly coherent. Besides, you pitched the concept to me without preparation, so I know you can perform under pressure. This is exactly what you’ve been waiting for. You can do this. I believe in you.”

His words washed through me, giving me a badly needed dose of courage and confidence that made the sting of Prentiss’s cruel words disappear.

“You’re right,” I finally said, straightening my back. “This is the perfect moment, whether I like it or not. It’ll look casual.”

“Perfect moment for what?” Nana Dee asked as she glanced between us.

“We’ll tell you everything once we get our yes from Mercedes,” Vincent answered.

He reached out his hand, and I took it.

“Good luck, whatever it is,” Richard called after us. “We believe in you, Piper!”

Vincent leaned down to whisper in my ear. “You don’t need luck.”

He squeezed my hand and then let go to press it against my lower back, propelling me forward into the most important introduction of my life. The crowd parted, and there stood the woman I’d been stalking for years.

Mercedes Horan was a big personality in a tiny body. She must’ve created her persona to make up for her stature, because her voice rang out louder than anyone else’s in the vicinity, and her orange dress was as bright as a traffic cone.

“Well, look who it is,” she said as she spotted Vincent. “The creator of my signature scent! Vincent, so wonderful to see you.” She leaned in for cheek kisses.

Even from where I stood, I could feel her energy—and it was magnetic. Intense but charming.

“Always a pleasure, Mercedes. And which one is that?” Vincent asked.

“You mean you can’t smell it on me?” She held out her wrist dramatically. “Here.”

Vincent leaned in and closed his eyes as he inhaled it. “Ah, of course. That’sBelle Nuit. You wear it well.”

“I adore your fragrances. I can’t wait to see what you come up with next!” Her eyes sparkled as she glanced at me, curiosity piqued.

“Well, if you want to hear about something exciting and new,” Vincent said, transitioning effortlessly, “this is the person you need to talk to.” He guided me forward, a hand gently resting at the small of my back. “Mercedes, this is my very talented colleague, Piper Doyle. She was instrumental in helping me secure an important ingredient for our next fragrance, and she happens to have incredible instincts when it comes to business.”

I held out my hand, trying to project a confidence I wasn’t sure I felt. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Mercedes. I’ve been following your work for ages.”

Mercedes appraised me with a sharp eye, but there was something warm about her smile. Her gaze was calculating, but not unkind—a woman used to evaluating potential.

“And if I may be so bold,” Vincent continued, “I think the feeling is going to be mutual very soon.”

“Oh?” Mercedes raised an eyebrow at me. “Do tell.”

“Piper is a gifted photographer who noticed a hole in her market space and created a product to fill it. I’ll let her explain more.”

Every eye in the group shifted to me, and I swallowed down my fears, leaning back a little into Vincent’s hand. Darcy and I had practiced our pitch in our tiny family room a hundred times, but doing it solo in front of an audience with a tiny buzz was an unexpected twist.

Still. This was my moment—all I had to do was claim it.

“It all started at a wedding many years ago, when I was a newbie photographer,” I began.

Darcy and I had honed the project’s origin story to highlight the humor of what had been a stressful scenario of having to juggle cameras for a bridezilla and her momzilla. Thankfully, everyone laughed in all of the right spots. By the time I finished, Mercedes was beaming at me.

“May I see this product?”

My hands were shaking so badly I was worried I’d drop my phone, but I still managed to pull it out, navigating to my camera roll. I’d nailed the elevator pitch, and showing her what Strapped looked like was the equivalent of sliding into home. I scrolled to a photo of me wearing it and held out my phone to her.

“Huh. It’s even better than what I envisioned,” she said as she scrutinized the image. “This is Italian leather?”

I nodded. “We shopped the world and fell in love with it. We especially appreciate that it’s a women’s collective of crafters. We’re one hundred percent woman-powered.”

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