Page 1 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
CHAPTER ONE
New year.Same me. I wish I could say at the stroke of midnight I changed from a pumpkin into a princess, but no such luck.
Not that I want to be a princess, though my mother wouldn’t object to the prospect. As the only remaining single woman in a family of marry-rich overachievers, I’m starting to feel desperate.
Desperate like waiting in line at the bakery and the last scone sits behind the display case with my name on it, but there are half a dozen caffeine-deprived and sugar-hungry people in front of me who have no idea what will happen if that cranberry and white chocolate scone isn’t in my hot little hands in five minutes.
If you made it through that sentence without stopping for a breath, you know how I feel. About scones. Baked goods. Yummy in my tummy combinations of flour, butter, and sugar.
DEFCON three desperate.
I crane my head, lifting onto my toes to take a peek. It’s still nestled there waiting for me. A shaky breath of relief escapes.
A man with a leather jacket bumps into me ... but then doesn’t move. His arm presses against mine and it looks like he forgot to rinse the conditioner out of his long, greasy hair.More concerningly, why is he in my personal space? Granted, it’s busy in here, but—excuse me—we can all maintain our bubble without trouble, sir!
I shift away, feigning intense interest in the chalkboard menu behind the counter, even though I mostly have it memorized.
He sidles closer to me.
The cardinal rule with these weirdos is not to make eye contact while at the same time assessing what I’m dealing with. Facing dead ahead, I strain my eyes to the right to get a better, but discreet, look.
“Do you like cake?” he asks.
I’ve been spotted!
I do not want to engage, but sometimes ignoring these types only makes it worse. The general content I downloaded when I arrived in New York City from my small midwestern town is that not everyone has well-meaning intentions.
Keeping my voice light because I don’t want to be rude, I reply, “Actually, no.”
“Too bad. I’d like a slice of you.” Eyes heavy, he smiles.
I’d rather check my phone for texts on the family chat than continue this conversation. My sister recently changed the title toMargo is Still Singleif that tells you anything.Celeste is classy and considerate like that.
Later this month, my cousin Maxine is getting married to a millionaire named Marlon. In this economy, a millionaire is more like a thousandaire, but I wouldn’t object to a bank balance that is more than the exact amount for this month’s rent—but on my terms and earned by my hard work and commitment, thank you very much.
Maxine’s big dream was to tie the knot on Valentine’s Day, but all the venues were booked, so they bumped it up to January. I repeatedly offered to be her official event planner, considering IT’S MY JOB, but it’s like I’ll forever be “Margo, the little enginethatcouldn’t.” That’s a direct quote with multiple variations. I’m not sure why they chose me to be at the bottom of the pecking order, but I suppose it always has to be someone.
Maxine insists she has a friend doing the wedding planning. In reality, I’m certain she’s DIY-ing it, otherwise, she would’ve sent the invitations back for a reprint since they had several typos.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrifty and pick up pennies off the ground even if they’re on the tails side. The invite read,We request the honor of your presentsinstead ofpresence. It’s not a huge deal, but given what I know about Maxine, sounds more like a gentle suggestion rather than an error.
I’m not a big spender. Not like Celeste and our brother Gerard. If being flush with cash burns holes in people’s pockets, my siblings’ designer pants are in flames.
But I don’t want to be like Maxine or Celeste. Does this mean I’ll have to settle for someone like the greasy guy in line who wants a slice of me? Sounds stabby.
I can do better than yesterday’s discount baked goods. I just haven’t met the right person. He’s here, in this city, somewhere. I just know it.
Right now, I’m growing Margo A Go-Go. I have my first wedding in the works for St. Patrick’s Day. So far, everything has been going smoothly, so hopefully I’ll be able to keep my closet-sized apartment in Midtown East and not have to move back home.
From behind the counter Sophie calls, “Next.”
The greasy guy gestures for me to go ahead. “Ladies with muffins like yours go first.”
“I don’t even know what that means,” I mutter.
Sophie must notice my red face and stricken expression because she says, “Tate, you’d do better in life if you spent allthat creativity on something productive rather than bothering my customers.”
I might have to change my scone schedule, given Sophie knows his name, which means he’s probably a regular.
