Page 37 of Champagne Fizz

“Subtle,” I mumble. To which Simon gives me a sympathetic shrug. “And what does the Queen of Flambé request in exchange for these suspicious treats?” I ask, knowing better than to expect them to come without strings attached.

Olivia bites into one of the tarts and moans obscenely.

Snickerdoodle my tart! Get a room, Olivia.

“Mmmmm,” Olivia moans. “Give Arie whatever she wants. Just say yes.” Olivia lets out another obscene sound like she’s going to need some up-close-and-personal time with that pastry (all on her lonesome).

Lady Lada thinks it shoulddefinitelybe tart time! Especially when I feel Simon staring at me while I watch my client face-plant into that pastry like it’s the second coming.

“No tarts!” Grandma hisses, snatching the yellow dessert and tossing it back in the box angrily. “You want to fit into this dress on wedding day? No tarts! And no crumbs all over the fancy thousand-dollar fabric.”

Grandma pushes Olivia back down the red carpet toward the fitting room, brushing her off like she’s a precious object covered in evil graham cracker spores. The whole time she’s snipping at the seamstress who’s trying desperately to keep up. All I catch are the words “expensive” and “wear it only once”—so much for Grandma’s emotion when she first saw Olivia in that dress and thought the big fancy price tag was worth it.

Simon moves to the far end of my couch and tentatively sits down, holding out the box of bribery. “Hungry?”

“I know those come with strings attached,” I say, not touching them.

“I told Arie it was a little overboard,” Simon admits, placing the box on the mirrored table next to him. Meanwhile, he places the heavier bag he’s been carrying between us. “That’s why I thought I might pitch this to you a little differently.”

I raise my eyebrows and cross my arms over my chest. Thank goodness I’m wearing something that covers my arms today. Goosebumps prickle across my skin. The sheer proximity of sexy, gingham-clad Clark Kent has me physically reacting, not to mention those darn sapphire eyes that keep dancing across my defensive posture.

Simon’s lip hitches in amusement as he takes in the hot pink jacket I’m wearing and the black and white striped skirt. I can see his brain churning, and I wait for him to make a crack about how I’m wearing Tim Burton’s Spring Beetlejuice Collection.

“Pitch what to me exactly?” I say quickly, trying to evade the inevitable fashion insult. “I’m the wedding planner. I’m not sure your business partner has much say in the decision making.”

“Fair,” Simon concedes, reaching into the bag and pulling out a stack of wedding magazines.

I frown.

A second later, I notice they’re dog-eared and bookmarked with at least three-hundred post-it notes.

“Oh, heck no!” I bark at Simon. “I know exactly what that is, and that’s not happening. I already hate Pinterest for turning my brides into indecisive, choice-fatigued, I-have-a-thousand-ideas-and-I-want-all-of-them zombies.”

“That’s not a nice way to think about your clients,” Simon admonishes.

“Have you ever had to throw a rustic, black-tie, seashell, masquerade, mish-mash of a wedding before? No? You didn’t learn how to make all Pinterest ideas unified and elegant in accountant school?” I toss back.

“I think the answer to your question is self-evident in the title accountant school.” Simon smiles. “But if anyone can do it, it’s you.” He nods to my outfit.

“I have my own ideas for this wedding!” I hiss, pushing the stack of magazines away.

“Good,” Simon agrees. “I’m glad you do. Arie has opinions, of course”—he motions to the magazines—“but you’re a designer in your own right, and you should have a vision. I just want to put this one tiny offer on the table.”

He paws through the magazines until he finds what he’s looking for, plopping the chosen magazine on the couch between us.

My gut twists.

He didn’t just drop the same wedding magazine I was pitifully obsessing over earlier today, did he?

Veronica West stares up at me with that fake smirk on her face. Her mocking you-thought-you-could-run-away-from-me-didn’t-you-Sunshine? smile taunting me. Clearly there’s no escape from Veronica West.

“That isn’t funny, Simon,” I manage to get out, a fist lodging itself in my throat and making it hard to breathe.

“This used to be your boss, right?”

I grit my teeth.

“Didn’t you work for Veronica West, before—”

---