Page 3 of Puck Yes

Oh god, that’s a pity smile. A worse realization hits me right in the gut. Tomorrow was a sympathy breakfast. She wasn’t going to promote me. She was going to tell me about her upcoming wedding, letting me down gently with the avocado-and-chia-seed special.

“Yeah. It’s, um, great,” I say, trying to figure out what the hell my next move is.

“I’m sure it must be hard for you,” Simone says with a too-kind smile. “So I totally get why you’d need to move on and do your own thing. And you know I’ve always supported you.” Oh, there’s thesisters in solidaritybullshit that was missing when she was on her knees giving my ex a faux blow job.

Then, her eyes widen, her lashes blink and her lips round in an exaggerated O. I know that look—it’s herlight bulb momentface. “I just need one tiny thing from you before you go,” she says.

“What is it?” I ask, armor on.

She gives ahelpless grin. “Can you cover my wedding? You’re the best fashion writer I’ve ever worked with, and I need someone good to cover it for my socials. And you can cover it for your own little channel too. Obviously, I can’t do it, and it’s a great opportunity for you. You could bring a plus-one, of course.”

She truly thinks I’d want to go to my cheating ex’s wedding? Where he marries my backstabbing boss? That I’m up for pretending her forest wedding is some sort of fairy tale instead of two trend-chasers dappering it up with choices that will be dated by next week?

It’s going to be a train wreck.

Wait.

Holy shit.

It’s absolutely going to be a fantastic freaking train wreck, and she just offered me a front row seat. Icanuse this to launch my ownfashion channel at last. I’ve been writing about the business for others for the last few years. Now it’s my turn.

I smile and take the invitation for what it is—apre-ward.

“I’d love to,” I say.

* * *

Jackson and Aubrey are waiting for me when I leave the office. I slide into the back seat of Jackson’s ride, equally livid and delighted. “You’re so not going to believe this,” I say.

“Try us,” Aubrey instructs.

I spill all the tasty tea, finishing with, “And somehow, I have an invitation to cover their wedding. Everyone who loves fashion will want to see them tie the knot. And, bonus, I won’t even have totryto make her look like an asshole; she’ll do it all by herself.”

Jackson hoots as he navigates his matte black electric sports car through Sunday evening traffic in the city. “So when is the wedding? What are you wearing andwhoare you bringing? There are rules, obviously. First, you never show up at an ex’s wedding solo.”

In the passenger seat, Aubrey nods vigorously. “Second, you must bring someone hotter, richer, and more fabulous than said ex.”

I give them the upcoming date then smile, patting Jackson’s shoulder. “I know just the guy.”

Jackson and I have been friends forever. Our older brothers—both of them star hockey players in this city, Ryker Samuels and Chase Weston—were best buds growing up. Our moms are best friends, so Jackson and I became besties too. “You have to come with me and be my emotional support hottie,” I say.

Over the years, he’s been my perma-plus-one, and I’m his. It doesn’t occur to me this time would be different.

At the light, Jackson glances back with an apologetic smile. “You know I love being your fill-in man, but I can’t go, sweets. I have an animation job in Los Angeles then.”

All the air leaks out of me. I slump in the back seat. “Where am I going to find a decent plus-one?”

“We have time,” Aubrey assures me. “We’ll get on the apps, Ivy. We’ll talk to Trina.” Trina’s her longtime bestie, and after she started seeing my brother over a year ago, she’s become my friend too. “We’ll get the book club gals involved. We are women, hear us roar.” Aubrey adds a bestial sound effect. “We’ll find someone so much better.”

She’s right. I’ll have to start a manhunt as well as a job hunt. Starting my own channel isn’t going to equal instant income. Finding a gig, freelance or otherwise, as a fashion writer won’t be easy. Neither will finding a fantastic date.

“I don’t know where I’ll find him,” I vow, “but with the Goddess of Fucked Over Girls as my witness, my plus-one will be perfect. And I will show up at that woodland wedding with my head held high, my mighty pen ready, and a Mister Perfect by my side.” I take a beat. “And after that, I’ll just have to, you know, find a new freaking job.”

“You’re about to start your own newsletter,” Aubrey points out.

I rub my thumb and fingers together. “Mama needs a side hustle till it makes me some money.” Until then I’ll be busy, too, trying to find any openings covering the fashion industry. “Theonlyjob opening I’m even remotely aware of is one Ryker mentioned a few days ago, but it’s not quite in fashion. It’s more fashion adjacent.”

“How adjacent?” Aubrey asks, arching an eyebrow. She knows my flair for the dramatic.

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