Page 2 of Not You Again
“No.” I press the cool glass to my forehead. “Apparently her fiancé sleeping with the maid of honor is not only cliché but unforgivable.” And a huge blow to my finances.
Atlanta Ballet’s prima ballerina Clover canceled her order after local gossip blogs caught wind of the scandal.
“Damn.” Heidi knows the lurch that cancellation left me in. “Have you made much progress with your designs for Fashion Week?”
I shake my head. My designer’s block has arrived like a bridesmaid to a karaoke bachelorette—loud and eternally off-key. The timing is the actual worst, as it’s my first year showing in Atlanta Fashion Week, and I wiped out my bank account purchasing materials to create my line, counting on the payout for the delivery of Clover’s dress. And now it will never come. “My muse is a fickle bitch.”
Heidi snorts and pulls out a Band-Aid. She gestures for my hand and finds the fingertip I stabbed earlier. We’ve been friends since we met at a bridal expo five years ago. She had a burgeoning wedding planning business, and I wasn’t much more than a seamstress at the time, working with a large bridal chain to alter dresses. But as her business took off, I struck out on my own—so came the benefit of sharing clients and providing for things they didn’t know they needed yet.
In five years, I went from working for a bridal house for a pittance to designing my own dresses. Until the future Mr. Callaway sampled the maid of honor before the ceremony, I was on a roll, landing some of Atlanta’s elite brides. Now wedding season is here, and I cleared my calendar for Clover, whose dress is now moot. If I can’t seduce my muse in time to wow investors at Fashion Week, my once-sparkling business will be underwater before the next wedding season.
“Please, tell me your week has been better than mine,” I say as Heidi finishes wrapping my finger in the Band-Aid.
“As a matter of fact,” her lips curl into a devious grin, “I had a very interesting week.”
“Don’t leave me hanging.” I shift in my heels. My heart aches to be back in my studio, barefoot, in an old Georgia State T-shirt, eating lo mein and sketching designs on my tablet. As if I’ll magically break through my designer’s block and use all the time I blocked for Clover’s dress to design something so innovative, investors will have no choice but to line up for a piece of Andrea Dresser Designs.
Right.
“A scout from Optimax came by my office.” Heidi’s fingers fly over her phone in response to it buzzing on the counter. When I raise a questioning brow, she waves it off. “Crystal’s got it under control.”
God, I need an assistant like Crystal. And a miracle.
“Are they going to shoot some sort of wedding planning series or something?” The publicity alone would be a great opportunity for her.
She shakes her head and takes another sip of her drink. “I know you’re, like, living under a rock in that studio, but—”
“It’s a nice rock.” I roll my eyes. I have a wall of windows that shows Atlanta’s glittering skyline from sunset to sunrise. And I would know because I’ve been up until two AM every night this week trying to beat my muse into submission.
“You live where you work,” Heidi scolds. She’s right. My bedroom is in the loft above the studio where I meet brides and make gowns. “You know how I feel about that.”
“I like the commute.” I smirk. She has to drive in Atlanta rush hour to get to her downtown offices; I just have to go downstairs. And it keeps my living expenses at rock bottom.
“Whatever.” She waves it off. “I know that if it’s not in a bridal magazine or on BrideTok, you don’t see it.”
I don’t react to the dig. Mostly because it’s true.
“Optimax is the one that owns the Vibe channel,” she explains, letting our bickering drop. “They’re filming the next season of First Look at Forever here in Atlanta.”
My brows draw together in confusion. I don’t own a TV, so I’m not quite sure what show she’s talking about. I do practically live under a rock. Between designing gowns, attending the weddings as personal seamstress to the brides, and trying to design an entire separate line to show at Fashion Week, there’s not much room left in my life for anything else.
“It’s that show where matchmakers arrange marriages?” She raises a brow at me.
I shake my head. It still isn’t ringing a bell. “Why were they at your offices?”
“They need someone to plan the weddings this season.” She shrugs like it isn’t a big deal to be recruited by TV producers.
“How many?” I’m already doing math in my head.
“Three to six. All on the same day.”
My jaw drops. Heidi is some kind of organization wizard and multitasking goddess, but six weddings in one day?
She laughs at my incredulousness. “I think you should meet the producers.”
I scoff, tapping one of my fingers nervously against my glass. As much as I need the paycheck, it’s not like I could design up to six dresses for brides I haven’t even met yet, make them to my level of perfection, then babysit them all on the same day while brides drank too much and tore their hems on stilettos and spilled wine on their bodices.
Could I?