My gaze is immediately drawn to a bronze sculpture of a phoenix resting on the only credenza in the room. That’ll do. And I imagine I will need it. Rebecca can’t fool me with her business casual attire and friendly demeanor. Every step of this process is part of my interview, and the marketing people she nonchalantly referred to as “the guys” will either help or hurt my chances of landing this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. So I need to make a good first impression. If I demonstrate my expertise and convince them of my competence, maybe they’ll go the extra mile for me. And since I’m essentially competing for the position, every advantage, no matter how small, matters.
A minute later, Rebecca’s laugh carries down the hall as though it’s a trumpet heralding her arrival. I rise, straighten my jacket, and stretch my lips. When the door opens and “the guys” walk in, all the fresh air in the room rushes out, displaced by a sudden influx of toxic atmosphere that makes breathing a struggle. I could use a strong slap on my ass to shock me into gulping in much-needed oxygen, but I’m not a newborn, and these men couldn’t care less whether I’m okay.
And I’m not. Okay, I mean.
Because there, in all his gorgeous and villainous glory, stands my former fiancé—or as I’ve renamed him since the breakup, Asshole Majora. And if that’s not bad enough, the worst best man ever—his brother, Asshole Minora—is standing by his side.
Fuck my life into next week.
What are they doing here? Together? Last I heard, Andrew had relocated to Atlanta and joined the marketing team of a global law firm. His brother lives and works in New York, or so I thought. Well, not today apparently. Today, they’re starring in my nightmare. And if their bulging eyes are any guide, they weren’t expecting this almost-a-family reunion, either. Andrew even looks a little green around the gills. So it’s no surprise, then, that they don’t do or say anything, presumably waiting for me to set the tone of this ill-fated encounter.
Rebecca regards me with a cheerful smile as she addresses them. “Gentlemen, meet Carolina Santos. Says we can call her Lina for short.” To me, she says, “This is Andrew and Max. They’re brothers and colleagues.”
Merda. This is not how I imagined this day would go. Not even close. I wanted to show Rebecca her instincts about me were right. Instead, she’ll discover in the next few seconds that one of two wedding planners she’s interviewing for an amazing position was jilted by the very marketing agent she thinks so highly of. How am I supposed to convince her that Andrew and I can work together to build the hotel’s wedding brand? I’m not even sure we can.
And if Rebecca’s weighing the pros and cons of two comparably impressive candidates, would discovering that one of them comes with a lengthy vacation’s worth of baggage push her to go with the other one instead? Why would she sign up for this drama if she discovered it before she’d invested any appreciable time in that prospect?
There’s more to this than just the uneasiness of working with a former fiancé, too. I make my living creating the illusion of happily-ever-afters. Admitting I didn’t succeed in finding my own kills the mood. What I do inevitably gets filtered through this lens even though it has no bearing on my skills as a planner. Sure, it’s not my fault, and no, it’s not a scarlet letter by any means, but if people are honest with themselves, they would readily concede that knowing I’m a jilted bride makes them feel sorry for me—especially given the nature of my business.
Honestly, I wish I could let a river of tears run down my face, but I absolutely refuse to let anyone in this room regard me as a weakling who doesn’t deserve their respect. I need a way to neutralize the situation so I can function at the level Rebecca expects from me. I simply can’t let this reunion play out in her presence.
The idea isn’t even fully formed in my brain when I clasp Andrew’s hand and give him a firm, desperate handshake. “It’s great to meet you, Andrew. Rebecca says you’re talented, so I’m excited about the possibility of our working together.”
His mouth opens, closes, and opens again, while I implore him with my eyes to go along with this harebrained plan to pretend we’re strangers. “It’s . . . uh . . . great to meet you, too.”
Yeah, stiff as always, even when he’s flustered. He looks good, though. His hair’s grown out at the sides and top, and his fair skin glows with vitality. The navy suit he’s wearing flatters his broad shoulders and trim waist as if his body regularly serves as the mold for menswear mannequins. All that’s fine and dandy, but here’s what I understand now: Andrew’s like a perfect résumé—there’s either a ton of embellishing going on or a bunch of unflattering stuff never made it onto the page.
Max, for his part, appears to have experienced late-onset puberty between twenty-five and today o’clock—because he did not look this handsome the last time I saw him. Or maybe I wasn’t in the right mind-set to notice all those years ago. Well, in any case, time has been ridiculously kind to Andrew’s younger brother. From his dark, effortlessly tousled hair to the sharp cut of his jaw, the individual parts combine to make an impressive whole. Shorter than his brother by a couple of inches, Max still manages to dominate the room. He couldn’t blend into the background if he tried. Also, he’s cute in the eyes and thick in the thighs—a deadly combination that’s wasted on him.
Max clears his throat and glides forward to join the introductions. “Lina, it’s a pleasure.”
I ignore his outstretched hand. There’s a moment of unease as we stand there staring at each other, until he gestures toward the conference table, an ear-to-ear grin masking his manipulative tendencies.
“Shall we?” he asks. “I’m looking forward to hearing a little more about you.”
It’s not lost on me that Max has settled into his role like an Academy Award–winning actor while his older brother’s flopping around like a stuffed animal being dragged by a toddler. There’s a lesson in there somewhere, but I’m too anxious to absorb it.
“Sounds great,” I say.
After blowing out a slow and what I hope is an imperceptible breath, I scramble back to my chair.
Andrew finally recovers and joins us at the table. His face is flushed and there’s a sheen of perspiration above his brows. Good. He deserves to be uncomfortable. We talked only once after the non-wedding, when he’d mustered the courage to explain that he was looking for more. More affection, more conversation, more sex, more everything. He’d been so calm and proper as he rattled off his new-to-me wishes, a laundry list of items that probably reflected Max’s wants, not his. Today, though, his unflappable demeanor is nowhere to be found, and knowing I put him in this panicked state sparks joy in me.
“So . . . uh . . . Ms. . . . uh . . . Santos, tell us about your business,” Andrew says as he wipes his forehead with a handkerchief.
Max covers his disappointment in his brother’s performance by swiping a hand down his face, but I catch the way his eyes roll to the back of his head before he clears his expression of any emotion.
My chest expands as I take a deep, calming breath. Okay, they’re not blowing my cover; that’s encouraging. So I guess we’re doing this, then. And sure, I’m fully aware this could be a big mistake. Huge. Like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman you-work-on-commission-don’t-you huge. But there’s no going back now, is there?