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I had been like an entirely different person with Joe. But I wasn’t ready to be someone new – I’d grown too accustomed to being the woman Brian Palomer had jilted at the altar. If I let go of that identity, I wasn’t sure what would happen. I was afraid to imagine the possibilities. All I knew was that no man would ever hurt me the way Brian had, and I was the only one who could protect myself from that.
Later that night, as I sat in bed reading, my cell phone rang and vibrated on the nightstand.
I stopped breathing as I saw Joe’s caller ID.
My God. He’d meant it when he’d said he would call.
My heart throbbed against a painful tightness, as if it had been wrapped in a million rubber bands. Covering my ears with my hands, closing my eyes, I didn’t respond to the insistent ringtone. I waited it out. I couldn’t talk to him – I wouldn’t know what in the hell to say. I knew him in the most intimate way possible, yet I didn’t know him at all.
As wildly pleasurable as it had been to sleep with Joe, I didn’t want it to happen again. I didn’t have to have a reason, did I? No. I didn’t owe him any explanations. I didn’t even have to explain it to myself.
The phone went silent. The tiny screen flashed a message that a voice mail had been left.
Ignore it, I told myself. I picked up the book I’d been reading and focused blindly on a page. After a couple of minutes, I realized that I’d read the same page three times without comprehending a word.
Exasperated, I tossed the book aside and grabbed the phone.
My toes curled beneath the covers as I heard his message, that unhurried drawl seeming to sink inside me and dissolve like hot sugar. “Avery, it’s Joe. I wanted to find out how your drive back to Houston was.” A pause. “I thought about you all day. Give me a call when you feel like it. Or I’ll try you again later.” Another pause. “Talk to you soon.”
Blood heat had turned my cheeks red and prickly. I set the phone back on the nightstand.
The adult thing, I reflected, would be to call him back, talk to him in a calm and reasonable manner, and tell him that I wasn’t interested in seeing him again. It’s just not going to click for me, I could say.
But I wasn’t going to do that. I was going to ignore Joe until he went away, because the thought of talking to him made me break out in a nervous sweat.
The phone rang again, and I stared at it in disbelief. Was he calling again? This was going to get annoying, fast. As I looked at the caller ID, however, I saw that it was my best friend from New York, Jasmine, who was the fashion director of a major women’s magazine. She was a friend and a mentor, a woman of forty who seemed to do everything well and was never afraid to be opinionated. And her opinions were usually right.
Style was religion to Jasmine. She had the rare gift of translating street trends, shopping blogs, Internet chatter, and cultural influence into a clear-eyed assessment of what was happening in fashion and what was coming around the corner. From her friends, Jasmine demanded and gave absolute loyalty, friendship being the only thing she valued nearly as much as style. She had tried to stop me from leaving New York, promising to use her connections to secure me a job as a special fashion correspondent for a local entertainment show or possibly doing a retail collaboration with some bridal designer who wanted to tap into a more affordable market.
I had appreciated Jasmine’s efforts to help, but I had refused. I’d felt defeated and tired, and I’d needed a break from fashion. Most of all, I had wanted to live with my newfound sister and form a relationship with her. I had wanted to have someone in my life whom I was related to. And part of me had liked the way Sofia looked up to me – I’d needed that. Jasmine hadn’t necessarily understood, but she had relented and backed off, after telling me that someday she would find a way to lure me back to New York.
“Jazz,” I exclaimed, delighted. “How are you?”
“Sweetie. Do you have time to talk?”
“Yes, I —”
“Great. Listen, I’m about to run to a party, but I have some news that can’t wait. Here’s the thing: You know who Trevor Stearns is.”
“Of course.”
I had been in awe of Trevor Stearns since I’d been in design school. The legendary celebrity wedding planner was also a megasuccessful bridal fashion designer, author, and host of a cable show titled Rock the Wedding. The show, based in L.A., was an effervescent mix of style, sentiment, and drama. Every episode featured Trevor and his team creating a dream wedding for a bride who didn’t have the budget or the vision to do it on her own.
“Trevor and his producers,” Jazz continued, “are planning to do a spin-off series based in Manhattan.”
“Isn’t that going to cause wedding show fatigue?” I asked. “I mean, how many people are willing to watch?”
“If there’s a limit, they haven’t found it yet. The cable channel is airing reruns of Trevor’s show all the time, and the ratings are huge. So the thinking is, Trevor wants to mentor someone. Preferably a woman. He’s going to create a star. Whoever he decides on will be the host of Rock the Wedding: NYC, and Trevor will make guest appearances on the show until it’s established.” Jazz paused. “Do you get where this is going, Avery?”
“You think I should give it a shot?” I asked in bewilderment.
“It’s perfect for you. I still remember those interviews you did during Bridal Week – you looked amazing on camera, and you had so much personality —”