Page 51 of Crash

Axel: Speaking of medical advice … hypothetically … if a supermodel had this weird rash …

Me: Stop. Whatever you’re about to ask, the answer is no. And get tested. Again.

Axel: You’re just jealous I’m living the dream while you’re all stuck in your sad, sexless lives.

Jace: The dream of being patient zero for the next pandemic?

Ryker: I’m muting this chat. Some of us have actual work to do.

Axel: Says the guy who just spent five minutes reading about my sex life.

Me: *Your alleged sex life.

Axel: *middle finger emoji*

Jace: He’s just mad because that rash is definitely herpes.

30

TESSA

I was about to die a very public death. Professionally, that is.

I stared at Chicago’s most influential bride as she dropped her bombshell.

“You want to change the wedding date?” I tried to keep my voice from panic-level shrieking as we sat in the gleaming interior of Le Petit Café, where the scent of fresh croissants usually calmed my nerves. Not today. “We’re more than halfway done with the planning,” I reminded her, ticking off on my fingers. “Florists, caterer, venues—all with signed contracts.”

“I don’t want it to be next June.” Shelly twisted her hands on the marble tabletop, avoiding my gaze. A cappuccino sat untouched before her, its foam design dissolving into nothing. “I want it to be this July.”

“ThisJuly?” The words came out as a strangled whisper. “As in seven weeks from now?”

“That’s the one.” Her shoulders hunched forward, so unlike her usual camera-ready posture.

Do not laugh out loud at the audacity of it,I commanded myself. Part of being a wedding planner was dealing with unreasonable and unattainable requests from the bride and groom. But this? This was impossible.

“Shelly.” I leaned forward, lowering my voice. “This is supposed to be the wedding of a lifetime.” As an influencer with millions of followers, Shelly knew this, but perhaps it bore repeating. “There are politicians and Wall Street executives, massive influencers … they’ll all be there. Which means we can’t afford anything less than perfection. People like that will be looking for something to criticize.”

Especially with Shelly. She attracted a massive following, and with great success came ruthless trolls. One slipup, and that slip would be the headline on the front pages of gossip columns. Yes, includingPage Six. And right next to it? My name and my shattered reputation.

I might as well engrave a headstone for my business right now.Here lies Tessa’s dreams, murdered by impossible deadlines.

“Yes, it has to be perfect,” she said, her manicured nails drumming against the table. “And it has to be in July.”

“There won’t be any venues available.” The words tumbled out as I ran my fingers through my hair. “And that doesn’t even factor in?—”

“I’m going to stop you right there.” This was the curtest Shelly had ever been with me; my spine stiffened at the icy tone frosting her words. “Something has come up, so it has to be in July. Period. And I need you to make that work.”

I studied her, only now noticing how tense she seemed—her shoulders rigid, face tight.

“Oh my goodness!” A redheaded teen materialized at our table, practically vibrating with excitement. “You’re Shelly McBride!”

McBride. Ironic, considering the circumstances.

“I am.” Shelly’s face transformed instantly, her media-perfect smile sliding into place as she posed for a selfie with the fan who gushed for over a minute before finally leaving us alone.

“Something has come up.” I repeated her words softly, trying to imagine what could possibly derail a wedding that had more sponsorship deals than a Super Bowl commercial. “Are you … expecting? Because if you are—” The wedding was a year out. She could get her pre-baby body back in time if that’s what worried her.

“I’m not pregnant,” she said, her voice barely audible over the café’s espresso machine hiss. “My dad …” Her voice cracked, and her eyes welled with tears. Tears she tried to force away with a clearing of her throat. “It’s pancreatic cancer.”