Page 12 of Reluctantly Yours
I realize that while JoAnna is a household name in the book and publishing world, this twenty-something hostess has no idea who she is. Even if JoAnna’s name were to have influence here, I feel bad that I’m using it. She’s at the airport right now. She’ll be on a plane to LA in less than thirty minutes. That’s a reservation I did confirm this week. I shake my head.
“Oh, wait!” She snaps her fingers and I feel a glimmer of hope. “I know that name. She’s got a son. He’s gorgeous and rich. One of the youngest billionaires in the world. Barrett, right?”
I cluck my tongue. “Right.”
“Is he going to be here?” she asks.
“At my friend’s bachelorette party?” I ask.
She nods excitedly.
It’s Friday night, yet I imagine Barrett is holed up in his barren office, performing his nightly ritual of counting his gold coins by lamp light. A modern-day Ebenezer Scrooge.
Except he’s not exactly stingy with his money. He did donate a million dollars to the Books 4 Kids campaign. And I’m aware of all the other philanthropy he and SCM participates in, but that doesn’t mean he’s pleasant to be around. All that money and generosity can’t make up for his abysmal personality. His ever-present scowl and contemptuous attitude.
But, who knows? Maybe he and Tessa Green hit it off yesterday and are having a romantic second date tonight. Either way, he’s not making an appearance.
“No,” I say.
Her smile drops. “We’re completely booked. You could try the bar; it’s standing room only.”
I glance over at the bar area. It’s got a fun atmosphere, but there’s no way the party would fit in the space even if there were no other patrons. My stomach drops. I’m normally organized, details are my jam. This can’t be happening.
I take a breath. I’ve never missed a confirmation, whether it be for a travel itinerary, an important meeting or a dinner reservation. I’m here now, shouldn’t that count for something? I’m about to argue this point when the hostess speaks again.
“I need you to move your cake.” She purses her lips as she drops her eyes to the white cake box with a clear window resting on her stand before pulling two menus from underneath. Before I can cling to her leg and beg her to help me, she’s leaving, guiding the couple behind me, who are in their sixties and have been staring wide-eyed at said cake, toward their table.
The cake is in the shape of a man’s chest, his pecs and abs are chiseled to buttercream perfection while a fondant penis juts upward to his belly button, a clear creamy substance spills from the crown and spells out ‘Here cums the bride’ across his abdominals.
I thought it was hilarious when I picked it out. It’s not my fault that this massive man cake is too large for the bakery’s traditional cake boxes, leaving this clear box the only option. They should have warned me when I ordered it. Maybe suggested they shave a few inches off of the giant cock so that it could fit in a proper box. One that didn’t display its contents to everyone within a five-foot viewing radius.
In my hurry to get to the restaurant, I didn’t have time to tape a piece of paper over it. I figured once I got it here and set up in the private room that the cake would be a non-issue. Now, the massive penis on the cake I’m holding is the least of my problems.
I maneuver the bag of party supplies in my right hand so I can move the cake box off of the host stand, then set everything down on the deep-set windowsill. I need to think. There has to be a solution here. Then, I remember all the effort it took to find a location and make the reservation. The reasons that I booked the restaurant in the first place.
My apartment is tiny with a capital T. It would be against fire code to have that many people in it at once. That and we wouldn’t be able to move if we happened to cram all of us inside. Lauren and Claire’s hotel room is bigger than my apartment. I could show up there and tell Lauren what happened. That she flew to New York City for her bachelorette party and I forgot to confirm the restaurant reservation. This trendy, upscale and completely unaccommodating restaurant was one of the only places I could find that didn’t have a room fee. A rare gem in this expensive city.
My phone buzzes, and while I expect it to be from my friends, I look down to see it’s JoAnna calling me.
“Hello?”
“Oh, Chloe, I’m glad I got hold of you. Are you busy?”
I want to laugh. I need to find a new location for my friend’s bachelorette party of sixteen women on a Friday night in New York. Nothing too pressing.
“Um, no,” I lie, “what do you need?”
“The review copies ofTake Me Downgot delivered to my building today instead of the office on Monday.”
“Oh, no.” My brain starts cranking, wondering if I made that mistake. The way this day is going, anything is possible.
“Paul’s assistant put the wrong address, so now there are twenty boxes of books in the lobby at the Pierre. Would you go over and let Orlando into my place?”
This is the last thing I need, another item on my growing to-do list.
“I don’t want them sitting there all weekend,” she adds.
“Of course. I’ll take care of it,” I say, fighting back the panic that’s telling me this detour is only going to eat into the time I have to figure out the bachelorette party location situation. I need JoAnna to know that I’ve got everything under control.