Planning for Love (12 page)

Ivy bit her lip. Wished they were anywhere but in a hallway so she’d have an excuse to look somewhere besides straight at Daphne. “Nothing. A slight difference of opinion.”

“Really? Do you remember last week when you wanted pad thai for lunch and I wanted gyros?
That
was a slight difference of opinion.” Daphne crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head. Disapproval rolled off her as thick as the humid salt tang in the air. “After barely exchanging five sentences, you and Ben looked ready to go at it for nine rounds. Either in a mud pit or in bed, I’m not sure which.”

Great. Now the image of Ben with sticky, wet mud clinging to his legs popped into her mind. Sort of an Indiana Jones look, like he’d escaped from a tribe of restless jungle natives and slogged through quicksand just to get to her. Her mind added a battered felt fedora to the image. Nothing else—just Ben, the slick mud, and the hat. So he could whip it off and send it sailing into the trees once he spotted her, reclining in a hammock, naked, waiting for him. Ivy shook her head the tiniest bit. Nope, the image refused to pop back out. He lingered there, larger than life, dripping and toned and ready.

“Ohhh.” Daphne drew the word out like sticky taffy being pulled by a master candymaker. “Oh, no. I was just kidding when I said in bed. But now your eyes are all glazed over, and, eww, you’re licking your lips. God, Ivy, you’re not mad at him, are you? You
want
him?”

Who wouldn’t? From the tips of his golden hair down to his strong, well-shaped calves, Ben was the ultimate eye candy. A man morsel capable of making any woman want to pop him in her mouth and suck, long and hard. Ivy was only human. But she also lusted after chili cheese fries and meatballs dipped in fondue. All of which, including Ben, were equally bad for her. Clogged arteries were a lot less painful than the clogged heart Ben carried beneath those well-formed pecs.

“As it so happens, I am quite peeved with Mr. Westcott. His complete lack of respect for the institution of marriage is an insult to me, my profession and the profusion of love-struck couples everywhere.”

Daphne rolled her eyes. “Whatever. You want him.”

So
not the point. In fact, not at all pertinent to their current discussion. “He can’t effectively deal with our clients with such a negative attitude. I refuse to let him taint Diana and Niko’s special day.”

“He baited you, not the clients. Let’s backtrack for a minute. At Tracy and Seth’s wedding, did he do anything untoward? Anything at all to ruin their magical day of bliss?”

Although it pained her, Ivy knew she had to be honest. In truth, Ben’s ability to stay in the background and not be noticed had impressed her quite a bit that day. “No.”

Daphne smiled knowingly. Nodded her head. “Like I said, you want him.”

“Stop saying that.”

“Stop thinking it. Anger and passion are divided by a very thin line. If you ask me, the line looks pretty blurry between the two of you. Is it possible you didn’t fill me in completely on exactly what went down back in April? Have you been holding out on me?”

Well, of course. Ivy’s pathetic, emotional longing for Ben, followed by his disastrous attack on everything she believed in, didn’t need to be shared. She enjoyed being half of a couple. Loved the feeling of being in love. Of course, despite what her friends thought, Ivy didn’t fall like a ton of bricks every time a guy smiled at her. She’d kicked her share of losers to the curb. But she’d also moved a bit too quickly in her last few serious relationships. And she learned from her mistakes.

Ivy now parsed out information carefully to her friends. They’d developed a combination grimace of pursed lips and a head tilt which communicated their pity all too well. Sure, they meant well. But she didn’t think her enthusiasm for the possibility of a long-lasting relationship deserved to be treated with the same tragic consolation as if she’d announced that all her hair fell out overnight. Love happened, and Ivy refused to miss her shot at it by being too cautious.

Given their current situation, with a steady diet of Ben on the horizon, it seemed even more prudent to not elaborate. Filling in the sordid details right now of what happened in April would only give Daphne reason to worry. Ivy figured one of them in the partnership worrying was enough. Clear away all the personal stuff, and Ben was nothing more than a conduit to fulfilling her contract with RealTV. Dodging Daphne’s question didn’t make her a bad friend, but rather a good businesswoman.

Ivy bobbed her head in apology. “I’m edgy today. Stayed up far too late working on plans for the new store. To compensate, I overdosed on caffeine. Then I couldn’t find my shoes. Not only was I running late, but traffic was the usual nightmare getting to Lake Shore Drive. You know how much I hate not being on schedule. I think I took out my frustration on Ben. He took me by surprise, and I didn’t handle it well. End of story.”

“Really?” Daphne didn’t sound convinced. “Because I’ve seen you handle much bigger surprises. What if I’m not there to play referee the next time Ben surprises you? Julianna’s far too much in awe of you to break up another tussle. Forget about the show for a minute. Run through a couple of rounds of that breathing stuff you do in yoga class. Or whatever it takes to calm you down. Our job is to remove the hassles for our clients, not create them.”

Ivy flashed a smile, hoping it came off as confident and cheerful. “Diana and Niko will have a perfect wedding today, thanks to the efforts of everyone on the Aisle Bound team. Which, for the next two months, includes Ben and Ollie. No more trouble, I promise.” Thankfully the pouf of her skirt hid her crossed fingers. On both hands.

Chapter Eight

The most dangerous food is wedding cake.

—American Proverb

“The meat is wrong.” Ione Kosta looked like a blue dandelion quivering in the breeze. She tapped her left foot insistently, which set the multiple layers of fringe on her dowdy mother-of-the-bride dress at a constant shimmy. From the top of her gravity-defying mass of teased hair to the feathered mules Ivy had whispered she’d custom dyed to match the color of the aquarium water, the woman personified outrage.

Ben swallowed a sigh. He’d had a good run of probably a dozen weddings since his last outraged MOB. They were a standard hazard of the job, and usually resulted in gigantic headaches for everyone in a ten-foot radius.

“Mrs. Kosta, I checked the plates before they left the kitchen.” Ivy whipped out the banquet order form and pointed out the line in question. “Filet mignon with Madeira rosemary sauce and a grilled lobster tail. Let me assure you, the menu is exactly what you and your daughter ordered six months ago.”

“Of course it is.”

Taking a few steps back, Ben widened his shot to encompass what he pegged at more than two hundred pounds of irate Greek mother as well as Ivy’s fixed, patient smile. He knew it had to be merely a mask. Nobody liked dealing with pissed-off moms. Not even a wedding planner with a heart as big and squishy as Ivy’s.

“Then how is the meat wrong? Not cooked enough, perhaps? We can fix that for you in a jiffy,” Ivy offered, her toothpaste ad smile guileless. Definitely phony.

“My piece is too small.” The irate woman held up two pudgy fingers pinched together, with a whisper of space between them. “They’re all too small. I’ll be ridiculed by everyone in St. Konstantine’s parish.”

“We were both at the tasting. This plate is identical to what you tried and approved back in March.”

Yup, Ivy’s patience was melting away faster than a scoop of rocky road in the Sahara. Her smile was a few clicks wider, milk chocolate eyes saucered in sympathy, but he saw a telltale sign in the interlaced fingers behind her back. She wiggled each one up and down the row, then back again, over and over, as if channeling all her inner irritation into that small, repeated motion.

Mrs. Kosta brandished her iPhone. “Look at this. I took a picture of everything that day. In this picture, the meat comes to the fifth scale thingy on the lobster shell. My piece tonight stops at the fourth one. Those caterers are cheating me out of at least a quarter inch of meat.”

Ivy didn’t need to lean forward to see the photo. Mrs. Kosta zoomed in and enlarged the shot, then held it practically under Ivy’s nose. Ben wondered if she’d gone around and snapped every plate at her table for comparison. And now, instead of holding court at the head family table while enjoying what looked like a damn tasty dinner, she was out here blowing off steam about the freakin’ filet. Which Ben would happily scarf down in a second.

He and Ivy both stood by the rule that vendors don’t eat until every guest is served. Since the first tray of appetizers had paraded past him close to two hours ago, his mouth had set itself to permanent drool. It all looked good and smelled even better. The guests had gorged themselves on mini lamb chops and gyros, shaved to order. Ben’s tongue almost rolled out of his mouth when he caught a whiff of barbequed pork in a pastry shell. In his opinion, the raw seafood bar was kind of in bad taste at an event in the middle of an aquarium, but the guy shucking oysters could barely stay ahead of demand.

“Ooh.” Ivy pursed her lips, then gave a minute head shake. “I can see why you’re disappointed. Each and every detail of today should not just meet your expectations, but exceed them. Now, there’s nothing we can do about the filets. At this point all your guests have been served. But I hear your point about the caterers not delivering all they promised. So here’s how we can make it right.” She cocked her head and looked up at the ceiling for a minute. Classic lost-in-thought stall tactic. “I will get the catering company to completely waive their entire cake cutting fee for tonight.”

The older woman’s face crinkled into happiness. “Well. That is very accommodating of you. Yes, if they agree to it, I will consider it a satisfactory compensation.”

“I’ll insist they do. There are no compromises when it comes to a client’s happiness.”

“You are a miracle worker.” She gave Ivy’s cheek a hard pinch. “Thank you for handling this. I simply don’t have the energy to fight with the caterer. It is my Diana’s wedding. Tonight, we dance!” Her weirdly blue shoes shuffled away to an unheard rhythm.

“Congrats,” said Ben. “Looks like you’ve racked up another happy customer.”

“They happen to be our specialty.”

Ben had no trouble believing it. Ivy smoothed those seriously ruffled feathers in record time. It was a treat to watch her in action, her deft and seemingly effortless steering across turbulent, emotion-drenched waters. Kind of like watching Kobe Bryant sink dunk shots or Tiger Woods swing a club.

“Tell me the truth. Did some chef go knife happy in the kitchen and scam her out of an extra ounce of beef?”

Ivy leaned closer to the thick aquarium glass, following the antics of the yellow and black fish as they schooled and unschooled in giant semi circles. “I’m sure the minute size difference was unintentional. Silver Platter Catering is one of the best in Chicagoland. Their food and their service are always impeccable.”

It didn’t gel. Her confidence in the caterer belied the assumption of guilt she’d fed Mrs. Kosta. Years of training and instinct kicked in, and Ben pressed to find the real story. He zoomed in, catching the play of light from the exhibit rippling down the side of her hair with a blue and white halo. “What makes you so sure you can get the caterer to waive that fee?”

“Nobody wants a disgruntled customer. It can be hard, if not impossible to recover from the damage done by a single nasty rant on a few different wedding blogs. Reputation is everything. Chef Paul and I have worked together on enough events. I’m quite certain the final invoice will not include a cake slicing fee.”

The hint of a smile gave her away. Score. He might be rusty, but he knew when there was more to a story. But he also knew Ivy would never make her clients look less than angelic on camera. Good or bad, her brides, grooms and their families always paid, and that kept Aisle Bound up and running. Discretion could be as important as organization in the wedding business, and she intended to always represent them in a good light. She’d spent a good ten minutes explaining this principle to Ruth before greenlighting
Planning for Love
. Ivy’s impassioned speech so surprised the hardened saleswoman that she’d repeated it almost verbatim at the last staff meeting. Everyone else’s jaws had hit the floor, but Ben hadn’t been surprised. Ivy truly cared, and it showed in everything she did. Damn it, why’d she have to care so much?

Ben stopped taping, and lowered the camera to the floor. Even slid on the lens cap to give her an additional feeling of security. “Okay, we’re off the record. What’s the real story?”

Still, she peered around the curved glass walls of colorful parrot fish as if checking for spies. Rose up on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “Silver Platter doesn’t charge for cutting the cake. Different venues, different vendors do much of the time, so it seemed a safe thing to promise her. It calmed her down, and kept her from insulting the caterer who’s worked like a dog tonight.”

“No hurt feelings, nobody loses.”

“I prefer to say that everybody wins. My glass is always half full.”

Ben tried not to breathe too deeply. The slight swing of her hair sent a hit of grapefruit topped by a layer of tropical flowers right to his nose. From his nose it ran straight to his dick. Why did a simple whiff of perfume turn back the clock until he was once again the thirteen-year-old idiot who sported wood every time he smelled Mary Sunderbrook’s grape lip gloss?

But he’d learned his lesson over the past twenty years. Mary got him sent to detention for doing her homework in the hope of earning a taste of those slick grape-flavored lips. And the twenty-four hours he’d overindulged in Ivy left him with a serious case of emotional indigestion. No matter how good a woman smelled, the fetid stench of disaster could be discerned with a trained noise.

“Half full or half empty, you can still get dysentery if the water in the glass is tainted.”

Ivy wrinkled her nose. “My, aren’t you a puddle of joy?”

“Can’t help it. I’ve seen dozens of women like her in the past year. How can she muster the energy to be so unhappy over something so small? Shouldn’t she be dabbing away tears and soaking up every moment of this once-in-a-lifetime event? The day she’s dreamt of since the doctor first laid the pink-wrapped screaming bundle in her arms? She’s missing it obsessing over meat. There’s enough food here to feed the whole crowd for three days, and she wants an extra bite of steak? Crazy.”

Maybe working on a show as negative as
WWS
had pushed him too far. Not a believer in romance to begin with, Ben’s experiences taping the worst in people on their supposed happiest of days made it impossible for him not to focus on the bad behavior. Not that he’d had a choice. It took him months to scrape together that job, and beggars couldn’t be choosy.

“Look at you, cheering for the side of sentiment.” She put a hand on his chest, the heat searing through his thin tuxedo shirt. “There is a heart throbbing under there after all.”

Clearly Ivy misunderstood his position. Instead of rooting for love, he was just rooting against stupidity. Ben stepped back, away from her touch. Away from the memory it yanked to the forefront of his mind. The curse of having a visually oriented career meant he often saw things as still images. Her gentle touch triggered a snapshot of Ivy astride him, both hands on his chest for balance. Beautiful. Sexy. And everything he needed to avoid.

Ben reshouldered his camera. He led them back toward Diana and Niko’s sweetheart table, sticking to the edges of the tightly packed rows of tables. “I hope she missed something really big, like the cake cutting or a toast.”

“Not much chance of that. I’m running this show, remember? Nothing goes down unless both you and I are there. We’re a team.”

Yeah, right. About as likely as his hotel room turning into a gingerbread castle, with marshmallow pillows and a Guinness-filled bathtub. “Is that so? A few hours ago, you looked ready to push me into the shark tank.”

“I signed a contract. I intend to abide by it. Everyone at Aisle Bound will bend over backward to work with you and Ollie. RealTV won’t be disappointed in their decision to hire us, I promise.”

Interesting turn around. Fast, too. Too fast. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch. I overreacted earlier. Daphne quite rightly pointed out this is a business arrangement. Whatever happened personally between you and I should have no bearing on how we conduct ourselves at events.”

Ben halted at one of the twelve foot high ridged columns at the entryway to the Caribbean Reef exhibit. Close enough to keep an eye on the major players, but back far enough that he could finish this conversation with Ivy, buffered by the din of hundreds of people talking while eating their puny pieces of filet. God, he’d do anything for just a bite of one of those runtish pieces of meat. Afternoon weddings were the worst. He’d grabbed a plastic-wrapped muffin on his way out of the hotel about eight. Closing in on half past two now, his stomach was sending out a constant stream of distress signals. Like if it didn’t get fed soon, it’d start eating itself. The freaking Donner party was about to be reenacted in his belly. Maybe needling Ivy would distract him a little while longer.

“Ah. So it’s the money. You don’t want to miss the big payout. What, are you worried I’m going to run back to the network and tattle on you? Complain you don’t play nice?”

“No. Not at all.” Ivy leaned against the column, eyes glued to the smiling bride. “Well, maybe. A little.”

“You think I’m that petty? Unprofessional? You think I’ll run to the guy behind the big desk like I can’t fight my own battles?” His gnawing hunger disappeared beneath a portion of righteous anger. After they’d connected so fast and so well the first time around, how could she treat him like just another bean counter? Sure, it ended badly, and he’d take more than a fair share of the blame for that. But he thought if nothing else, she respected him as much as he did her. As people, and as two driven toilers in the same salt mine. “Christ, I’d never pull such an underhanded move.”

“Of course not. I’d never accuse you of it.”

“You just did, babe. Trying to back your way out of the truth doesn’t change it.”

“No. Ben, you misunderstand. Of course you’d never rat me out. My waffling isn’t about you at all.” Ivy pushed off the column and closed the short gap. Her proximity forced Ben to lower the camera. For all the times he’d stopped filming her today, he’d be lucky to get an hour of usable footage. Not a great way to start.

“I’m worried I won’t be able to live up to the expectations of RealTV. The amount I know about filming a reality show could fit on the tip of a boutonnière pin. What if I’m not interesting enough? What if they change their minds and say I didn’t live up to the terms of the contract?”

Oh. Deep-seated insecurity, not distrust. Made sense. He’d seen a lot of insecure women cross in front of his camera. None as pulled together as Ivy, though. Ben never would’ve guessed her self-confidence tank occasionally dipped toward empty. “Guess I jumped the gun this time. Sorry.”

“Well, that makes us even. No harm, no foul.”

Ben knew he could let the whole thing drop. Get back on the clock and start rolling tape again. Ignore the frantic thrumming of her pulse he watched flutter in her neck. The tremor in her voice and the fists crumpling handfuls of her swooshy skirt. He also knew walking away, trading off with Ollie for a bit and getting some air, would be the smart move. Number one rule? Never get involved with the people on the other side of the lens. Record the action; don’t become part of it.

Damn it, how he could walk away when she still worried those perfect lips with her two front teeth? How could he look anywhere but at the lips he’d feasted on? Tonight they were a deep purple, like she’d slicked them with a well-aged Merlot. Did she do it just to torture him—and any other man with a pulse in the vicinity?