The Wedding Party (The Wedding Date, #3)(24)

“Can’t wait,” he said to his boss.

The mayor rubbed his hands together.

“Me neither.”

Maddie stared at the piles of clothes around her bedroom. One of her clients today was Maya Leslie, the sports reporter for a local news station, and she always liked to make a special effort to look poised and put together when she saw Maya. She felt like TV people expected it.

Maddie had loved giving fashion advice all her life, and sometimes she still couldn’t believe this was her actual job. Her first job in the stylist world had been a fluke; she’d been a college student in L.A. and a part-time barista, and one of her regular customers was Amelia Powell, an up-and-coming stylist. One Friday morning she came in desperate for caffeine and sympathy; her assistants all had the flu, and she had to get three clients ready and fitted for awards shows that weekend. Maddie had said, “I’m free this weekend, and I know how to sew.” She’d worked with Amelia all that weekend, and then on and off for years. She’d eventually moved back to the Bay Area for a more practical—and more steady—job, but she’d missed the fun and hustle of styling. A few years before, Amelia had begged her to come to L.A. for another awards show weekend to help out, and Maddie had taken the opportunity to ask for her advice about starting her own styling business. Six months later, she had her first three clients, and Maya had been one of them.

One of the many reasons Maddie loved working with Maya was that with Maya, she could be her naturally bossy self. For some of her clients, she had to be supportive and encouraging and persuasive when she worked with them, instead of demanding. She could be supportive and encouraging; she was happy to do it—it was just that hand-holding and cajoling took more out of her. It was much easier to just order people to put jumpsuits on.

Why was it taking her so long to decide what to wear today? She knew her wardrobe well enough that she could make these decisions in a snap.

Oh, right, because she’d seen her green dress on top of the pile of dry cleaning in the far corner of her room. The dress she’d put on that pile yesterday after she’d gotten home, well into the afternoon, from Theo’s house. After a very good night . . . and day. Damn it, what had she gotten herself into?

She reached for her second-favorite jeans; they weren’t quite worn in enough to be comfortable, but they looked fantastic on her. Her button-down white silk blouse, miracle of miracles, was still pressed and hanging in her closet, so she pulled on a nude camisole and carefully buttoned up the blouse. Now, time for a good lots-of-makeup “no makeup” look.

She stared at herself in the mirror as she put concealer on under her eyes. What the hell had she agreed to the day before? Theo had somehow convinced her they had no choice but to keep sleeping together. How had she gone along with that?

She brushed on just enough bronzer and blush to give herself a glow. To be fair to Theo—which she loathed doing—she’d done a hell of a lot more than go along with it. She’d definitely been an active participant in everything they’d done that night . . . and the next morning . . . and afternoon.

But she’d spouted those rules off to him like she’d been thinking about them for months. Like she’d been planning this! When that couldn’t be further from the truth. The last thing she’d wanted was to be forced to spend a lot of time with Theo in the run-up to Alexa’s wedding. And God knew how long that would be. Alexa and Drew didn’t seem to have any urgency about picking a wedding date, so she was likely going to have to keep seeing him for well over a year.

And then, of course, every time she saw him, she was going to have to have sex with him.

Multiple times.

As she patted on nude eye shadow, she saw the smug look on her face in the mirror. She tried to stop smiling, but it was impossible.

She reached for her mascara. At least her rules made it so he wouldn’t start thinking she wanted to see him all the time. No dates, and only after they’d been with Alexa. Since Alexa was still at the beginning of all this wedding planning stuff, Maddie might not see him for months.

She swiped on a second coat of mascara. How much time did she have? She checked her phone: ten minutes before her first client. Ugh, why did she keep getting disappointed whenever she checked her phone and she didn’t have a text? He had her number now, after Alexa’s half-drunken group text. But she didn’t even want Theo to text her! Was she just conditioned to think that if she slept with a dude, he had to text her the next day, even when they had a perfectly rational agreement that precluded the necessity—or even the possibility—of a day-after text?

This was the fault of the fucking patriarchy.

She swiped on some red lipstick, admired her fresh blowout in the mirror, stuffed a few things in her tote bag, and left her bedroom to walk out her back door and into the tiny cottage that housed her studio. There she had appointments and fittings with her clients and did any simple alterations, though she frequently also toted trunks full of clothes and shoes to clients’ homes and offices all around the Bay Area.

She had two quick clients that morning, and just enough time to refresh her lipstick before Maya knocked on her door.

“Maddie!” Maya air-kissed the vicinity of Maddie’s cheek and walked in the door. “I’m so sorry I’m late. We had a little crisis at the office.”

Maddie smiled at Maya’s outfit, one of the best she’d put together for her last quarter.