Brown-Eyed Girl (Travis Family #4)(20)

“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 —”

“Thanks, but Jazz… there’s no way they would pick someone with so little experience. Besides —”

“You can’t assume that. You don’t know what they’re looking for. They may not even know what they’re looking for. I’m going to put together a video of various things you did on camera, and you’re going to send me your résumé and a decent head shot, and I’ll make sure Trevor Stearns’s producers take a look at everything. If they’re interested, they’ll fly you up here to talk in person, so if nothing else, you’ll get a free trip out of it and you can see me.”

I smiled. “Okay. For that reason alone, I’ll give it a try.”

“Wonderful. Now, tell me quickly – everyone doing okay there? Your sister?”

“Yes, she’s —”

“My ride’s here. Let me call you later.”

“Okay, Jazz. Take care of —”

The call ended. I looked down at my phone, still bemused by the rapid-fire conversation. “And Joe said I talked fast,” I said aloud.

For the next week and a half, I received two more calls and several texts from Joe, the relaxed tone of his messages turning into perplexed impatience. Clearly he understood I was avoiding him, but he didn’t give up. He even tried the event-planning studio’s number and left a message that, although innocuous, provoked considerable interest from my employees. Sofia quieted them in a deliberately light, amused tone, telling them that whether or not I was going out with Joe Travis, it was no one’s business but mine. After work, however, she cornered me in the kitchen and said, “You’re not yourself, mija. You’ve been acting strange ever since the Kendrick wedding. Is everything okay?”

“Of course,” I said quickly, “everything’s fine.”

“Then why have you been having an OCD meltdown?”

“I’ve been doing a little cleaning and reorganizing,” I said defensively. “What’s wrong with that?”

“You put all the takeout menus in color-coded folders, and stacked all the magazines in order of their dates. Even for you, that’s too much.”

“I just want everything to be under control.” Uneasily, I opened a nearby drawer and began to rearrange the utensils. Sofia was silent, waiting patiently while I made certain that all the spatulas were in one compartment and slotted spoons were in another. “Actually,” I said in a rush, fumbling with a set of measuring spoons, “I slept with Joe Travis the night of the wedding, and now he wants to go out with me, but I don’t want to see him again and I can’t make myself tell him, so I’ve been avoiding his calls and hoping he’ll just go away.”

“Why do you want him to go away?” she asked in concern. “Did you have a bad time with him?”

“No,” I said, relieved at being able to talk about it. “Oh my God, it was so amazing that I think I lost brain cells, but I shouldn’t have done it in the first place, and I really wish I hadn’t, because now I feel weird, like I have emotional jet lag or something. I can’t catch up to myself. And I’m embarrassed every time I think about how I jumped into bed with him like that.”

“He’s not embarrassed,” Sofia pointed out. “Why should you be?”

I gave her a dark glance. “He’s a man. Just because I don’t agree with the double standard doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

“In this situation,” Sofia said gently, “I think the only person carrying around a double standard is you.” Closing the utensil drawer, she turned me to face her. “Call him tonight,” she said, “and tell him yes or no. Stop torturing yourself. And him.”