Take Two (The Jilted Bride #1)(12)

All of them…

“I guess the charming executive one.”

“Well, if he comes again could you get his autograph and maybe take his picture for me?”

“I don’t think there’ll be a next time but sure,” I took a white box from her. “Thank you so much for this.”

“Not a problem. Remind me, what exactly do you do all day?”

“Watch films, read books, edit articles. I’m in charge of a couple projects too.”

“And you get paid to do that? I clearly picked the wrong major. Marine Biology? What was I thinking?”

“Whatever,” I laughed.

“Sean’s mom called me today. She said she’s called you ten times since the wedding.

I honestly felt bad about not returning her calls. I’d always liked her. She was the one who taught me how to dress. I just wasn’t sure how to deal with his side of the family. I wasn’t sure if they cared that I was left at the altar, wasn’t sure if they’d forgotten about me and were now smitten with blonde bitch.

“What did she want?”

“To check on you, Melody!” she seethed. “She said Sean offered to pay for your new condo but you never responded to his texts.”

“And I never plan to. I don’t need his help!”

“Suit yourself,” she held up her hands. “You’re more than welcome to stay at my place after you’re done at that fancy hotel. Just don’t bring any suede shoes. Chipper loves to chew on those.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I looked out my window and changed the subject.

The rest of the day was a drag. I couldn’t focus on anything. All I could think about was my failed wedding and my encounter with Matt Sterling. I only read two pages of an assigned book and I didn’t plan on watching any movies.

I heard a knock at the door. “Come in Sophie!”

If it’s Matt Sterling I’m going to apologize…and kindly ask him to take his shirt off.

Sophie entered the room and sat down. “The rest of your things have been placed at Trump SoHo, Miss Carter. Would you still like to meet with the realtor this Sunday?”

“Yes please.”

“Okay. Your catalog project was approved by the board while you were gone. They expect you to have your team organized by October. And Mr. Maxwell wants your review of Sweet Attraction by this evening.”

I sighed. “Take out my 27 Dresses review, change the names of the actors and then take the last paragraph of my Bride Wars review and slap that at the end of it.”

“Yes ma’am,” she stood up. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Hot chocolate?”

She smiled and walked out.

I should’ve been excited about the catalog project. I should’ve been jumping up and down and screaming. But I wasn’t. I was dreading putting together a team, working for months on a documentary detailing the best and worst romantic comedies.

I could no longer look at any of them the same: I wanted that car to run over Jennifer Lopez in The Wedding Planner, to prevent her from falling for an engaged doctor. I wanted to repeatedly stab Julia Roberts for deliberately trying to take back her best friend in My Best Friend’s Wedding. I wanted to stone and burn Ginnifer Goodwin in Something Borrowed.

My office phone rang. “Miss Carter. Who am I speaking with?”

“Get in here,” Mr. Maxwell’s voice was clipped.

I smoothed my blouse and walked to his office. Late afternoon meetings with him were almost always about movie premieres and parties—events I always turned down.

“Have a seat,” he rubbed his chin. “I remember when you first started here, Melody. You were a freshman in college then, a mere intern, a nobody. You were as valuable as the girl who got my coffee every morning.”

Where is he going with this?

He leaned back and continued. “You were young, dumb, and you couldn’t dress to save your life.”

“Sir, what does this—”

He wagged his finger to silence me. “Today, you’re still young, less dumb, but at least you can dress now…I remember when you became the youngest printed critic, and then the youngest major critic. The thing about you Melody is that you’ve spent all six of your years here trying to outdo everyone else. So, when you start to hand in subpar work, it shocks us all.”

“Subpar work?” I murmured.

“Channing Tatum is the worst thing to happen to romantic comedies since Matthew McConaughey,” he read a sheet of paper. “It might even be safe to say that the romantic comedy genre has died and been replaced with shirtless psychos batting their eyes at their female costars. Really Melody?”

“Okay, that was just one—”

“Rachel McAdams plays Lisa, a home-wrecking slut who realizes that she still loves her old college sweetheart. Instead of being her usual likable self and finding a new boyfriend, she is loathsome and downright disgusting as she tries to win back her first love. Do I need to read more?”

“No,” I avoided his eyes.

“I’m not one to pry into people’s personal lives, but why are you even here? Your fiancé leaves you at the altar and you come back to work weeks later?”

“I love my job.”