Bridesmaid Undercover: An incredibly steamy, hilarious, friends to lovers, love triangle romantic comedy

EVERLY

Maple:I’m so sorry, Everly, but I can’t make it tonight. I feel sick about it. I know the shower is in two days and I should be there, finishing all the decorations, but without getting into any details, we’re having a flamingo emergency.

I read Maple’s text and then look up at all of the decorations I’ve laid out on the table. It’s not a problem—I can easily take care of everything.

Everly:Don’t even worry about it. That’s why I’m here, to help.

Maple: I feel terrible.

Everly: Don’t. I promise, everything will be okay. I believe Hardy might even show up. Haven’t heard from him since when I texted. Either way, I can get it done. No worries. I’ll see you on Saturday.

Maple: Okay. Thank you so much, Everly.

Everly: Of course.

I set my phone down and kick off my heels only to slip on my slippers that I keep here in the office when I don’t want to be click-clacking around. Maggie is gone for the day, prepping for a wedding this weekend and a rehearsal dinner tomorrow after a half day full of interviews and not finding anyone that she’s interested in hiring.

I appreciate her being very particular on who she plans to bring on board. She wants someone who has experience, someone who can add to our team where we might not be as strong, and someone who we can get along well with. So far, she’s coming up short.

But like she said, she’d rather work harder right now in order to get it right.

Focusing on the pom-poms that need to be finished, I take a seat in one of the chairs along our large conference table, just as the front door to the store opens. I glance over my shoulder to see Hardy walk in.

His hair is disheveled in that way he seems to perfectly wear all the time, but instead of his classic jeans and T-shirt, he’s wearing a navy-blue suit and a white button-up shirt. The expensive-looking fabric clings to every contour of his frame, leading me to believe that it was specifically tailored to his body.

Dear God.

He’s so handsome.

“Hey,” he says as he walks up to me. “Sorry I’m late.” And then, just like every other time he’s greeted me, he leans down and presses a kiss to my cheek.

And like every other time, my skin tingles as his beard rubs against it and his cologne lingers in the air between us.

“Not late,” I say as I try to act as cool as I can, despite the way he just spiked my internal temperature. “I was just getting started.”

He unbuttons his suit jacket and removes it, showing off his impeccable chest, thanks to the way his button-up shirt pulls against it. Pecs flat and thick, lats like boulders, and a tapered waist that leads to a cinched belt. “Where’s Maple?” he asks, rolling up his shirt sleeves.

“She texted and said she can’t make it. Flamingo emergency. I told her I’d take care of everything.” I meet his eyes. “If you want to take off too, I can handle everything. I know you were probably here to get close with Maple.”

His brow creases. “I’m not about to leave you to do this by yourself. I’m here to help too, so put me to work.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, studying him. There’s something disconcerting about him right now. A pinch of annoyance in his brow, an air of irritation. The normal jovial man is absent and, in his place, is someone working through something in their head. “Hopefully this is not too bold, but you seem to be in a different frame of mind. Maybe not in the mood to make pom-pom arrangements.”

He takes a seat and leans back in the chair before pushing his hand through his hair. “I need to do something to take my mind off the bullshit I went through today.” His eyes meet mine. “So let’s do this.”

I knew something was off. I could tell the minute he walked into the building. Given the way he’s dressed and the edgy tone in his voice, a part of me wonders if it has anything to do with his dad.

But I’m not going to ask, because first, I don’t think it’s my place, and second, I don’t want to put him in a worse mood than he already is.

So instead, I’m going to try to alter his night, bring him joy and get his mind off things.

“Okay, I can teach you the complexities of building the perfect pom-pom bouquet, but I must warn you: If we’re going to do this, then we’re going to do it right.” I pick up my phone and I pull up Door Dash. “How do you feel about Philly cheesesteaks?”

His brows raise in interest. “I feel fondly about them.”

“Perfect. I’m starving for some dinner so I’m going to order us some.”

“I can grab it if you want,” he says.

I hold up my hand. “Consider it a peace offering after I gave you the bowling ball that you sent to the moon.”

That brings a smile to his face. “So you’re accepting partial blame?”

“I’m accepting the fact that maybe your wrist wasn’t as gentle as I assumed.” I smile at him and then type away on my phone. “What would you like to drink?”

“Water is fine,” he says.

“And any chips?”This text is property of Nô/velD/rama.Org.

He scratches his cheek. “You know, I’m not opposed to sea salt and vinegar.”

“Really?” I ask, tearing my eyes from my phone to look at him.

“Oh shit, please don’t tell me you’re one of those people who can’t stand sea salt and vinegar.”

“I’m not,” I say as I lean forward, hand on the table. “I’m a lover of the SSV.”

“Are you really?” he asks while I slowly nod, which makes him laugh. “Well, fuck, Plum. Look at us having the same good taste.”

“Some might say great taste,” I reply before finishing up the order. When I’m done, I open up my Spotify app and say, “Okay, next task, mood music.”

“Mood music?” he asks as he crosses his arms. “What kind of mood music are you talking about?”

“Pom-pom making music,” I say and scan through my playlist. “Hmm, what are your thoughts on Missy Elliot?”

“Love her,” he answers. “Perhaps, possibly distracting because I might be tempted to stand on this table and pelvic thrust my way through ‘Get Your Freak On.’”

“Although that’s something I’d love to witness, good point. Far too catchy to be making delicate pom-pom bouquets.” I scan some more. “How do you feel about some show tunes?”

“Uh, the only show tune I probably know is ‘Greased Lightnin’,and I don’t think we want to play that on repeat.”

“That would be a no,” I reply. “Okay…are we in the mood for Christmas music?”

“Have you lost your mind?”

“Just checking you haven’t,” I say. “You passed the test. Good job.” I flip through more playlists and then land on one that I’m truly curious about. “What about Whitney Houston?”

“You mean the greatest voice to ever grace the planet?”

“Pardon me?” I ask, blinking a few times. “Did you just make that bold statement?”

“Do you not agree?” he asks, unfolding his arms.

“Uh, I vehemently agree. I just wasn’t expecting you to say such a thing. To make such a claim.”

“Well, believe it, Plum. Whitney was God’s gift to our ears.”

“I guess we found our playlist then,” I say as I connect to the store’s Bluetooth speakers. “Get ready to go on a journey of incomparable timbre and vibrato.”

“Don’t need to prepare me, I know exactly what kind of journey we’re about to embark on.”

The first few notes of “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” plays through the speakers, not too loud where we can still hear each other, but the perfect volume to fill the silence.

“And there she is,” Hardy whispers with a sigh.

“One of my favorite songs,” I say. “When I was in second grade, I danced to this in a talent show with a boy named Trent. It was considered a real banger routine.”

“Was it now?” he asks. “Care to show me some moves?”

“I don’t think we’re there yet in our working relationship.”

“Oh, we’re there,” he says leaning forward. He nods at me. “Go ahead, show me one move.”

I ponder it for a second, but then think who the hell cares? It’s not like anything can get more embarrassing than him shooting a bowling ball into the roof. He’s set the standard, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to reach that.

“Okay, one move, but after this display of choreographed perfection, we need to get to work on these pom-poms.”

A handsome smile passes over his lips. “Deal.”

I stand from my chair and move toward a more open space.

His eyes fall to my slippers and then back up to my face. “I like the footwear.”

“You try wearing heels on concrete all day, unbelievably uncomfortable.” I clear my throat and then get in position, with my hands above my head. “Are you ready?”

“I’ve never been more ready in my life.” He faces me and folds his arms over his large chest, his gaze intent on me.

“Five, six, seven, eight,” I say right before I sweep one arm down and back up, then the other arm. Then I twirl and salsa my leg forward, then the other, twirl, and then jazz hands.

The smile that remains on Hardy’s face is easily the most attractive sight I’ve ever seen. I’m pretty sure I’d happily perform my dance all night if it means that smile stays.

He claps his hands, chuckling. “Wow, those are some moves.”

I take a seat and nonchalantly say, “Told you, choregraphed perfection.”

“Emmy-worthy.”

“I know,” I say with a smirk, which causes him to laugh. “Now, you owe me some pom-poms.”

“A deal is a deal.” He looks over the supplies on the table. “What the hell do you want me to do with this?” He lifts up the pom-pom maker, and it flops around in his hand.

“That’s the pom-pom maker. You take yarn, weave it around, cut, and then tie. It forms the pom-pom that we will glue on a stick for the centerpieces. I also need some for the garland. I have a whole bin full and was going to string them together with this.” I hold up a very large sewing needle.

“Jesus,” he says. “That looks like it came from a medieval torture chamber.”

“If you’re not a good helper, then you’re going to experience the kind of torture it could provide.” I playfully jab it in his direction, and he lifts his hands in defense.

“Hell, I don’t want that. I’ll be good, I promise, Mistress Plum.”

I let out a laugh. “Such a good subservient.”

With a smirk gracing his lips, he says, “Maybe I can string the pom-poms. That seems like an easy job that I can’t fuck up. Making them scares me.”

“It’s easy to make them, but if you’re more comfortable stringing, you can do that too.”

“Thanks,” he says as I hand him the needle. “Christ, look at this thing! It could have come in handy today.”

“Oh? Looking to jab people?”

“One person in particular.”

“Yeah?” I ask as I set up the bin of completed pom-poms in front of him. I also help him string the needle before he gets started. “Want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” he answers as I show him how to string the first pom-pom, jabbing the needle and pulling the string through. “But fuck, I feel like if I don’t get it off my chest, I’m going to be miserable company.”

“You’ve been pretty enjoyable so far,” I say.

His eyes flash to mine. “It’s the Whitney Houston that’s masking my shit attitude.”

“She did wonders with her voice—I think we both know that.”

“True,” he says and then sighs. He sticks the needle through a pom-pom and asks, “I assume this conversation will stay between us? I wouldn’t want it getting to Maple or anything.”

“I wouldn’t tell her anything personal, Hardy. I know we joke around, and I’ve been helping you with making a new connection to her, but I don’t want you thinking I’m telling her your deepest, darkest secrets.”

“I know you wouldn’t. I just want to make sure.” He trusts me. There’s something so satisfying about that, earning another human’s trust. It’s almost as if we’re becoming friends.

Hell, I know we are, and I like it. I might not be able to have him as mine, but friends…I can take that.

“I get it,” I say. “And feel free to not even talk about your shit day today. Instead, we can talk about Whitney Houston and how ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ should never be sung by anyone else but her.”

“I bought the single.” He winces.

“The one that was released on CD and all the proceeds went to the funds set up for firefighters and police officers affected by 9/11?” I ask.

“That very one.”

I pat my chest. “I got it too.”

“Really?” He shakes his head. “I’ve never met another person who bought that.”

“Clearly you’re not hanging out with the right people,” I say.

“Clearly.” He threads another pom-pom on the string while I start making more. “Well, it looks like I’m hanging out with the right person now.”

“You are.” If only he saw that connection as something worth pursuing. But what keeps surprising me is how comfortable I feel with this man. I should feel intimidated. He’s a very wealthy man and has serious street cred. And yet, he’s so down-to-earth. I’ve never felt so comfortable with someone so quickly, which makes it even harder to realize that his heart is determined on being with another woman. But I refuse to focus on that right now. He seemed stressed earlier, so it’s my aim to help him get out of that slump. “You should congratulate yourself on making the smart decision to start spending time with me, Henrietta.”

“Maybe I will with a beer later.”

“Ooo, are you a beer drinker? Need to crack open a cold one after a long hard day?”

“Not really,” he says. “I mean, I drink, but it’s not like a routine for me when I get home from work.”

“What is your routine?” I ask.

“Are we getting personal?” he asks with a raised brow.

“We are. We shared our love for Whitney, you’ve told me extensively about your impeccable underwear, the next step is obviously sharing with each other our bedtime routines. So, do you sleep with a stuffie? Yes or no?”

He smirks. “No.”

“Oh yeah, me neither. Eck, gross. Who does that?”

He sits taller, pausing his stringing. “Everly Plum, do you still sleep with a stuffie?”

“No,” I say even though I know for a fact there’s a well-loved stuffed worm named Mr. Pooty Pie on my bed at the moment.

“You do,” he says, finding way too much joy in this. “You sleep with a stuffie.”

“You say that as if that’s a bad thing. Remember, I’m, like, ten years younger than you. I’m still fresh from the crib.”

“The fuck you are,” he says, making me laugh. “You’re a grown-ass woman with a stuffie.”

Holding my chin high, I say, “So what? Do you look down upon those who find comfort in polyester stuffed animals?”

“No.” He shakes his head.

“Because it seems like you’re judging, and for a man who bowled below an eighty with one bowling ball blasting through the ceiling, I don’t think you have any room to judge.”

“How long are you going to hold that over my head?”

“As long as I can.” I wink.

“Oddly, I find that fair.”

“I’m glad that you do,” I say.

“How about this,” he says as he levels with me. “I’ll tell you my after-work routine if you tell me who you’re cuddling into at night.”

“With no judgment,” I add.

“With no judgment,” he agrees.

“Fine, but you have to promise you won’t tell your sister. I still want her to think I’m a consummate professional, someone she can trust in partnering up with in business and not some overgrown toddler who still snuggles into a stuffie at night.”

A smirk tugs on the corner of his lips. “Promise.”

“Okay, deal, but you go first,” I say.

He nods. “Well, depends on where I am. If I’m out at the farm, I usually don’t get back to the house until late because I really like walking up and down the rows of almond trees. It’s soothing to me. So when I do get back to the house, it’s a quick dinner and show for me before I’m down for the night.”

“Seems pretty basic.”

“That’s my life, basic as it comes. And when I’m here in the city, I leave the office as soon as I can, sometimes I take emails home with me, but try to avoid it. I hit up the gym in my building, and depending on my mood, I’ll either walk to one of the nearby restaurants in my neighborhood, or I’ll order something. Then finish the night with a show and then bed.”

“Huh, I half expected you to tell me you were going to some rich man’s smoking club after work where you gab about your day.”

“Do you really think I would be here making garlands if I was part of a smoking club?”

“True,” I say. “A smoking club member would be far more into himself, and despite the clean shave around your beard and your masculine scent, I’d say you’re not really that into yourself.”

“If I weren’t part of the corporate world, I’d look a lot different.”

“How so?” I ask.

“Well, I’d have longer hair. Maybe a longer beard. I wouldn’t be wearing this constricting suit, that’s for damn sure. I’d live in a beanie, flannel, and jeans. Perhaps carry around an axe just for the hell of it. I’d have dirt grooves in my hands from being outside all the damn time, and I’d have the worst farmer’s tan, a tan so bad that when I took off my shirt, people would think I’m still wearing one.”

I chuckle. “Wow, quite the image.” And yes, I would put my hand up to see that gorgeous sight. You can take that shirt off right now if you like, Hardy Hopper. I would not complain at all. Farmer’s tan or not.

“And I wouldn’t have to answer time-sucking emails or attend boring business meetings.”

“Would you consider this a boring business meeting, or responding to my emails as a time suck?”

“Actually, this meetup is a bright spot in my day, and I look forward to your emails, even if they can be somewhat emasculating.”

“They are not emasculating,” I say on a huff. “They speak the truth. If you find that emasculating, that’s your fault. I shall not cater to you because you’re too weak to hear the truth.”

“Damn, don’t you need to scream out a war cry after such a statement?”

“I can if you want,” I say.

He shakes his head, his expression full of mirth. “For the record, I’m never too weak to hear anything you have to tell me.”

“Is that so?” I ask. “Well, in that case⁠—”

He holds up his hand to stop me. “Just not when I’m down from a rough day.”

I smirk. “Noted.”

He finishes up his garland, and I take it from him to tie it off before starting a new string for him. When he raises a brow, I say, “Did you think you were just making one and getting a free meal out of it? No way, sir. You’re here to work.”

With that, he starts stringing pom-poms again.

“Okay, so are you going to tell me about your stuffie?” he asks.

“If you must know,” I say, clearing my throat, “he’s a stuffed worm that I’ve had since I was three. He is the only love of my life, and I can’t imagine a day when I put him in a box or offer him up to someone else. He has feelings, and I intend to honor them.”

Hardy lets out a boisterous laugh. “So you have that whole Toy Story complex then?”

“How can you watch that movie and not assume all of your childhood toys have feelings?” Whispering, I add, “It’s gotten to the point, Hardy, where I believe that the plate I eat on at night is so relieved that I picked it to fulfill its plate duties, that if I put it back in the cupboard in exchange for a bowl, it will cry.”

“Dear God,” he whispers.

“I know. It’s a problem. So yes, Mr. Pooty Pie still has a central location on my bed.”

“Hold on a second,” he says, pausing his stringing. “You named your stuffed worm Mr. Pooty Pie?”

“Yes,” I reply. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“Not a problem, just wondering where the name came from?”

“A child’s brain, Hardy, where else?”

He chuckles. “You got me there.”

“So,”Hardy says as he unravels his sandwich from the wrapper, “tell me about your day.”

“What?” I ask, confused.

“You told me that you hate dinner time because you always eat alone. Well, I’m here eating with you and you’re not alone, so tell me about your day.”

Well, doesn’t that just kick me in the freaking heart.

The man is not only attractive and funny, but thoughtful and considerate. The fact that he remembered that conversation just goes to show how amazing he is.

“Oh, uh…well, it was fine. Nothing too exciting happened. Lots of admin work today. Oh, I don’t know if I told you this, but one of the best men that I’m working with, he has a crush on the maid of honor. They used to date, and I’ve been attempting to help him find love with her again. It’s been a slow process because he likes to chuck bowling balls up into ceilings, which I think scares her. Not sure she was into the whole Hulk show he put on.”

Hardy’s lips twist to the side, not amused. “Uh-huh, well, maybe things are going slow because you’re not doing your best work.”

“It’s hard to create magic when your beans are sour,” I say.

“What the hell does that mean?” he laughs.

“You know, Jack and the Beanstalk, magic beans, he could make things happen because the beans were prime time, cream of the crop. It’s difficult to create that magic when the best man I’m dealing with isn’t showing up as the most enchanting human she’s ever seen.”

“Hey, I asked about your day. I’d say that’s pretty enchanting,” he counters.

“I’d say that’s the bare minimum requirement for men.”

He chuckles. “Very true.” He picks up a salt and vinegar chip and chomps on it. “In all seriousness, do you really think I’m not bringing the magic?”

“No, I think you are,” I say. “Only teasing you. I think it will take time for her to adjust to everything around her and seeing you again. Give it a second.”

“I will,” he says and then nods at my sandwich. “How is it?”

“Divine,” I say before taking a large bite and making a show of it, shoving a good portion in my mouth. He looks surprised for a second, and then determination sets in his features and he opens his mouth and takes an even bigger bite from his sandwich.

Together, mouths full of Philly cheesesteak, we chew and stare at each other.

It takes all of three seconds before I snort, sending a chunk of meat across the table and right in front of his laid-out wrapper.

I grip my hand over my mouth, both horrified and entertained, while he chuckles. But with his mouth full, it sounds more like a gurgling than anything.

And from there, it’s a fit of laughter.

To the point that both of us grab the to-go bags from our meals and spit our partially chewed sandwiches inside.

“Fuck,” he roars before he laughs some more.

I join him, gripping my stomach as tears form in my eyes.

“You’re disgusting,” he gasps.

“Me?” I croak. “What about you?”

“You’re the one snorting meat out of your nose.”

I hold my finger up in contention. “That did not come out of my nose. That came out of my mouth while I snorted out of my nose. It was a double whammy of exhalation.”

“That’s a fucking term?”

“It is and trademarked by me, so don’t you dare try to use it.”

“Show me the paperwork,” he says while jabbing his finger onto the table. “Show me the paperwork, and I won’t use it.”

I hold up my palm to him. “See, double whammy exhalation, trademarked by Professor Plum, so good luck debating that in court.”

His lips turn up as he studies me. “You’re right, you have me in a chokehold. No way can I beat that ironclad paperwork.”

I shrug and pick my sandwich back up. “Don’t mess with me, Henrietta. I know what the hell I’m doing.”

I’m about to take a bite of my sandwich when he says, “Can you pick up the snorted, double whammy exhalation meat? Rather not stare at it while I finish my sandwich.”

“Oh right, sure.”

“How does this look?”Hardy asks as he moves his centerpiece toward me.

Oh dear.

It’s an opaque, fluted vase, which Hardy has stuffed full with pom-poms glued on sticks, each stem the same height, offering no color differentiation or texture. I believe a toddler could have done a better job.

“Not bad,” I lie.

“Really?” he asks, full of hope.

“No, it’s terrible.”

His joy immediately vanishes. “Why must you pump me up only to push me down?”

“Builds character,” I answer before moving over to his side of the table. “Okay, remember what I said about having different variations and textures?”

“I recall something of the sort,” he answers.

“And what do you have in your vase right now?”

“All pom-poms of the same color,” he replies.

“Yes, that’s correct, good job, Hardy.” He gives me a look, clearly not appreciating my condescending tone. I sheepishly smile. “Well, although it’s a great selection of the same size and color pom-poms, why don’t we pull some of these out…” I pull out almost all of the pom-pom sticks, leaving just two. “And then we pick a few others in different colors and textures. Like, mix the small with the big and then use some of these twig balls and bamboo sticks as fillers.” I pick up a few and arrange them in the vase, showing him just what I mean. When I’m done, I turn the vase toward him. “What do you think?”

He studies it for a moment. “I think I should go back to stringing the pom-poms.”

I chuckle. “You were very good at that.”

“I was, and I thought that maybe I could expand my decorating résumé with centerpieces, but from that demonstration, we all know being a rookie in the end zone is not where I need to be.”

“Smart choice, but I want you to know I’ll be here to nurture you with knowledge if you ever do decide to go back into the end zone—until then, stick with the garland.”

“Great idea,” he says while he picks up the giant needle again and starts threading pom-poms onto the string. “Is this what you do for every event?”

“Depends,” I say. “We have a great deal of supplies in our stockroom from other events that we’ll reuse. For example some of the table runners and backdrops we are using for the bridal shower have come from other events. We will reuse all of these pom-poms and vases. We also have a big warehouse in the back where we keep everything that we need, of course organized all neat and tidy.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” he says, picking up a pink pom-pom and stringing it. “What got you into events?”

“Do you want the lame answer or the real answer?” I ask as I stick some bamboo stalks into the vase for some final fillers.

“There are two answers? Well, you have to know I’m going to say both.”

I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

“Well, the lame answer, and I mean the answer probably everyone would expect, would be…I love being able to help people have a memorable day. That is not a lie—it’s the truth. There is nothing that gives me greater joy than seeing how my help has brought someone else happiness. That being said, I think it’s a generic answer.”

“Very much so,” he says. “What’s the real answer?”

“I was obsessed with the movie The Wedding Planner with Jennifer Lopez and Matthew McConaughey. After watching it, I told myself that’s what I wanted to do with my life. It took place in San Francisco, it featured the neat and tidy life that I love, and she got to plan weddings. Just seemed like the perfect journey for me.”

“You know…I’ve seen it a time or two.”

“Really?” I ask, surprised.

“Yes. Haisley loved it as well. She made me watch it a few times with her.” He finishes with his current string, so I help prepare a new one. “Now, my question is, have you ever fallen in love with the groom?”

“Never,” I answer.

But I’ve fallen in lust with the best man…

“Think you ever would?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “I believe too much in love to mess around with something like that.”

“Yeah, you don’t seem like that kind of girl,” he says.

“No? What kind of girl do I seem like?”

“Putting me on the spot, Plum? Okay.” He shifts in his chair and looks me up and down. “Well, for one, you’re the type of girl one doesn’t mess with, meaning, you have your shit together. You’re organized and knowledgeable. Pretty sure if someone was trying to tell you that you were wrong about something when you were right, you’d let them hear it.”

“True.”

“But past the tough exterior, as in, you know, how to stick up for yourself, you’re very kind, you want to make people happy. You don’t break the rules, you follow them to a T, but you also know how to have a good time. You enjoy joking around, being playful, and not being serious all the time.” He wets his lips. “How did I do?”

“Pretty spot on, Henrietta. I’m impressed.”

“Thank you.” He takes a mini bow. “I can be observant.”

“I’ve noticed. It’s a good quality in a man. Maple is lucky, because I’ve seen quite a few men who just don’t pay attention. Who are more consumed by their video games or the world around them to notice what their partner likes or needs.”

“You speaking from experience?”

I slowly nod. “Yes. Haven’t really found any true catches out there in the world who have blown me away with their personalities. Especially in college, lots of duds.”

“You will,” he says. “You’re a catch, Plum. You’ll find the right person.”

I feel my cheeks heat up from the compliment. If only he would see that I could be the perfect catch for him.

“Who knows, maybe Timothy and I will hit it off.”

“Timothy or Tomothy?” Hardy asks with a smirk.

“Timothy,” I answer with a straight face. “As far as I’m concerned, Tomothy is dead to me.”

“Poor guy, didn’t even have a chance at disappointing you with his lack of knowledge about the female genitalia.”

“Oh no, he disappointed me day one, so no need to give him another chance.” I start on my last vase, sad that I’m almost done, but also glad because it’s getting late, and I don’t want to be doing this anymore, even though I’m having a good time with Hardy.

A great time actually.

I’m grateful Maple had to cancel. And not only because of my massive crush and how awkward it would have been if she’d been here, but I’ve really enjoyed spending time with him, just real time, with nothing between us.

“So, Timothy, huh?” he asks.

I shrug. “He was cute. He was fun to talk to. Could be an enjoyable date. Perhaps I’ll ask Maple for his number. Makes me nervous though—I haven’t been on a date in a really long time.”

“Same,” he says. “Not sure how it even works anymore.”

“I think there’s food involved.”

“And conversation.” He pauses and looks between us. “I guess like tonight.”

I bring my hand to my chest playfully. “Why, Hardy Hopper, are you saying we were on a date tonight?”

“I’d feel bad for you if we were. Not sure I was much of a gentleman.”

“Now, now,” I say. “You didn’t leave the table when the meat flew out of my mouth.”

“True.” He points at me. “Very true. Rather chivalrous, if you ask me. And when the food was dropped off at the door, I was the one who got it and brought it to the table.”

“Such a valiant act,” I say. “See, any woman’s dream date.”

He puffs his chest. “Damn right.”

Chuckling, I finish up the final vase and then take a seat as he uses up the last of the pom-poms. “So, are you feeling better than when you arrived?” I ask.

“I am,” he says. “Much better. Thank you, Everly.”

I shrug. “Just here to serve.”

When he’s done putting the last pom-pom on the string, he hands it over to me so I can tie it. “Do you have a close relationship with your parents?” he asks.

I can see where this is going so I tread lightly. “Pretty close,” I say.

He nods. “What’s that like?”

“Umm…” I stand and start collecting our trash from the night. “I guess kind of like having siblings, but older. Especially at this age. Sure, they offer their parental support, but they seem more like people I can go to when I need someone to talk to. Not so much parenting, more like friendship now.”

He pushes up from the able, picking up some garbage as well and bringing it over to the trash can. “I’ve never been close with my dad. I’ve tried and we’ve had some good moments, but I think those good moments have been filtered out by a lot of bad moments.”

Not wanting to overstep, but also wanting to help him shake this funk he’s in, I say, “Was today about your dad?”

He nods and then pushes his hand through his hair. “He’s a dick, Everly. I try to give him the benefit of the doubt, I really do, but then he goes and says shit that presses my buttons, things that he knows will get under my skin, and that’s exactly what he did today.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “You deserve better than to be taunted by your father. That’s not fair.”

“It isn’t.” He leans on the table. “I wish it was different. I think about it all the time, how I might have turned out if maybe he’d been more nurturing and less competitive.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I think you’ve turned out pretty great, Hardy.” I walk up to him and press my hand to his arm. “You’re nothing like him. From what I know about your father and what I know about you, I’d say that the apple has fallen very fall from the tree.”

He stiffens and looks at me, a crease in his brow.

Uh, not the reaction I would have expected from him.

“Did I…did I say something wrong?” I ask in a worried tone.

“No, it’s just…well, fuck.” He threads his fingers through his hair. “My dad used the same phrase with me today, but with a completely opposite intent. He told me that I was exactly like him, pushing aside what’s important in favor of success.”

My brow furrows. “That’s not you at all,” I say. “If anything, you’re the complete opposite. Trust me, your dad would not have stayed all night to help me with decorations. He wouldn’t have offered to chat with me about random things. He definitely wouldn’t be a fan of Whitney Houston.”

He chuckles. “No, no, he wouldn’t.”

“You are not like him, Hardy, and I think the more you try to tell yourself that over and over, the better off you’ll be. I know it’s probably hard to shake off whatever he said to you today, but just remember, you’re a good guy who cares about others. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t have a business with your brother that has helped many people already.”

“Yeah.” He moves his hand over his beard. “Think it’s just going to take some time to get that through my head.”

“Then it takes time,” I say. “And that’s okay. Greatness doesn’t happen overnight.” Trying to lighten the mood, I say, “Do you think I just woke up like this? All perfect and amazing and creating well-structured centerpieces that are functional and whimsical at the same time? No, I had to work at it.”

He chuckles and then to my surprise, he wraps his arm around me and pulls me into a hug.

Yes. Please.

Now if only this meant so much more. If only it was the start of something romantic.

If only…

But I think at this point, we all know where I stand with him, fully in the friend zone. But it doesn’t stop me from taking full advantage of the embrace. So I loop my arms around his torso, tell myself not to bury my head in his chest, and instead just casually hug him back. “Thank you, Everly. I really appreciate it. I appreciate you. I appreciate tonight. It was just what I needed.”

“Of course,” I say as he lets go of me far too soon.

He lets out a deep sigh. “Want me to help you move these vases somewhere?”

“Oh, no, that’s okay. I’m going to move them over to the venue with Maggie tomorrow, so let’s just leave them here.”

“Not a problem. Do you need help tomorrow?”

“Nope, but we’ll need you to help the day after, an hour before the party.”

“You know I’m there,” he says as he grabs his suit jacket and slips his arms through the holes. “Think I should wear pink to go along with the theme?”

“I’d prefer you wear a pink suit with a pink flamingo hat. I think that will have the biggest impact on the party.”

“Don’t joke, because you know I will.”

“I dare you,” I say as we head toward the front of the store.

“Oh…it’s on. Just you wait, Plum. I’m going to be quite the vision in pink.”

“For some reason, I totally believe it.”