Evening Bags and Executions(5)

“I’m fine. Perfectly fine,” I said.

Marcie shook her head. “You’ve hardly been anywhere in weeks, and every time I mention scheduling a purse party, you don’t want to talk about it. That isn’t like you.”

I shrugged. “I just haven’t felt like doing much lately.”

“And you haven’t even noticed that gorgeous Enchantress bag,” Marcie said.

“It’s no big deal,” I said.

“It is a big deal. Haley, you need to get out and have some fun.” She narrowed her eyes at me and said, “Are you sure you’ve really dealt with your breakup with Ty?”

Dealing with a breakup could be handled in one of two ways. The first required numerous crying jags, beer, chocolate, and late-night conversations with friends whereby everyone agreed the guy was a scumbag, he wasn’t good enough for you, and they’re glad you broke up. The second way called for stalking your ex and your ex’s new girlfriend, spying on their every move, and telling everyone—including strangers standing next to you in checkout lines—that he was bad in bed, whether it was true or not.

Just because I hadn’t worked my way through either of those get-over-him processes didn’t mean I wasn’t, in fact, over Ty. Because I was. Really.

“Haley,” Marcie said, “you never even cried.”

I had cried over the breakup. Marcie just didn’t know it.

The day that Ty and I had broken up—our mutual decision—he’d left my apartment where he’d been living—long story. I’d just started thinking about tidying up the place when Jack Bishop pounded on my door, demanding to be let inside, shouting that I owed him, he’d decided what he wanted, and he wanted it right then.

Jack Bishop was a totally hot, gorgeous private detective I’d met at the Pike Warner law firm last year. We’d helped each other out with cases from time to time—but that was it. Nothing more ever went on between us—Ty was my official boyfriend, and I was a real stickler about that sort of thing—though that day when Jack came pounding on my door, all of that could have changed.

Except that when Jack walked into my apartment, I burst out crying. He held me and listened while I told him about the breakup, got me tissues, brought me beer, cuddled me against his chest while I sobbed some more, and carried me to my bed after I passed out on the couch.

So, even though Marcie didn’t know all the details, I’d actually dealt with the breakup right after it happened—which was why I was perfectly all right now.

“How about if I come over to your apartment tonight?” Marcie said. “We can hang out and catch up on things.”

“I’ll think about it and text you later,” I said.

The waiter brought Marcie’s salad and my two slices of cheesecake. I never could decide which I liked best, not even after I ate both of them.

“Text me later,” Marcie said, as we walked out of the restaurant. “Let me know about tonight.”

“I will,” I said, and headed back to work.

The rest of the afternoon stretched out before me with nothing to do—which was the beauty of the first day at a new job—so I settled behind my desk enjoying the prospect of spending several leisurely hours until quitting time rolled around, doing nothing, accomplishing nothing, contributing nothing, and getting paid for it. My serenity was shattered when Vanessa barged into my office.

“This is yours now,” she told me, and tossed a portfolio onto my desk. “Since you think you’re such a hot assistant planner, I’m turning this event over to you completely.”

I looked at the portfolio, then back at her.

“And don’t even think about asking me questions,” Vanessa said.

The only question that came to mind was to ask why she was always such a bitch.

I decided to hold off on that one for a while.

Vanessa glared at me for a few more seconds as if actually wishing I would ask her a question—which I didn’t, of course—then stormed out of my office.

So much for my quiet afternoon.

I opened the portfolio and saw that the event Vanessa had turned over to me was a party hosted by someone named Sheridan Adams. I flipped through the contracts and the notes in the folder.

It didn’t look like a huge deal to me; most parties weren’t. The only thing that caught my eye was the bakery, Lacy Cakes, that Vanessa had contracted for a specialty cake Sheridan Adams had requested.

Lacy Cakes was known as the bakery to the stars, catering to celebrities, the elite of Los Angeles, and wealthy Hollywood insiders. They didn’t do any advertising because they weren’t interested in turning out twenty-dollar birthday cakes that could be purchased just as easily at a grocery store. Word of mouth brought them plenty of customers willing to pay thousands for a unique, custom-made cake.