He checked the contact details, coming up with an email address to a faceless provider. No phone number. No address. Definitely shady.
Like that’d stop him.
With a few clicks of his mouse, he’d IM’d a PI who’d done some work for him when hiring prospective employees. Beck didn’t like surprises and he didn’t trust an anonymous website.
In less than five minutes he had more information. Links between the quirky divorce diva and a party planning company in Provost that had candid testimonials from an extensive list of genuine clientele.
Which made him wonder. Why wouldn’t the diva capitalize on the positive PR of an established company? What did she have to hide?
Instincts told him to blow off this diva and find a legit planner, but what if Lou balked and wasted more time? Beck needed a new plan to wow the investors, and that meant having Lou back on board ASAP.
The fastest option would be to follow through with Lou’s choice and get this party happening. To do that, he’d have a face-to-face meeting with the diva by the end of the day.
Then he’d focus on more important matters: like finding a quickie wife.
…
“Sleazy.”
“You think?” Poppy Collins stopped scrolling through her iPod for appropriate break-up songs to add to her new blog and glared at her BFF, Ashlee.
“Divorce is painful for a lot of people. And you’re making fun of it.” Ashlee pointed at the computer screen where Poppy had uploaded her latest post for Divorce Diva Daily, the blog that would single-handedly save Party Hard, her sister’s party planning business.
“I’m intending on making a lot of money from it,” Poppy muttered, tossing her iPod on the desk and swinging her chair to face Ashlee. “Money that’s going to keep you employed.”
Ashlee winced. “Financials that bad?”
“You’re Sara’s assistant. You tell me.”
Poppy hated seeing her driven, career-oriented sister in a deep depression that had almost cost her the business. She hated seeing Sara’s smug, WASP ex Wayne, prancing around town in a midlife-crisis-red convertible more.
Suburban Provost on the outskirts of Los Angeles wasn’t big enough for both of them, which was why Poppy had insisted that Sara recuperate at a private clinic in LA while Poppy put her freelance promotion business on hold, utilized her marketing degree, and ran the business.
Problem was, Poppy knew as much about party planning as she did about relationships: absolutely zilch.
The divorce party idea was her last stand.
It had to work.
Sara had lost Wayne the Pain. No way would Poppy let her lose her prized business, too. It was all Sara had left.
“But celebrating divorce is tacky,” Ashlee said, her gaze drawn to the PC screen again. “We’ll get crucified by every do-gooder along the western seaboard.”
“That’s why Divorce Diva is anonymous. Plus Sara would throw a hissy fit over the D-word, so best to keep this under the radar.” Poppy tapped her temple. “Up here for thinking.” She pointed at her favorite crimson pumps with the three-inch stiletto heels covered in sparkles. “Down there for dancing.”
“Planning parties online is one thing. What if someone wants a one-on-one consult?” Ashlee’s frown deepened.
“You’re not a party planner. You’re a party pooper.” Poppy blew out a long breath. “One step at a time, okay?”
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
“And I’ve got a worse one about this.” Poppy stabbed at the stack of bills teetering next to her in-tray. “This idea doesn’t take off? We’re history.”
And Sara would lose everything.
No way would she let that happen. She owed her sister. Big time.
Ashlee made disapproving clicking noises. “But divorce is so…so…”
“Inevitable? Guaranteed? Worth celebrating?”
“Private. Painful. Devastating.”
“And that’s exactly why I’m doing this.”
Poppy had seen what impending divorce had done to Sara. Her vibrant, career-driven sis had fallen apart when Wayne walked out, and she’d been a zombie for months, popping anti-depressants until Poppy organized a prolonged stay at the clinic, complete with on-site psychologists. Sara had made progress, but to see her listless without an ounce of spark rammed home for Poppy the fact that love came with risks. Big ones.
Despite the best medical supervision, counseling, and medication, Sara languished, rehashing every reason why her marriage had failed. Poppy could’ve saved her a fortune in therapy bills with the truth: Wayne was an immature asshole who’d spend his life and fortune searching for the next best thing. Guys like him were never happy with what they had for long. They grew bored. They needed shiny new toys. They kept looking for something bigger and better. Splashing their cash around, seeking vicarious thrills…but they were never truly happy. Narcissistic jerks.