P.I.T.A. (L.A. Liaisons #3)(14)

I wrenched my Tahoe into the parking lot of the California on the Shore hotel and pulled into the first available space.

After checking my face in the rearview mirror to make sure my red lipstick had stayed put and there was no spinach in my teeth after sucking down the disgustingly healthy green drink my chef made me force down my throat most mornings, I grabbed my briefcase and dashed across the parking lot. Part of my job as a wedding planner extraordinaire was searching out new venues and getting face time with the managers-all the better to get the coveted dates and last-minute openings. Like when a bride comes to you three months before the big day and says she'll absolutely die if she can't get the California on the Shore instead of the previously agreed upon, and paid for, Ritz-Carlton. Because you're the shit at what you do, you make that happen. 

Which was exactly what today's meeting was about, and exactly why I was still cursing Dawson's name for making me late as I stepped into the perfumed lobby, though now I was only down to about three minutes after the hour.

The open lobby was empty, save for the lone receptionist behind the counter, typing away without bothering to look up or greet any guests who entered. So much for the warm welcome. That alone would've had me walking back out the door, but this was the place my client wanted, so this was the place she'd get. Guaran-damn-teed.

As I headed in the receptionist's direction, I glanced around at the flowers littering the lobby. They certainly didn't look like fresh arrangements, and one touch of a white rose confirmed they were big, fat fakes. Wow. Hotels in Los Angeles still did that? Okay, so they'd all have to be changed out for my client's wedding … that meant a higher cost for her, but there was no way I was throwing an event with a room full of fake, dusty roses. If this was the venue she wanted-and didn't her taste speak volumes-then it would need a drastic overhaul. Luckily, the ideas on how to fix it were already flowing: luscious garden roses, lisianthus, and anemones, with a touch of seasonal greenery like seeded eucalyptus, maybe a flower-strewn path that led the guests inside …

Stopping in front of the counter, I set down my briefcase and waited for the receptionist to look up. When she didn't, I said. "Hi. I have a ten o'clock with Mrs. Clayborne-"

"You're late."

"I apologize for that, Mariana," I said, going by her nametag, and then I put on my most winning smile, which I hoped she'd look up to see. Time for the go-to excuse. "The 5 was a parking lot this morning."

She did manage to lift her head, but didn't return my smile. "It is every morning. I'm sorry, but you'll have to reschedule."

Reschedule? What the hell? The traffic card always worked.

"Look … Mariana, if you'd kindly point me in the direction of Mrs. Clayborne, I'm sure she'd have a few minutes to see me. It's a rather urgent matter-"

"Mrs. Clayborne has left for the day-"

"For the day?"

"-so you'll have to reschedule."

Who left for the day at ten o'clock in the morning? Must be a nice job for her, but since the word "reschedule" was the kiss of death in this business, it was unacceptable.

I clasped my hands on the counter and smiled through my frustration. "It's rather important that I speak with her today. I'd appreciate it if you could give me her direct number, since she's not available."

"That's impossible. Mrs. Clayborne doesn't believe in mobile devices."

Didn't believe in …  Christ on a cracker. I knew bullshit when I smelled it, but since Ms. Friendly over here wasn't giving me anything to work with, it looked like I'd have to track down the woman myself.

"Fair enough. Where might I find her? The spa? A yacht club?" The shop for hideous fake flowers …

"I'm afraid I can't give out that information. You'll have to reschedule."

"A hint will do."

"No."

"But-"

Mariana stopped typing and blinked up at me, her eyes dull and lifeless. Then she shook her head. "No," she said, and with that firm dismissal, she went back to her work. Or social media posts, more likely.



       
         
       
        

I stared at the top of her messy bun and briefly contemplated pulling it out, but my cooler head-the one I normally used- prevailed. But … no? No? Not to be arrogant, but no one said "no" to me ever. Most of the reason I was successful hinged on the fact that I could charm a street rat. "No" wasn't in my vocabulary. Time for plan B … whatever that was.

I thanked the lousiest receptionist I'd ever had the displeasure of coming across for her time and exited the way I'd entered. As I passed the front row of reserved parking spaces, I noted that they were mostly empty, including the one marked "Reserved for Management."

What a bunch of slackers. Plan B was going to be called convince-the-bride-her-wedding-is-better-off-anywhere-else. It was the truth, but it didn't mean I didn't dread the conversation.

This is all Dawson's damn fault, I thought, as I merged back onto the 5 freeway, which was moving at a fairly steady pace, even though it was still jam-packed. I'd never missed a meeting before, and I'd never had to tell a bride I couldn't do something, so I didn't plan to start now. I'd just have to let her know I needed a bit more time wooing the missing-in-action manager.

The song on the radio dimmed as my phone went off with Shayne's ringtone instead-"Down Under"-and it made me crack a smile, as it always did when I heard it. Perfect for that little Aussie.

"Babes, what's happenin'? What's the 411? What's the hot gossip?" I said, my standard greeting where she was concerned.

"Paige, please tell me you have never uttered the words, and I quote, 'Marriage is a crock of shiitake. It's either a business arrangement between two people who want to get farther up on the food chain and don't give a fuck about using another person to do it, or its sole purpose is to make someone miserable.'"

I chuckled. "Hello to you, too."

"Did you say it?" She sounded a little too urgent for this early in the morning. Poor girl needed a holiday from the long hours she put in matching up lovers.

"Well, we all know my thoughts on that topic."

"Uh, yes, we do now. Everyone does now."

"What are you talking about? It's not like I've kept it a secret."

"Except from your clients, maybe?"

The truck in front of me swerved in his lane, and I laid on the horn. "Look, I've had a shit of a morning, and I've got to mentally prepare myself for a diva bridal freak-out of epic proportions, so just come out with whatever it is you're not saying."

"LA Today ran a front-page feature about your business being a sham for money." 

"What?" Her words shocked my brain into stupidity, so much so that it took me an extra moment to process the tail lights in front of me, and I slammed my brakes just in time to avoid hitting the stupid truck whose owner couldn't drive. "A sham? Me? Explain."

"Whoever the source is for this article quoted you as saying what I just told you."

"The whole marriage is shiitake thing."

"Yes. And they even talk about your, and this is another quote, 'quickie marriage to Richard James Dirty Dick Dawson, also known as can't-keep-it-in-his-damn-pants.'"

I snort-laughed. "That's funny."

"But is it true? Did you say those things?"

"It does sort of ring a bell-"

"Dammit, Paige."

"I'm not saying I did say those things, but I probably would. Nah, I definitely would."

"Okay, so say you did say what this article claims. Who the hell did you speak to?"

"Well, who wrote the article?"

"A … Tiana Cochran."

"No idea who that is. Does it have one of those pictures that go with it? Like of the columnist or anything?"

"Yeah, but she doesn't look familiar to me either. She's got a sort of pixie face … maybe blond hair. I can't tell, since it's black and white."

Blond hair … pixie face …

"Oh shitballs, it's that skinny ice cream bitch."

"Who?"

Like a slow-developing Polaroid, the picture in my mind became clearer. I hadn't thought the woman sitting next to me at Licked the day I visited Ryleigh to be significant at the time, but she did seem to have a reaction to the news that I'd married Dawson. I'd been so preoccupied with the events that had led up to me venting that day that I'd stuffed any red flags into the back of my mind.

"Can you read me the article, and then I'll tell you."

Shayne did as I asked, and though it wasn't a long exposé by any means, it did what it was intended to do-take a dig at my career as a wedding planner for happy, rose-colored glasses brides-to-be.

"Reads like a scorned lover," I said when she was finished. "And now that I think about it, and considering Dawson got his fair share of hate, I'm assuming that's exactly why it was written. She was probably one of his one-night stands. The victim of can't-keep-it-in-his-pants-itis."

"Paige," Shayne said, and I could practically see her shaking her head at me through the phone. "I love you more than caramel slices, but you have a big mouth."

"In my defense, she caught me at the worst possible moment. I'd had an annulment meeting that morning that did not go the way I intended. What do people expect from me? That I want to wrangle their marriages when I'm trying to get out of my own?"