Not the Marrying Kind Page 2

  “We’re not promoting divorce. We’re giving people the option to celebrate it once it’s final.” Poppy pushed a stack of literature across the desk toward Ashlee. “I’ve researched this thoroughly. Divorce parties are the latest and greatest. Party planners are raking it in. We have to do this—it’s good business.”

  “I guess.” Ashlee gnawed her bottom lip and darted a nervous glance at the stack of bills.

  “No guesswork. Divorce Diva Daily is going to rock.” Feigning confidence, Poppy interlocked her hands behind her head and leaned back.

  “It better. Or we’ll be back serving ice creams at Iggy’s.” Ashlee made a mock gagging motion and Poppy wrinkled her nose at memories of their first job in high school. Iggy had a thing for cones—of every variety—and often rocked up to the shop stoned out of his head, sharing the love by feeling up his employees and giving away freebies. The only reason he was still in business was customer loyalty. Provost looked after its own. Poppy hoped that kind of loyalty extended to Party Hard if her Divorce Diva Daily idea went belly-up and Sara lost everything.

  “It’ll work, trust me.”

  Ashlee perched on the desk. “Like how I trusted you with my mom’s bachelorette party and we almost landed in jail?” She held up her fingers and started counting off misdemeanors. “Like how I trusted you with my secret make-out place and the entire tenth grade ended up there? Like—”

  “Build a bridge, hon.” Poppy grinned and waved away Ashlee’s concerns, thankful her best friend was along for a ride that promised to be bumpy at best.

  A smile tugged at the corners of Ashlee’s mouth. “I’ll get over it when you prove you’ve matured beyond high school.”

  “Hey, I’m mature.”

  Ashlee raised an imperious eyebrow and pointed at her desk. “You’re saving a printed RPatz autographed Twilight flyer, your Gryffindor Forever stick-on tattoos are plastered everywhere, and you’ve been clubbing three times this week.”

  “I like to bust a move.”

  “And the rest?”

  “Can never have enough sparkly vamps or Harry Potter around.”

  “Just make this work, okay?” Ashlee’s reluctant smile turned into a full-fledged grin as she tapped the stack of bills with a magenta-tipped fingernail.

  “You bet.” Poppy saluted.

  It wasn’t until Ashlee bustled out of her office that Poppy slumped in her seat, glaring at the bills like they were radioactive.

  No matter how many times Divorce Diva Daily recommended songs like Stevie Nicks’s “Stop Dragging Your Heart Around” or ELO’s “Don’t Bring Me Down,” they needed parties to plan.

  First request that came in? She’d bust her ass making it the best damned divorce party ever.

  No problemo.

  Chapter Two

  Divorce Diva Daily recommends:

  Playlist: “Kissing a Fool” by Michael Bublé

  Movie: 10 Things I Hate About You

  Cocktail: Rusty Nail

  “We have a major problemo.” Poppy read the email for the tenth time, wondering if she needed glasses.

  She could’ve sworn some Vegas hotshot had demanded her presence in his office at eight p.m. today. With the promise of an impressive five-figure sum if she threw the divorce party of the year.

  Like hell.

  She’d grown up surrounded by rich pricks who expected everyone around them to dance to the “Money, Money, Money” tune. Lucky for her, she’d quit listening to Abba a long time ago.

  Having über-rich parents who were plastic surgeons to the stars had been cool when she’d wanted a pony and a jumping castle, but the gloss had worn off as she grew older, surrounded by fake schmoozing, air-kisses, and selfishness. Their complete disregard for Sara’s situation, with minimal financial and emotional aid? Not surprising. If it didn’t benefit them, they weren’t interested.

  She couldn’t stand the phonies who assumed money bought class. Wayne, Sara’s ex, had been a classic example: flinging his cash around to impress her sister, reeling her in, then tiring of her and moving on to the next plaything.

  While Poppy hated seeing Sara so devastated, a small part of her had secretly been glad when the jerk left. Sara could do so much better than The Pain.

  Thoughts of Sara brought her back to the email and Mr. Megabucks’ arrogant summons.

  Poppy yearned to tell him where he could stick his cash, but that kind of money would go a long way to saving Sara’s ailing business. And a mega cash injection from a bigwig could launch Divorce Diva.

  But was this guy for real? Eight today? On his private jet? With twenty-grand on the table?

  Damn, he was seriously testing her vow to stay anonymous to protect Sara from anything remotely associated with divorce.

  “What’s the problem?” Ashlee squinted at the email over her shoulder. “Sounds perfectly legit to me.” She rolled her eyes. “If you believe in the Tooth Fairy.”

  “Gave up on fairy tales a long time ago, Ash, which is why this sounds fishy. Not to mention the anonymity factor to protect Sara.” She jabbed at the computer screen. “Email only? No one-on-one consultations? Any of this ringing a bell?”

  “Told you this diva business would come back to bite you on the butt.” Ashlee smirked.

  “Yeah, that’s you, a regular glass-half-full kinda gal.”

  Ashlee ignored her sarcasm as Poppy’s gaze returned to that twenty grand. Maybe she could make an exception this one time and get Mr. Megabucks to sign a confidentiality agreement to keep her identity secret? That way she’d score the cash and protect Sara. Bonus.

  “Did you Google him?”

  “Just about to.” Poppy typed “Beck Blackwood” into the search engine and almost flipped when an image of the guy popped up on her screen.

  “Holy hotties, Batman,” Ashlee muttered, shouldering her aside to take a closer look. “You’re getting on that plane, right?”

  “It’s a jet,” Poppy said, amazed she managed to string three words together without drooling all over her keyboard.

  “Jet, schmet, you’re going.”

  The longer Poppy stared at the Gerard Butler–lookalike, the harder it was to come up with a valid reason why she shouldn’t.

  Unruly caramel curls. Cut-glass jaw. Intense green eyes. Rugged and raw and potent.

  Holy hottie, indeed.

  “It’s twenty big ones. You can’t not go.”

  Good point. But the longer Poppy stared at Beck Blackwood’s picture, the harder it was to ignore the squirm of butterflies unfolding their wings and getting ready to hold a rave in her belly.

  “I hate when hotshots snap their fingers and expect everyone around them to jump.”

  Ashlee snorted. “For him, I’d jump to the moon and back if he asked.”

  “Shouldn’t you be blinded to hot guys? Engaged bliss and all that crap?” Poppy smiled and pointed at Ashlee’s glittering one-and-a-half carat pear-shaped yellow diamond.

  “I’m engaged, not dead.” Ashlee hid her hand behind her back and pointed at the screen with her other. “And that guy’s hot enough to make any woman forget her name, let alone impending marital status.”

  Poppy had to agree. Didn’t mean it changed a thing. She needed to maintain anonymity for Sara’s sake, and despite the substantial cash temptation, she had to decline.

  The phone rang and Ashlee darted off to answer it, leaving Poppy to compose a polite refusal.

  Dear Mr. Blackwood,

  Thanks for your offer but I’m unable to accept at this time.

  All the best with your party planning endeavors,

  The team at Divorce Diva Daily.

  Poppy fired off the email, satisfied with the perfect combination of courteous and gracious. Establishing distance with the signoff had been a stroke of genius, too. How could he get uptight against an entire “team”?

  About to file away his email and give in to a hankering for a double-shot caramel latte at the café next door, her hand hovered over the mouse to sh
ut down her inbox when a response pinged.

  Surprised—she hadn’t expected to hear from him again at all, let alone so fast—she opened the email. And nearly fell off her chair.

  Dear Diva,

  Our meeting tonight is an order, not a request.

  I assume you have good reason to maintain your anonymity, so if you value your association with Party Hard I’ll expect your arrival at 8 p.m. Sharp.

  Beck Blackwood.

  She read the email twice to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating.

  “Son of a bitch,” she muttered, knuckling her eyes before refocusing and reading a third time.

  The jerk was blackmailing her.

  Worse, he knew about Party Hard.

  Freaking hell.

  She reined in her first urge to fire back a short, sharp retort—along the lines of “F-off”—and tried to think this through. If he hadn’t pissed her off enough with his high and mighty summons before, his arrogant response to her refusal would’ve done it.

  Who the hell did he think he was, giving her an order? Someone needed to tell him the King of Vegas had died a long time ago.

  And he was a smartass, too, deliberately calling her a “diva,” implying her behavior was such.

  Well, she’d give him diva behavior. In person. Not because she acquiesced to blackmail, but for the simple reason she wanted to see the rich jerk’s face when she told him where he could stick his offer.

  Her gaze landed on the stack of unpaid bills stuffed into a fuchsia folder and her heart sank.

  Who was she kidding? She couldn’t afford to knock back twenty grand, not when Party Hard—and Sara—teetered on the brink. And now her number one reason for not meeting him face to face, to protect Sara’s anonymity and any association with Divorce Diva Daily, had just evaporated.

  Typical. When it came to money, guys like him wouldn’t pay up until they knew whom they were dealing with, so it stood to reason he’d probably flung some cash around to investigate her.

  The problem was, how much did he know? And could she get him to keep his big mouth shut?

  Her pride may have demanded she tell Blackwood to shove it, but her loyalty to Sara insisted she had better make this the pitch of her life.

  Damn him.

  Once she’d sent her terse reply—See you at eight, Poppy Collins—she kicked the trashcan. Hard.

  Ashlee stuck her head around the doorway. “Everything okay?”

  “Fine,” Poppy said, glaring at Blackwood’s pic that popped up on her screen when she closed her inbox. Bad move. She should’ve shut down Google first, as Ashlee wolf-whistled when she sauntered over to the desk.

  “Better than fine, getting up close and personal with ‘The Hottie.’ ” Ashlee made puckering noises and Poppy swatted her away.

  She didn’t want to explain the online altercation with Blackwood or his attempt at blackmail. Ash would worry, so Poppy decided to play the casual game. She’d handle Beck Blackwood herself.

  “I’m pretty sure I won’t be getting that close to potentially our biggest—and only—client at this stage, but in case I do, I’ll let you know how his technique rates.”

  “That’s my girl.” Ashlee slugged her on the arm. “You know you’ll be staying overnight in Vegas, right?”

  “Hadn’t planned to.”

  “Guys like that will have a hotel room ready and waiting for you.” Ashlee spoke slowly, as if Poppy had suddenly developed obtuseness. “He’s sending a private jet. What’s one little hotel room for the night?”

  Now that she’d decided to go, Poppy hadn’t counted on a layover, but considering it’d be late when she finished her pitch, maybe she should pack for an overnighter just in case.

  “Silk.”

  “What?”

  “Bet The Hottie favors silk lingerie.” Ashlee tapped her bottom lip, pondering. “Maybe lace?”

  Annoyed by the thought of wearing anything remotely sexy near Beck Blackwood, Poppy waved Ashlee away. “Haven’t you got work to do?”

  “Yeah, but bet it’s not half as fun as your work tonight.” Ashlee blew her a kiss as she headed for the door. “And here’s another tip. When in Vegas, always bet on black.”

  “I’m not gambling—”

  “Black silk, satin, lace, whatever. LBD, push-up bra, stockings, you’ll have him throwing the big bucks at you.”

  “Dressed like that, it won’t be for my party planning skills,” Poppy muttered, earning a grin from Ashlee.

  “Good luck, hon.” Ashlee gave her a thumbs-up sign before heading back to her desk in the outer office.

  Poppy didn’t need luck. She’d prove to moneybags Blackwood she could match it with the big boys in Vegas and throw a party the city would never forget. Failure wasn’t an option.

  As for the laid-back, rugged, gorgeous thing he had going on? She’d wear her white cotton, purple polka-dot granny panties to the meeting. It paid to not tempt fate, and considering the dry spell she’d had for the last eight months while juggling Sara’s depression and business, she wouldn’t want her panties getting any ideas and sliding off at the first sight of those penetrating green eyes.

  Yeah, she’d head to this meeting in Vegas well prepared.

  Beck Blackwood wouldn’t know what hit him.

  …

  “Make mine a double.”

  “You’ve had enough.” Beck shook his head and slid the aged whiskey out of Lou’s reach. “Time to call it a night.”

  “You’re no fun.” Lou glared at him through slightly glazed eyes, spoiling his mean look by semi-sliding off the stool. “I know why, too. It’s because those investors screwed us this morning.”

  Beck reassessed. Lou couldn’t be completely hammered if he was astute enough to home in on the one reason behind Beck’s foul mood. But the last thing Beck felt like doing was rehashing this morning. Not while bitterness still burned his gut.

  “Wanna know what I think?” Lou slammed a hand on the table, making the whiskey glasses clink. “Screw the investors. And screw Julie, the money-hungry, soul-sucking, bee-yatch—”

  “Come on, big boy, time for bed.” Beck had to interject before Lou launched on another abusive tirade. He’d never liked Lou’s ex, but Julie didn’t deserve the crap Lou was heaping on her. They’d both screwed up and divorce had been inevitable. Beck could’ve told him so at the start and saved them both the angst and a small fortune slugging it out via lawyers.

  Marriage was the pits. And then you divorced. Simple equation. Which was why he avoided doing the math.

  Beck slid a hand under Lou’s elbow to help him up, but his friend shrugged him off with surprising force.

  “Screw you. I wanna party.”

  Dragging in a deep breath, Beck mentally counted to ten. He didn’t have time for this. He had to meet with the party planner at eight, and considering it was now seven, he was done babysitting. “I’m meeting with your planner soon, so save your partying for next weekend.”

  “Been a long time since I partied hard.” Lou slumped lower in his chair. “A ball and chain does that to a guy. Next weekend…yeah, sounds good…” Lou’s gaze focused on the muted TV over Beck’s shoulder, eyes narrowed as he leaned forward. “Turn that up.”

  Beck glanced at his watch, groaned, and stabbed at the volume button on the remote in time to catch the end of a segment on divorce parties from a well-respected current-affairs show.

  “See? Told you throwing a party to celebrate my freedom is cool.” Lou leaped from his chair, staggered a little, before gaining his balance. “I’m a friggin’ genius.”

  Debatable, as Beck took in Lou’s crumpled shirt, unkempt trousers, and rumpled jacket.

  But the faster he appeased his friend, the faster he’d get him off to bed so he could meet the planner and tick one more thing off his extensive to-do list.

  “I’ll hash out the details tonight and fill you in tomorrow.”

  “Maybe I should come with you? Help plan?” Lou peered at him through bleary eye
s and Beck knew if the party planner took one look at him she’d re-board the jet for LA. “I can help. Divorce parties are hip, all the celebs are doing it. Even the local business journal and CNN said so.”

  Beck couldn’t give a shit whether the President himself approved of divorce parties. He needed to appease Lou so he could get this thing done and move onto more important matters, like planning his next line of attack with the investors. And finding himself a wife.

  “So you checked out that website link I gave you?”

  Before Beck could bundle him toward the nearest elevator, Lou had whipped out his smartphone and brought up Divorce Diva Daily, grinning inanely as he peered at the website. “Yep, I’m going to get me a little divorce diva to throw the biggest damned party Vegas has ever seen.”

  “Got it. Big party. I’ll tell her.”

  “I’ll come meet her—”

  “No.”

  Lou finally picked up on the Don’t jerk me around intonation, and nodded. “Okay. But this party has to be mega.” He threw his arms wide. “I want the whole goddamn town to know nobody gets to stick it to Lou Robinson.”

  “Leave it to me—”

  “I need closure.” Lou gripped Beck’s arm in a surprisingly strong grasp for a near-teetotaler who’d downed three quarters of a bottle of whiskey. “You’ll take care of this, right?”

  Casting a dubious glance at the website, Beck nodded.

  “You know what you need?” Lou jabbed a finger at the website. “The opposite of this.”

  Beck had to drag Lou to the elevator. Fast.

  “You need a wife.” Lou grinned like he’d single-handedly solved the world’s El Niño crisis. “Those investors think Blackwood Enterprises is trash? Show them you’re not.”

  The fact his inebriated friend had inadvertently echoed his irrational thoughts from earlier didn’t help Beck’s mood.

  “Yeah, maybe I should ask this divorce party chick for marital advice or a fixup.”

  “Can’t be any worse than this morning.” Lou winced. “Smug bastards. Hate uptight pricks like that.”