The story dominating the gossip headlines this week is the Eric Jessup–Olivia Sherwood engagement, which （if you believe the tabloids） has apparently imploded in spectacular fashion. The prevailing theory cited for the split is that Eric “wasn’t ready to settle down,” with sources describing Olivia as “devastated” by the breakup. I have to admit, I was disappointed to hear it. Maybe it’s this blissful honeymoon stage I’m in, but I actually wanted to believe in their fairy tale.
“Look, am I happy that Eric Jessup has proven himself to be just another womanizing creep who screwed over his loyal, long-suffering hometown girlfriend? No. But I’m also not surprised.”
“We don’t actually know if it’s true,” Jack points out as we maneuver around a dog walker struggling with a giant tangle of leashes. “He hasn’t confirmed it.”
“He hasn’t denied it, either, which may as well be a confirmation.”
He shrugs in concession. “Well, if it is true, then I feel bad for the guy. It didn’t seem like a fake relationship to me.” He snaps his fingers. “That reminds me. There’s a playoff game next week and I thought I’d see if Greg wanted to go, if you’re cool with it?”
“Is that even a question? I’ll be sister-in-law of the year. Are you sure, though? Don’t get me wrong, it’s really sweet of you, I just don’t want you to feel obligated . . .”
He waves a hand. “I always have to see the same people at these things. Trust me, it’ll be way more fun for me to hang with someone who actually wants to be there.”
We’ve arrived back at his building now, and as soon as I see Cliff’s on duty I tug on Jack’s arm to wait, then start digging through my bag. “I found you a really good one,” I tell him gleefully.
“You spoil me,” Cliff says, rubbing his hands together as he comes out from behind the desk.
I’ve been at Jack’s apartment so much lately that Cliff is basically my new best friend （and a major reason why Make enough money to live in a building with a gently paternal, elderly doorman has rocketed up my list of life goals）。 During one of our nightly exchanges I learned that he keeps an extensive matchbook collection, so now I do my best to nick one from every restaurant Jack and I visit.
“It’s embossed,” I tell him, presenting my spoils as reverently as a bronze star.
“Ooh, those are the big bucks,” he says and holds it up to the light, scrutinizing it like a rare coin.
Jack’s shaking his head at us. “Here I am thinking I’m dazzling her with my scintillating dinner conversation while she’s plotting how to score you matchbooks.”
“A woman after my own heart,” Cliff says, shooting me a wink. “Don’t let this one go, sir.”
The elevator dings and I wave goodbye as Jack tugs me inside—then yelp as he hauls me against him.
“I don’t intend to,” he murmurs, lowering his face to mine as the doors slide shut behind us.
Chapter 15
It’s one week later and I’m staring into my bedroom mirror, dressed to the nines for the Siren event and feeling equal parts excited and sick to my stomach. Was this such a good idea? Guess we’re about to find out.
This week’s been ridiculously busy, with all Siren employees working around the clock to prep for the event, which seems to get a little bigger and more prestigious every year. When Cynthia first conceived of the idea, it was as much about building Siren’s name recognition as it was as an excuse to get a bunch of influential women into one room. Now, years later, it’s grown from honoring one woman annually to spotlighting a handful of trailblazers and tastemakers in the categories of technology, music, entertainment, entrepreneurship, and philanthropy. It’s a thrill to have the opportunity to rub elbows with so many powerful and inspiring women, but it’s also an insane amount of extra work on top of our regular responsibilities. I’ve stayed late every night this week, writing and editing the extended profiles on each honoree, weighing in on endless drafts of Cynthia’s remarks, coordinating PR opportunities with our marketing team, and on and on it goes.
As a result, I’ve barely had a minute to spare for Jack, so I’m extra excited to see him tonight. I miss his face. （Not that I think he’s suffering too much. Last night was the aforementioned baseball game with Greg, and I got a late-night text from Christine that read: I think my husband’s gonna leave me for your boyfriend, so I’m guessing it went well.）
“We’re pouring some champs out here!” Nat calls from our front room. “Quick toast to all our hard work before we go.”
I stick one final bobby pin into the loose, wispy side bun I’ve fashioned at the nape of my neck, then grab my purse and head out to our main room, waving a greeting to Gabriel, who’s in the kitchen popping the cork. Nat’s pulling the champagne flutes from the cabinet, and when she sees me, she gasps. “Cass, that dress is perfection.”
For an event like this I’d typically rely on my trusty companion Rent the Runway （a godsend for the twenty-something serial wedding guest）， but when Nat determined that she had to have a new dress and convinced me to run into a few stores with her, I ended up spotting this one on a mannequin and it was love at first sight.
If ever a dress was made for me, this would be it: a black halter neck with a low back, a gathered waist, and a pleated chiffon skirt that flutters around my knees in the softest, most feminine way. It’s sophisticated yet understated and somehow both modern and timeless; the kind of dress that never goes out of style. If I’ve ever prided myself on my capsule wardrobe, then this is its capstone. Nat called it my “little black dress” moment a la Breakfast at Tiffany’s, but the silhouette is actually much closer to Marilyn Monroe’s iconic white subway grate dress in The Seven Year Itch, which is fitting, I suppose—the merging of Betty and Cassidy is now complete.
I accept the flute she hands me and clink it against hers. “It really is perfect. As always, I owe all my impeccable fashion moments to you,” I acknowledge, giving her a little bow.
“Well, I’m no Edith Head, but I am damn good.” When I tilt my head questioningly, Nat groans, exasperated. “Edith Head, only the most famous costume designer of all time? Responsible for just about every iconic look in all those Old Hollywood movies you’ve been watching nonstop?” She sighs when I shrug. “You disappoint me.”
I chuckle and reach up to give Gabriel a hug. “Don’t you look dapper,” I tell him, and he does—he’s model-handsome in his dark suit and tie, his longish, unruly hair slicked back into a slightly-more-ruly style. When he’s paired with Nat in her off-the-shoulder emerald-green gown, they look like they’ve stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine. “You guys are so attractive, it’s ridiculous. I can’t even imagine what your kids will look like.”
“Hopefully just like her,” Gabriel says, eyeing Nat appreciatively.
“You are so well-trained,” Nat teases, slipping an arm around his waist.
“I’m looking forward to finally meeting Jack,” Gabriel says, taking a swig of the champagne. “And selfishly, I’m glad I’ll have someone to hang out with while you guys go off and do your thing.”