It’s Friday and my mother doesn’t even question why I’d be looking for those books now. She knows that when it comes to a personal life, mine is all business.
The books aren’t a pressing issue, but I’ve got no other plans but to work tonight. That, and come up with a solution to my girlfriend issue.
CHAPTER 4
Chloe
My phone buzzes again. Another message on the group text. Lauren and Claire are getting ready and sending me pics of their outfits. They arrived a few hours ago, along with the thirteen other women attending this party, most of whom I haven’t met, checked into their hotel and are already tossing back the champagne I had sent up to their room.
I look up from my phone.
“Could you check again?” I ask politely and smile, hoping this will give the hostess time to realize her mistake. That she does have a reservation under my name. It’s for the large party room in the back. A party room that is necessary to host Lauren’s bachelorette party, due to the inexplicably tiny size of my apartment.
“I made it a month ago,” I add, in case the timing aids in her locating it. “Lauren’s bachelorette party, party of sixteen.” I adjust the forty-pound tote on my shoulder that contains all the party supplies. Sashes, tiaras, party games, even those obnoxious penis straws, I couldn’t help myself.
This shouldn’t be that difficult, but I don’t want to be rude, so I wait patiently while she scrolls and taps on the tablet’s screen. I force myself to take a step back from the stand, afraid I might circle around the side and offer to find it for her.
“I found it,” she announces a moment later.
“Oh, good.” I breathe a sigh of relief, and prepare to wave off the apologies she is sure to offer after that heart-stopping moment when she made me think I didn’t have a reservation for the party tonight.
“It was cancelled,” she says unapologetically.
“What do you mean it was cancelled?” I try to keep my voice calm, but it rises two octaves in panic.
Even though Lauren’s bachelorette party doesn’t start for another hour, I’m here early to make sure every small detail is taken care of. Now, I’m finding that one very large issue has arisen. I take a breath, glad that I’m dealing with this now, so that it will be long forgotten by the time everyone else arrives.
Even while I’m reassuring myself this is a silly misunderstanding, my brain is working overtime trying to recall the moment when I confirmed the reservation. I’ve confirmed dozens of reservations recently. Surely this was one of them. It’s been a busy week. The usual meetings and errands, and helping JoAnna prep for her trip, all while working on the Books 4 Kids fundraiser and late nights putting together the finishing touches for this party.
The hostess taps on her screen. “It says here, a message was left on Tuesday to confirm the reservation but it was never confirmed.”
I want to laugh. Look around for the cameras, it’s obvious I’m being set up for some kind of prank here. I didn’t confirm the reservation for my childhood best friend’s bachelorette party for which she has flown all the way from Colorado to attend this weekend? That has to be a joke. I’ve never failed to confirm an appointment or reservation in my life. I’ve even called the dentist to check on my appointment when they failed to send a confirmation email two days prior. They had been backed up with reschedules due to the doctor being out sick and thanked me for my diligence. Where’s that reservation karma when you need it?
“That’s not possible.” I shake my head, only to realize a second later that it is in fact possible.
Shit. I know she’s right. I remember the voicemail now. I had missed the call that afternoon and had been checking my voicemail while I waited for the fundraiser check at Barrett’s office. I got distracted when he showed up and then forgot about calling the restaurant back to confirm. I have an overwhelming urge to scream. That wouldn’t help the situation at all, but it would relieve the rising anger I’m feeling toward Barrett right now. Logically, it’s not his fault, but the stress of the situation is taking over my brain. Whether it’s his fault or not, I have the desire to lump this misunderstanding in with all the other grievances I have with him. Like why does he look so good in a suit? How can his hazel eyes look both green and gold at the same time? It’s obnoxious really.
Forget about Barrett, I need to focus on the task at hand. There’s got to be a way out of this. It’s like getting a speeding ticket for the first time, they have to let you off with a warning, right? I’ve never had a speeding ticket, but I would hope that a clean record would allow me a pass for the first offense. I pause to put on my friendliest smile.