Dare to Love My Grumpy Boss by Ellie Hall

3

Cora

On the job applications I’ve completed, they’ve never asked, Do you feel well suited to make outfit selections for big events? My strength does not rest with fashion, though I’d never say no to a shopping trip. Thankfully, I’ve always had Blakely, who possesses all the styling talent I lack, and back in high school, a closet just down the street I could borrow from.

The bellhop unloads her Louis Vuitton trunks and luggage in a tidy stack as the rest of us watch slack-jawed.

She thanks him and gives the young guy a tip that makes his eyes widen as he leaves the room.

“So this is how the other half lives?” Mila asks wryly.

I snort, as if Mila doesn’t know. She may be slumming it with me in Boston, but she’s no stranger to the “the good life” as far as wealth is concerned.

Blakely flutters a laugh. “I’m going to Monaco from here so I had to travel light.”

Yet something about her laugh sounds hollow. She looks thin and tired. Like me, she probably works long hours. Unfortunately, the closest thing to anything designer that I have is the Gucci purse she gave me for my birthday a few years ago.

Paisley bounces on the bed. Mila gazes out the window at the lake. Daisy checks in with her sitter on the phone.

The suite is spacious with polished wood furniture, a sectional couch, an enormous flatscreen TV, and what I recall loving most about this room—the birch beams on the ceiling. They have that peel-y paper bark that’s always fascinated me.

This resort is a combination of old New England turn of the century charm and modern amenities. Whenever I’d come in this particular room to clean, for the first minute, I’d let myself pretend that I was a guest and the fresh roses in the vase on the table, wafting their delicious scent on the breeze from the lake, were all mine—a thoughtful addition made by my beloved.

Back in high school, that would’ve been Alex Wilder. Now, I’d take anyone. No, not really, but my thoughts drift to @PacManWizard, our exchanges, and how he said he’d miss me. Is it silly to get excited about something like that?

Is it wrong to wonder what a witty, smart, and sweet guy like him looks like? What about wishing he was my plus one to this wedding?

I gasp as realization dawns. (No, it has nothing to do with @PacManWizard. With my luck, he looks like an ogre and lives in his parents’ basement.)

All eyes turn to me when I belatedly realize something and blurt, “Blakely, this is the bridal suite.”

A mischievous grin spreads across her lips.

Mila’s expression sharpens. “Does that mean the bride and groom-to-be do not get the bridal suite?” Paisley says, tapping the tips of her fingers together.

Blakey shrugs innocently. “Lucky me. I booked it first.”

“How’d you pull it off? Miranda would’ve reserved this room before she sent out the invitations.”

Blakely winks. “Money is a valuable tool.”

Mila cackles. “You are an evil genius.”

“But that means all of you have to stay in here with me, sleep-over style like we used to do.” Blakely sweeps her arms wide.

“I already booked a room,” I say...and paid generously for it. I make decent money at my job, but rent in Boston isn’t cheap. Not even with a roommate—right now that’s Mila. I still have student debt and a slight artisanal cheese addiction. Also chocolate. But this isn’t about me. “Blakely, what did you do?”

“I had the charges refunded to your methods of payment. I couldn’t stay here without you all. It would be lonely.” She puffs out her lower lip.

Yeah, I know the feeling all too well.

In short order, we have music on and a pool of strewn clothing, belts, and skirts puddling around us as we play dress up with all of Blakely’s designer clothing. Actually, she dresses us up like dolls and has us pose for her social media account. It’s kind of always been our thing—even before she was online, she’d create outfit combinations, do our makeup, and hair. Maybe I am a little girlie.

Daisy frowns at her reflection in the mirror. “This dress is beautiful, but what am I going to wear to the rehearsal dinner? I still have the same clothes I’ve had since high school. And Miranda will have a field day if I wear my prom dress.” She wrinkles her nose. “Which is what I brought.”

“At least you still fit into it,” I mumble. Let’s say the aforementioned cheese and chocolate haven’t done my waistband any favors.

“Don’t be silly. You’re going to wear that,” Blakely says.

Daisy presses her hands to her chest and middle like she’s been caught naked. “I can’t wear this, it’s designer.”

“You can and you will. Now, give me a minute to get ready.” Blakely whisks into the bathroom.

“I told you to come down to Boston and we could go dress shopping,” I say to Daisy.

“It’s a long ride.”

“You guys could’ve stayed with Mils and me. Plus, I would’ve liked help picking something out. Thank goodness Blakely came to my rescue.”

Mila sits on a large chair, pouting like a toddler princess in time out—this makes me think of my exchange with @PacManWizard who offered to scold my thumb for sending that selfie.

“Oh, come on. Just because the dress isn’t black doesn’t mean it looks bad. A little color does you good,” Paisley says, encouraging Mila.

“I don’t like floral prints.”

“But you like Daisy,” I say, joking.

We go back and forth, moving from the past to the present and back again, reminiscing, and teasing Mila about her penchant to dress only in black.

Meanwhile, I admire my best friends—Paisley in a teal and silver fitted dress, knee-length, and with capped sleeves. “I’ve always thought you look lovely in ocean hues.”

She smiles.

Mila grimaces. “Florals aren’t my thing.”

“But it’s understated.”

Daisy wears a little lavender dress that’s airy and has light, thin straps. She tugs at them as if uncomfortable. It’s definitely a step up from her prom dress. Let’s just say it had a ruff and leave it at that.

“You look hot,” Paisley tells her, also noticing.

I nod in agreement and then say, “You won’t hear any complaints from me.” I spin in the mirror, wearing a dress with a fitted black top and a flared pink skirt that’s one shade away from neon. I love it.

Blakely emerges from the bathroom wearing one of her designs in a color she referred to earlier as stormy. It has a V-neck and an A-line cut, is intentionally asymmetrical, and has tasteful ruffles. Shod in a gold pair of Louboutin’s, she looks stunning.

We all whistle.

“Let’s go knock ‘em dead,” Blakely says, jutting her elbows out for us to take.

Three hours later, we don’t knock ‘em dead but do have enough stories and nuggets of gossip to last us until the high school reunion.

Not that we wish any ill will on anyone. Well, maybe Miranda. A little. She cornered Paisley and asked her a million personal questions about Jason and toasted the four of us in hopes that we’d find our Prince Charmings, commenting that she’d give us a discount on her Scroll Click Date app.

I grumble because that was my brainchild.

Back in the bridal suite, we lounge and laugh, recapping the evening.

“What I can’t believe is that Miranda is getting hitched before any of us.”

Daisy shifts uncomfortably. She never did well with gossip.

Me neither. It makes the space between my throat and heart feel icky. Yet we indulge. But it’s harmless among friends.

What wasn’t harmless, in addition to the above crimes, were Miranda’s lethal digs at each of us women in her bridal party—except Suzanne, her sister and maid of honor.

“Well, good to know that I have a big nose,” Mila says.

“You do not have a big nose,” I reply. “Don’t listen to Miranda, she’s always had this made-up rivalry with us.”

“Do you think it’s because we didn’t let her come on the trampoline that time?” Daisy asks.

“She had a broken arm. Anyway, if you recall, we all gave up our afternoon playtime on the trampoline and sat with her in the grass while she gave us every grave detail of the injury.”

“I refused to sign her cast,” Mila says.

“She stole your popsicle.”

“True.” Mila sighs. “I want to be happy for her. Truly.”

“I know. Me too. But she’s mean.” I eye Daisy, not sure if I should bring up the big thing that happened. The sadness in her eyes suggests that it’s not the time. Water under the bridge, let bygones be bygones, and all that.

The five of us release a collective sigh.

Paisley suddenly hoots a laugh. “Do you remember the night before graduation?”

“When all the guys on the football team streaked naked across the field?” Oh, I remember Alex Wilder alright.

“No, when we said that if we were still single by the time Miranda tied the knot, we each agreed that we’d marry the next guy we dated.”

The pact threads back into my memory.

Mila’s forehead furrows. “I do not recall that conversation.”

“Because you already had one foot out of town.”

Blakely jerks to sitting and her eyes widen. “We made up some kind of rhyme...”

“No. That didn’t happen.” Mila shakes her head as if by doing so she can erase the past.

“I bet you that I have proof,” Paisley says.

And that is how we end up in her parents’ attic at midnight.

I haven’t been here in years. The house is unusually quiet.

“It’s so sweet that Mr. and Mrs. Jones went on a cruise called the Love Boat to celebrate their fortieth wedding anniversary,” I say.

“Yeah, real cute that they didn’t invite me,” Paisley huffs.

“Check back when you’re Mrs. Cobb, have three kids, and then don’t invite them on your wedding anniversary trip,” Mila teases.

“Oh, that’s exactly when I’d invite them. Free babysitting.” Paisley smirks.

I say, “That’s not revenge. They’d love to spend a week at sea with their grand-progeny.”

“Truth,” Blakely adds.

Flashlights beam across the unfinished attic ceiling, casting strange shapes. A rocking horse looks more like a Trojan horse and a teddy bear that I recall Paisley’s dad winning at the county fair resembles a grizzly.

“It’s spooky up here,” Daisy says as she tries and fails to get a sticky cobweb off her fingers.

I shiver at the thought of the creepy crawlies hiding out up here.

“This is worse than the slime that the kids I babysit made. I thought it was for science. Nope, they were enterprising and wanted to sell the stuff. Whatever happened to a lemonade stand?”

I reach out my hand to take hers. Likely, she misses her little guy.

Paisley digs through a stack of boxes until she finds one that has the label “The Fabulous Five”—also, Fab Five, the same as our group text name.

“Well, well. What do we have here?” Blakely asks. “Relics from the past.”

We browse T-shirts, notebooks, ticket stubs, Valentine’s Day friend notes, photos, and loads of other memorabilia.

“Here it is.” Paisley unfurls a scroll tied with a pink ribbon.

“Funny, I still don’t remember,” Mila says.

Blakely points. “That’s your signature.”

Daisy reads it softly aloud as we gather close over her shoulder.

“We vow to enact this Marriage Match

If we don’t marry before our enemy.

From that cue, we have one year to say I do.

The next guy we date will be our fate.

Our grooms-to-be hold the key

To our hearts it’s true, so we won’t die blue.

The pact is a fact, an oath to betroth.

To break is to partake in work for the snake.

We five declare to complete this dare.

Signed...” She points to each of our names signed in ink.

We release our collective breath as the memory of that night floods back.

Paisley winces. “Our rhyme scheme is a little off.”

“If memory serves, a lot of movie theater candy was involved in the making of this pact,” I say, nudging Daisy at the reminder of her job during high school.

“I figured since it was more expensive, it would taste better. Don’t blame me for sneaking out candy containers. My boss was a creep.”

“I cannot believe you saved this.” Blakely smooths her hand over the paper scroll.

“I cannot believe we did this. So silly.” Mila laughs lightly.

“I cannot believe I have to marry the next guy I date,” I blurt.

“Remind me why we did this,” Daisy says.

In the low light, our gazes suggest we each recall the story—likely one she wants to forget. The one that involved her best friend Quincy Carter, Miranda, and prom night.

“That snake,” Mila hisses, referring to our frenemy.

“This is like a time capsule,” Paisley says after a beat. “I can’t believe we all vowed to marry if we weren’t already by the time Miranda tied the knot.”

Nervous laughter follows. The five of us are so in sync, if I’m questioning whether we have to follow through with this likely they are too.

“This seems drastic,” Blakely says.

“Extreme,” Mila adds.

“Daring,” I say.

“We made a pact,” Paisley says.

Mila shakes her head. “I have a reputation to keep.”

“What? Being perpetually single?” Blakely asks.

Because Mila has been staying with me, I happen to know she does date occasionally. In fact, my overactive imagination has dreamed up a secret life for Mila—unlike me, she does not wear her heart on her sleeve but does keep her cards close to her vest. Wait, vests don’t have sleeves. Anyway, she’s a dating diva, but is too stuck in her tough, cool-girl ways to admit it.

“Remember the Marriage Match Quiz we made?” Blakely says.

Paisley digs through the box. “Voila.”

We take turns looking at another relic, containing a series of questions aimed to identify the qualities of our ideal “mate”—Paisley was really into biology at the time. She’s since gone into law. And I used it as an early template for my Forever Match Map questionnaire that Miranda poached.

Blakely frowns when it reaches her. “Ew. My match was Blain Busch.”

“Wasn’t his father a senator?”

“Yeah, and his mother was the heiress to that popcorn factory outside Concord.”

“The one that caught fire?”

Blakely nods. “But she had three more overseas so no big deal. My parents would’ve loved for me to be Mrs. Busch. No way am I interested in some rich, arrogant snob—Mom and Dad would sell some of their top performing stocks if it meant they could play matchmaker to get me to say, ‘I do’ to someone who’d be advantageous to the family. I don’t is more like.” She squawks a laugh.

“The Marriage Match kind of reminds me of a blog I used to follow called The Valentine’s Day Dating Double Dare.” I tell them about another group of friends who dared a gal from their group with username @Catnip to go on five dates and then pick one for Valentine’s Day. She ended up finding and marrying her one true love. I think they got married. I should see if she’s updated it.

Online dating and the blog reminds me of @PacManWizard. I wonder what he’s doing right now—probably playing video games. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but my kind of guy is adventurous in real life, strong, strapping, and could lift one of the ceiling beams with a single hand. Okay, maybe I’m getting carried away. But my ideal Marriage Match, my Forever Match, is a balance of brain and brawn.

When it’s my turn to read the quiz from high school, I remember the original disappointment I felt at my match not being Alex Wilder. “Raul Valle.”

“Wasn’t he from South America?”

I wrinkle my nose. “He tried to get me to call him Ralph and smelled like cheese.”

“But you love cheese,” Mila says.

“It’s true.” I sigh and a long beat passes.

“You have a look,” Paisley says. “Are you dating someone?”

I squish up my face like that’s ridiculous. It is. “Nope. Thinking about cheese.” And not @PacManWizard.

“Chatting with someone?” Paisley follows up.

I shrug, playing it totally cool. Yep, that’s me. You can’t see my sunglasses, but they’re on and I don’t have a care in the world. La, lala, lala.

“Tell us, tell us,” they chant.

“It’s nothing. Seriously. Are we doing this Marriage Match thing? Because if this is a dare, I have a ‘Get out of dare free’ card.”

“You do not. Let me see,” Mila says quickly.

“Fine. I don’t, but if I did...”

“Was Miranda really so awful?” Daisy asks.

We all gawk at her. Because the wooly mammoth-sized beast in the room that we never speak of because it was so heartbreaking and cruel has to do with her. Miranda was always a low-level frenemy, but then took things way too far and crushed Daisy under the heel of her chunky, platform heel on prom night.

Daisy swallows thickly as though regretting the question and bracing for our condemnation of Miranda on her behalf. We hold back.

“But how is this going to work? Paisley isn’t single. She’s engaged, so doesn’t that render the pact null and void?” Mila asks.

Paisley gazes at her hands as if she’s uneasy. A slippery feeling slithers into my stomach about her fiancé then just as quickly disappears when she says, “You know what’s also coming up? Our ten-year high school reunion. According to the fine print on the scroll, we each have to get married by then. Even me.”

“But you haven’t set a date.”

“That’s because of Jason’s production schedule, but we’ll get it figured out by then.”

Blakely winks. “Hollywood money can make a lot happen in a year. I have mockups for dresses ready to go.”

“So we’re all in?” I ask.

“What were you saying about a dating dare?” Paisley asks me.

“Are you turning this into a dare?” Mila asks.

“Figured it can’t hurt to up the ante. I don’t want to be the only one walking down he aisle.”

“Sneaky. You know we can’t back down from a dare. Fab Five rules,” I say, recalling an early mandate we made in our friendship guidelines.

Daisy stands at the edge of our group as we link hands the same as we used to anytime we were preparing for something serious—a date, a doctor’s appointment, going home with a report card...

“We have one year.”

I clear my throat. “Actually, three-hundred and thirty-five days. It’s after midnight.”

“I’m going to be a wreck tomorrow,” Paisley says. “I need my beauty sleep.”

“Yes, because it looks like you’ll be the first to walk down the aisle.”

She replies with a weak smile.

We return to the bridal suite at Knotty Pines Resort and the next thing I know, it’s go time—Miranda’s wedding. We each wear velvety blue dresses. Admittedly, I look a bit like Cookie Monster which is probably better than an ostrich. Also, we had a midnight cookie raid in Mr. And Mrs. Jones’ pantry because midnight munchies are real, especially after agreeing to this dumb dare.

Miranda seems to be on her best behavior during the photo session. But then everything slowly slides downhill, involving the absence of something blue (Mila fixes that), a missing bouquet (Daisy comes to the rescue), an auntie that doesn’t like the seating arrangement (Paisley missed her calling working with seniors—I swear she should’ve been a nurse rather than going into law), and a dozen other Miranda misdemeanors.

I’m standing beside Blakely watching the father-daughter dance when she whispers, “Forget bridezilla. More like... bridezilla meets groomzilla. Between her and Reed, it’s a match made in...”

“He doesn’t seem so bad.”

“The guy whines. A lot. ‘These shoes are too tight. I don’t like the smell of this hair gel. I think I’m allergic to shellfish.’ Wah, wah, wah. Let me assure you, they deserve each other.”

I stifle laughter. “At my wedding, I’ll be bride-chilla...”

“Like you’re so chill, you mean you’re going to elope?” Blakely asks.

“No, but I’m not going to stress or invite people out of obligation or because I want to humiliate them.” I toss a sharp eyebrow in Miranda’s direction.

“Nor will you throw—Watch out. Incoming. Duck,” Blakely says in rapid succession as she extends her arm and catches a shoe. Her smile is thin. “I work with a lot of hangry models, but this is—”

“That gives new meaning to the tossing of the bouquet. Looks like you’ll be the first to complete the pact,” I say.

Blakely laughs darkly. “Not likely.” She passes me the shoe. “That was aimed at you. Time to meet your Forever Marriage Match.”

I fight against throwing the shoe back at the bride...or her.