Hailey blamed the coffee.

She took it hot and milky, with a touch of sugar if she was feeling naughty. Her boss, whom the employees had labeled the Duchess behind her back, frowned upon sugar in all its forms, lecturing daily on its caloric properties. Erica Pearce Weddings, she always dictated, would not have overweight individuals greeting their exclusive clients. Image was God, and she its disciple.

Hailey almost didn’t blame her for being so crabby. If she hadn’t let a cookie pass her lips for however many years, she might look like she’d sucked a lemon down to the peel, too.

That morning Hailey had let herself into the office at seven a.m., latte—no sugar—in hand, hustled into the little office she shared with fellow grunt workers, Max, Quentin, and the newest intern, and dived into the Cutler-Connelly wedding file to get up to date before she sat in on their meeting that afternoon. They hadn’t discussed more than the location, the date, and some theme options, but Hailey took to details like a drug. If she was ever going to rise above her current grunt level to a full-blown wedding planner, as in her ten-year plan, she knew she needed to excel.

Memorizing every nuance of the meetings, whether it was that Ms. Connelly had softened when they’d passed over the subject of roses or that Mr. Cutler had perked up when they’d discussed a jazz trio for drinks, was how she planned to do it.

So it was that she was so absorbed with her notes, by the time she got around to taking a sip of her takeout latte, the liquid was as cold as charity. There had been no way she was getting through the morning without a jolt of caffeine, so she’d dashed out to the café across the street.

It had all snowballed from there.

Because if she hadn’t had to grab another coffee, she wouldn’t have been walking up to the offices at the same time as Megan.

She wouldn’t have begged the wedding announcements off the intern, eager for any hint of who could be calling for services in the next week or so.

She wouldn’t have seen the photo. Or read the sappy announcement.

She wouldn’t have broken land-speed records to get into the bathroom, only to be reduced to the wet wreck reflected in front of her.

More importantly: she wouldn’t be talking to herself in the mirror again.

Hailey blew her nose on the already-soggy toilet paper and bravely faced the truth-telling pane of glass. What little makeup that remained was now a zigzag of foundation and smudged eyeliner. Bozo’s lunatic sister.

“You’re a mess,” she chastised herself on a sniffle. “Not even a hot mess. An average mess. An average, twenty-six-year-old, workaholic, single mess.”

With a disgusted sniff, she balled up the paper and tossed it in the trash. Or near the trash. Like so much in her life, her aim was off, and the much-abused tissue landed two inches short.

She braced her hands on the cold porcelain of the sink. “It’s okay. You can do this. You can pretend you are calm, in control. Who cares if you’re talking to yourself? I bet Einstein talked to himself.” A short breath out. “Course, he was probably a little crazy. And definitely smarter than you.”

Einstein, for instance, wouldn’t have been knocked on his ass by a notice that his ex of six months was marrying, when he’d sworn he never would. Even—or especially—when it was to a woman who existed solely to make other women feel lower than gum off the sidewalk. (This Hailey happened to know for a fact due to the lovely coincidence of bumping into said ex and said witch at a society function a couple months ago.)

No, good ol’ Einstein probably would have nodded sagely, shouted Eureka, and invented something to kill the sonofabitch with so nobody would ever suspect him.

Since Hailey wasn’t smart enough to do that, she would have to walk back into the offices, head high, and say, “Why, yes, I did mean for my eyes to look like this. I like the smudged look. And felicitations to Ethan and Serena. Of course, I don’t wish a vicious death upon them both. No, that’s not an assassin on my speed dial.”

Hailey tapped her forehead on the mirror and closed her eyes. Instantly Ethan’s golden-god image appeared. His crooked smile, his soft eyes. Always steady, always loving. Well, so she’d thought.

Until the night she’d got down on one knee with a ring and he’d all but left an Ethan-shaped hole in the restaurant’s wall. The embarrassment of the moment still burned hotter than Haiti in August.

Then came his excuses and accusations—she wasn’t right for him. She was too into her job. Not supportive enough. He needed someone more exciting. Less controlled.

Well, he’d found excitement about two weeks later in a stacked brunette socialite who towered above Hailey’s own five-foot-three and had shoes that made Hailey weep.

Maybe she should buy some Jimmy Choos, too. The money she’d got from returning the one-of-a-kind signet ring she’d designed for Ethan still sat in an envelope in the top drawer of her dresser. Next to it, wrapped up in an old shirt, was the diamond necklace he’d splurged on the Christmas beforehand with a speech about investing in their future. Making her hope and plan and dream.

Jerk. She would absolutely buy some Jimmy Choos.

Yeah, Hales. Buying shoes will choke the jackass right up.

Even her revenge fantasies were lame. She really was a mess.

The bathroom door swung open. Hailey’s heart thudded to the bottom of her stomach as she jerked back from the mirror.

It was only Megan. The pretty twenty-year-old intern took in the situation in one glance and quickly nudged the door closed behind her. “He’s an ex, huh?”

“No.” To Hailey’s horror, her voice cracked like a choirboy’s on the verge of puberty. She tried again. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Going for the grunge look on purpose, then?”

Hailey looked toward the mirror and used a finger to wipe some of the smudged eyeliner away. “I’m fine.”

Megan stepped up to the sinks and crossed her arms. “I saw your face when you read the notice. I’m surprised you didn’t pass out.” Her smile was kind. “You look better than I would.”

Hailey didn’t question how Megan knew. Throwing down the engagement notices of the paper and bolting wasn’t exactly subtle. Her shoulders sagged. “Yes,” she admitted. “He’s an ex.”

“How long . . . ?”

“Six months.”

“Fast,” Megan commented. “I bet she’s pregnant.”

Hailey closed her eyes and inhaled. Exhaled. “Thanks for coming to check on me.” She reached for her purse and pulled out a compact. “But I’m fine. It was just a . . . shock.”

Shock was an understatement. Don’t get her wrong—if given the choice of having Ethan back, she’d reply with a swift middle finger. Maybe even two. And a third for good measure.

But to hear he was engaged when he’d basically told her she was going to die alone darn well merited the hollow knot in her stomach, the instinctive burn of self-pitying tears.

Why not me?

Thanks to Ethan, she knew why not her. Yet he got to be happy? No.

Plus she was PMSing. So she really didn’t think a few tears was that bad a reaction to the shocking news. Better that than she take up a machine gun and go Terminator on his poet’s ass.

Man, she had some dark thoughts today.

“You’ll find someone better,” Megan was saying as she flashed a cute grin. “Maybe you’ll end up like Charlie Donahue and bag yourself a hot Genie fiancé.”

Hailey barely withheld the snort as she smoothed powder under her puffy eyes. “That’s about as likely as the Duchess eating a hamburger in sweatpants.”

“You never know. It could happen to anyone.” Megan closed her eyes and pressed her hands together, praying. “Please let it be me.”

Hailey had to smile, which was no doubt Megan’s intention. The girl was obsessed with Genies. Everyone in the office was treated daily to updates about many of the most famous from the Star, though most of the articles Megan read out loud tended to focus on the legendary couple Charlie Donahue and Jax Michaels.

According to the latest gossip, the lovebirds were now engaged and looking to plan a wedding. And, not getting over-the-top, the-hills-are-alive-with-the-sound-of-music excited, rumors around New York suggested they could be heading to Erica Pearce. There had even been a photo last week of Charlie Donahue hanging around the building.

Hailey would bargain with the heavens or deal with the devil to bag that account. Not only would it give her an outlet to funnel all the determination she had in bucketloads since rat bastard Ethan, but it would also get her name out in the wedding world in a major way. Maybe even enough for her to climb the ladder. Career was her lifebelt.

Who needed men anyway? If she needed someone to burp and scratch his ass in her apartment, she’d call a plumber.

With that, she buried the leftover hurt, the bruised pride back in the hole it’d sprung out of.

Megan faced the mirror nearest her and tucked strands of her curly blond hair behind her ears. “Do you think,” she mused aloud, dreamy, “if Jax and Charlie signed with Erica Pearce, Jax would come into the offices?”

“As much as any of the grooms.” Hailey rummaged through her makeup bag with a silent curse. She’d forgotten lipstick. “But rumors aren’t contracts, so don’t count your wishes before they’re won.”

Megan blinked. “That reminds me. The Duchess wants to talk to you.” Excitement crept into her face. “I wonder if that’s why?”

At the mention of her boss, Hailey abandoned her lipstick hunt. The look she cast Megan was wary. “She wants to see me?”

“Yes. And she smiled at me.” Megan all but danced, hands clasped together. “I bet Jax and Charlie are coming here. Oh, my God. A Genie is coming into my offices.”

Hailey was torn between frustration and amusement as she watched the intern wiggle. “Megan? How long has she been waiting?”

“Only a couple of minutes.” Megan’s cheeks were flushed, Hailey’s tears forgotten in the wake of her imagination. One of her hands gripped Hailey’s sleeve. “You have to tell me when, okay? I need to prepare. I need to get my book for him to sign.” She jiggled Hailey’s arm. “Just think. He might bring along some single friends. Hot Genies in this office.”

It was clear the intern had vacated reality.

Well, at least she isn’t pitying me anymore.

Hailey had had enough pity from everyone else without getting soothing pats on the back from the peppy twenty-year old whose biggest problem was obviously which hot Genie to drag into bed next.

Not Hailey. No, she was too responsible for that. Not exciting.

And she was stalling because the Duchess was definitely going to notice the lack of lipstick.

Hey. In wedding planning, a little crazy could go a long way. But naked lips?

That was going to cost you.

* * *

Hailey parted ways with an all-but-singing Megan in the hall. Tastefully decorated in creams and accents of pearl and gold, the corridor was meant to simultaneously present the image of opulence to a client whilst also soothing the raging bitch beasts most brides evolved into right before their weddings.

Her two-inch patent heels made no sound on the cushioned carpet as she trod her way to the head of the corridor. The entire floor was taken up by Erica Pearce Weddings and its small team, with a reception room where informal meetings could take place, the crowded office with four desks where Hailey and company worked, and the inner sanctum of the Duchess herself.

Hailey pushed open the half-frosted door, stomach already keyed up, and stopped by Erica’s assistant’s desk. “She wanted to see me?”

June, as much a snob as Erica, hiked her nose in the air. Her brassy hair swung with disdain. “Ten minutes ago.”

Hailey chewed on the three smartass comments that came to mind, but dropped it. June bit harder when her prey struggled.

June studied her, then pressed the button to talk with one of her French-manicured nails. “Hailey’s here.” Finally, her eyebrows added as they lifted.

Hailey lifted one of hers in return. Kiss my ass.

“She can come in.”

June released the button. “You look like hell,” she said with a twiddle of the statement necklace she wore. She smirked. “Don’t you own a mirror?”

“Why would I when I have you to so kindly point that out?” Hailey sugar-smiled through gritted teeth as she headed for the cream-painted door.

She knocked once and twisted the gleaming silver knob.

Instantly the scent of Chanel and cigarette smoke smothered her. Hailey glanced toward the open window where, sure enough, her boss leaned with a thin, white cigarette dangling from her hand.

Erica eyed her and blew a plume of smoke from between perfect red lips. “You’ve been crying.”

Hailey plucked an excuse out of the air. “I had a . . . sneezing fit.”

Her boss eyed her with skepticism enough to fill one of New York’s potholes. As always, she was one hundred percent polished, from her coiffed blond hair to the four-inch designer shoes she was never without. Her face was feline, and her clothes the very latest, expertly outlining her gym-bunny figure.

Erica Pearce was how she expected every employee to be: perfect.

Very aware of her puffy eyes and naked lips, Hailey fought the urge to twist her fingers together. Like a shark, her boss could sense fear.

Erica took another drag of the cigarette and stubbed it out on a crystal ashtray on the windowsill. Her tilted eyes, shrewd brown and outlined in kohl, examined Hailey again as she exhaled the last puff.

Just as Hailey was about to crumble and confess everything from Ethan’s engagement to the pack of forbidden cookies she’d indulged in a week ago, Erica waved at her desk. “Take a seat.”

On legs that offered no more support than a pat on the hand, Hailey crossed to the glass desk near the windows and sank into one of the velour-cushioned chairs designed to look Edwardian. With a rustle of fabric from her black pencil skirt, she crossed her legs and fought the need to fidget.

“The Cross-Belvoir wedding went well on Saturday,” she offered after a few seconds of silence, curling her fingers around the edge of the chair. “I’ve already had two ecstatic calls from both mothers raving about our services.”

Erica took her own chair with a distracted nod. “How long have you worked here, Hailey?”

“Uh . . .” Hailey swallowed the dread the question prompted. “Five years. A little over.”

“And how would you describe your job performance?”

“Have I had a complaint?” Hailey’s eyes narrowed and she pinched the chair tighter. “If this is about the best man at the Cross-Belvoir wedding, I swear, he fell over his own feet into that fountain.”

Maybe next time he won’t try playing pin the planner.

“I’m sure.” Erica leaned back in her chair and steepled her hands as she gazed over them. “Best men have been known to . . . fall over at times in this business.”

Phew. Or maybe not, since Erica still wasn’t smiling.

Those nerves started a conga line up to Hailey’s throat. “In that case,” she said, selecting words as carefully as a first-date outfit, “I’d describe my job performance as . . . dedicated.”

“I agree.” Erica nodded with the words, releasing a flood of relief through Hailey’s body. “From what I’ve observed, you’re always on time, usually presentable,”—a flick of her disapproving gaze to Hailey’s unpainted mouth—“imaginative, ready to help out. You get up early and leave late without complaint. You never plead for time off in the summer or Christmas season when we’re at our busiest.”

Hailey was waiting for the but. And it would have to be big. Kardashian-sized. This kind of a lead-up was all about the trapdoor.

I love you, but I need time to work on me as a person.

Your daughter is fine but your car is totaled.

You don’t have cancer but a huge asteroid is heading to Earth about to blow us all to smithereens.

Damp heat gathered at her pulse points. Erica was the name in wedding planning. It was why Hailey had fought to work at her company, why she put up with the crap Erica dished out with assignments. If Erica Pearce approved of you, you could write your own ticket.

Aware of the time gone, Hailey wet her lips. “I love my job,” was all she could think of to say.

“I’ll be blunt.” Erica leveled a stern look at Hailey. “I want you to step up and plan a wedding by yourself. And if you do well, we can talk about you moving up in the company.”

Hailey’s mouth fell open.

“I think you could be a fantastic asset.” Erica picked up a silver pen and toyed with it. “You know Nina has left to be a stay-at-home mom.” Disbelief that anyone would choose family over career briefly touched her eyes before they focused on Hailey. “I’d like to offer her position to you—provided you perform to my standards, jump through the hoops.”

Her jaw was still on her lap, but Hailey managed to pick it up to talk. “You’re promoting me?”

“If you do well,” Erica reminded her.

“I will.” Hailey’s nod was fierce. She gripped the chair as giddy joy raced in her veins. It was a fight not to jump up and twerk in her boss’s office. “I’ll plan it down to the last detail.”

“I’ll be dropping in, checking to make sure everything is running smoothly.” Erica smiled a thin line. “We have a reputation to maintain, and I won’t have any compunctions about saying if I don’t think something is appropriate.”

“I assure you, you’ll be delighted with everything.”

“Hmm.” Erica raised her eyebrows. “Let’s hope.” She set down the pen and passed over a beige folder. “The wedding is set for October 30th. And I want to make a good impression with this couple.”

Hailey had accepted the folder before her hand froze on Erica’s words.

Good impression.

Could she . . . ? Was she . . . ?

No. It couldn’t be.

Erica wouldn’t have given her the Michaels-Donahue wedding. Would she?

Hailey flipped open the folder and scanned for the contact details, excitement zipping in her blood. She would prove herself, she vowed. She’d make it the best damn wedding the Genie world had ever seen. She . . .

The names smacked her between the eyes.

Ethan Plaitt and Serena Norwood.

The bottom fell out of her stomach as she stared at the writing.

Huh. Whaddya know? Trapdoor.