Alexis’s eyebrows lifted. “Yes? Believe me, I’m dying to know.”
Heather exchanged a quick look with Brooke. “Um, I was going to say wickedly brilliant, a little bit serious, and gloriously British?”
Brooke nodded in enthusiastic agreement as Alexis groaned. “Not this again.”
Heather shrugged. “Hey, you asked. And I don’t know why you’re complaining. I just got done saying how nice a quiet accountant neighbor would be.”
Heather had just described Logan Harris, the Belles’ longtime accountant and Alexis’s friend-but-supposedly-never-lover. The man was ridiculously sexy, especially with his English accent. Objectively speaking, of course. Heather had never been truly interested, because despite her boss’s constant denials, Logan had always seemed to belong to Alexis somehow.
It’s like they went together, only neither had realized it yet.
But Alexis was getting that stubborn look that she always wore whenever they brought up Logan in a romantic light.
Brooke changed the subject, probably sensing Alexis’s impending shift in mood. “Are you seriously telling us that you don’t kind of get the appeal of a hot musician?” she asked.
Heather pursed her lips, a picture of Josh’s chiseled abs and very nice biceps coming to mind.
“Aha,” Brooke crowed. “Busted.”
“Okay, he’s good-looking,” Heather allowed. “But in that too-many-martinis-fling kind of way, not like a throw-your-heart-at-him kind of way.”
“Flings have their place.”
“They do,” Heather said slowly. “But I’m not going to have one with the guy whose mailbox is next to mine. Plus, I’m sort of . . .”
“Tired of flings?” Alexis finished for her.
Heather shrugged. “I don’t know. It all just seems like a waste of time, you know? This fruitless wait for The One, who’s statistically likely to break your heart. I’m not saying it’ll never happen for me, I’m just not . . . holding my breath, you know?”
And that, right there, was the heart of the matter. Heather had never been in love. Not even close. Lust, yes. Affection, sure. But she’d never experienced that head-over-heels, lose-your-heart-to-him love.
And at twenty-seven, she was way past due, and yet she was also all too aware of how disastrous it could be to fall too hard and fast for the wrong type of guy. She’d seen it time and time again with her mom. Not that her mom had dated jerks—well, okay, a couple had been rotten—but Joan Fowler had always moved fast. Every guy she’d brought home was “The One,” every guy who’d lasted a week, her soul mate.
Heather’s mom was a smart woman. Scrappy, feisty, and street-smart. Except when it came to men. But while Joan Fowler still hadn’t learned from her romantic mistakes, Heather had. Sometime around the age of fourteen, Heather had learned to stop hoping for happily ever after. For her mother or for herself.
Still, it didn’t stop her from fantasizing. Sometimes, in moments of weakness, she wanted. She wanted the white knight, the white horse, the whole gig.
But even in the weakest of moments, Heather knew that too-good-looking musicians were not the guys that smart girls fell for.
“Much as I wish I had the love of your life in my back pocket, the best I can offer up is breakfast meat,” Brooke said sympathetically.
“I’ll take it,” Heather said, shoving aside her pity party for a better time. “Bacon, egg, and gouda? And don’t forget the coffee.”
“Got it,” Brooke said. “Alexis?”
“No, I’m good, thanks. And before you go . . .”
Heather and Brooke both looked at their boss expectantly. Alexis’s smile was slow and victorious. “We got the Robinson wedding.”
There was a moment of stunned silence, followed by a whole lot of squealing, most of it coming from Heather’s own mouth.
“Seriously?” Heather said, wrapping her arms around her boss’s shoulders and squeezing happily while unabashedly jumping up and down.
Danica Robinson was the biggest thing in socialite culture since the Kardashians broke onto the scene. The daughter of Hollywood’s biggest director and an international supermodel, Danica had the stunning looks and unlimited income that made for legendary weddings.