Ready to Wed (Entangled Select) Read online

  “By the way, I forgot to ask, did Brendan West find you? His mom called, and apparently he’s moved back to Vegas.”

  “Yeah, I saw him for a minute the other day. We’re gonna catch up sometime.” Last night I’d decided I needed to learn how to be alone—I tended to bounce from one relationship right into the next, and I’d never been single for long. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t look up an old friend, right? The goal was to not have to have someone, not turn into a hermit. So as soon as I got off the phone with Dad, I pulled out Brendan’s card.

  I was halfway through dialing his number when the door to my office swung open. At first all I could see was a dark figure against the blinding sunlight. Then the door closed, my eyes adjusted, and I gasped.

  “I know!” Valentina, one of my favorite, and usually calmest, brides-to-be half cried, half shouted, her green eyes bulging. “Marcus likes blondes, and he always jokes about how he fell for me instead, so last night I got this idea that’d it’d be cool to surprise him and go blond, and then…” She lifted a frayed orangey strand of hair. “Then this happened! We’re taking pictures for our invitations tomorrow! And they’re putting them in the paper— Oh shit! They’re going to be everywhere, and I’ll be looking like this!”

  I could feel my mouth hanging open and forced myself to shut it. Not only was her hair a coppery-orange color, it was chopped off at crazy angles. She looked more like a punk rocker than a bride. Actually, punk rockers would probably find that an offensive comparison, and it seemed most of them went out of their way to look weird. I carefully rearranged my features in a no-problem expression that I hoped also masked my thoughts.

  “Who…did this to you?”

  “A woman at the mall—Celia from Classy Cuts. I was walking by, there was a special going, and like I said, I wanted to surprise Marcus. I was trying to be spontaneous.” Valentina’s chin quivered and she burst into tears. I made a mental note to warn brides away from that salon and picked up the phone. Page two of the packet I handed all my clients when they first signed up with me advised against doing anything drastic to their looks before their wedding. It seemed like I needed to add an addendum to apply the same before engagement photos, or pretty much anything in the six months leading up to the wedding.

  Valentina Maddox’s wedding wasn’t just the event of her lifetime, but one that pretty much the entire city was involved in or invited to. The Beacon had covered her and Marcus Beecham’s engagement, calling them Vegas royalty—they were the children of two of the biggest casino owners, families that’d been here since Vegas was just a blip in the desert. Every step of their engagement and wedding would be covered and analyzed. With all the coverage, planning her wedding would really get my name out there, and hopefully take Ready to Wed to the next level and ensure I had plenty of business for the foreseeable future. Granted it all went smoothly, of course. Good thing I worked well under pressure.

  “Give me a minute, and we’ll figure out how to fix it, okay? Nothing to worry about,” I said, though holy crap, I wasn’t sure this was a problem I could actually fix. I called Fusion Locks and asked the receptionist to tell Raquel it was Dakota Halifax and it was an emergency.

  Valentina sniffed and wiped at the tears running down her cheeks. I could tell by the red rims around her eyes, she’d been crying for a while. Usually she was the girl cracking jokes and bouncing in her seat as we discussed wedding details, so seeing her in such despair sent a pang of empathy through me. I’ve gotta do whatever it takes to get the happy girl back.

  When Raquel came on the line, I told her I had a hair emergency. “I know you’re super busy, but she’s got engagement photos scheduled for tomorrow, and her cut and color went…well, wrong, to say the least. You’re the only person I know who might be able to fix it.” Valentina’s deflated expression caused me to amend this to, “Who will be able to fix it. I know you can do it.”

  Raquel was quiet for a moment, and I could hear her flipping through pages—the appointment book, I guessed. “Hmm. I’m supposed to be going to lunch in fifteen, but tell you what. You bring me food, I’ll scarf it down and squeeze her in.”

  “Thanks. I totally owe you.” Not only did Raquel take care of my hair, I referred people to her like mad, and it looked like it’d pay off for Valentina. It didn’t hurt that Raquel was as much a sucker for a fabulous wedding hairdo as I was. Used to be. Whatever. The important thing was she was a miracle hair worker. I hung up the phone and gave Valentina a reassuring smile. “You’re in luck. We’ve got to go now, but we’re going to get you fixed up. It’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

  And if not, there’s always the possibility of working a cute hat into the pictures. She could totally pull off a fedora if it came down to it. Or maybe even a veil, but that might be weird pre-wedding. Then again, celebrities sometimes posed in wedding dresses before they got married. If an actress could do it on the cover of People, surely it was a viable emergency option for a Vegas princess.

  Valentina followed me in her car while I picked up a sub sandwich and then buzzed over to the salon. The scent of dye, perm chemicals, and perfumed hair products filled the air, along with the buzz of chatter, blow-dryers, and music from a Top 40 station.

  “Dakota!” Raquel came forward and threw her arms around me. The girl was a burst of energy packaged in a tiny Puerto Rican body, her bronzed skin and shiny dark hair giving her the type of exotic beauty that made guys stop and stare. Her favorite word was “fab,” like she couldn’t bother with the entire thing, even though she talked twice as fast as anyone I knew.

  Sympathy filled her features as she pulled back. “How are you doin’?”

  Raquel had been invited to the reception, which meant she knew about the whole it-not-happening thing. Why did I have to tell everyone I knew that I was getting married? Now I felt like I had to go around the city and discuss its demise. Stupid celebratory column made things a hundred times worse than it would’ve been, too. “I’m good.”

  One of her eyebrows quirked up, making it clear she wasn’t buying it. Then her gaze went to Valentina. “Oh my,” she said, her other eyebrow arching, and Valentina burst into tears again. “No worries, hon. We’ll have you looking fab in no time.” She flashed me a wide-eyed look—which I hoped meant it was one of those Mission: Impossible missions that was actually possible, but maybe filled with hair carnage—and then led us back to her station.

  Just over an hour later, Valentina was crying again. Only the tears had morphed to happy ones. Raquel had done a super-extreme deep conditioning treatment filled with seaweed and snail serum—whatever that was. Then she’d dyed Valentina’s hair back to its natural dark color, cut it into a choppy bob with long pieces in front, and given her a thick fringe bang. Valentina now looked even better than she had pre–devastating haircut, and her signature smile was back on her face.

  The bill was eye-popping—conditioner from the sea is pricey, apparently—but the bride-to-be didn’t even bat an eye when she plunked down her credit card. She just kept hugging Raquel and me and saying, “Thank you,” over and over.

  I was exhausted from just witnessing the transformation. As soon as I’d assured Valentina everything else was on track for her wedding plans and waved good-bye, I sagged against the reception desk.

  Raquel put her hand on my arm. “I’ve got my last appointment of the day next, and after that I’m gonna give you fab caramel highlights, a little heavier on the bottom so it’s like a softer, more natural ombré kind of thing.”

  “Oh, it’s okay.”

  “Nuh-uh. Whenever a girl goes through a breakup, it’s time for a shake-up. Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”

  I was going to argue, but I did need a pick-me-up, and my hair might as well benefit from it. Luckily, I’d brought my laptop with me—it was about time to get started on my next article. Judging from today’s disaster, it was time to remind people the ins and outs of hair. The nice thing about Valentina was I knew she wouldn’t mind or get overly
sensitive about my using her situation as a warning to help other brides—not that I’d ever mention names, but I did have the occasional client think I was slamming her in my column. It was a tricky line sometimes.

  By the time I had the rough draft typed up, Raquel was ready for me. Once she had me in her chair, the plastic cape secured around my neck, she started talking a hundred miles a minute. “I don’t know what in the hell Grant was thinking. He’ll never find anyone as good as you. I mean, I know I never met him, but obviously he’s an idiot.”

  “I guess he just wasn’t ready.” I thought about telling her about his newfound son. After all, I needed to vent about it to someone who hadn’t already formed an unchangeable opinion the way Jillian had.

  But then Raquel spun me in the other direction, taking up her chatter again as she swiped color on the ends of my hair with her brush. “Yep, definitely an idiot. I mean, obviously not as bad as that Joe guy you dated who lost all his money in blackjack and then moved himself into your place without you asking him to.”

  “Yeah, kicking him out after we broke up was a nightmare.” I shook my head. “I tell you way too much.” Which probably meant I shouldn’t tell her about Grant’s kid. But there was something about being in a salon chair that made you want to spill every detail of your life. It was like therapy, but with fewer tissues and leather couches and more chemicals and shiny hair. So I told her about how Grant found out he was a daddy.

  Raquel spun me to face her. “Whoa. He never knew?”

  “Apparently not. Her timing couldn’t have been worse. So he claimed he panicked, which I get, I do. But he would’ve married me still if he really loved me, right?”

  She pulled up another strand of my hair and covered it with purple goop. “I don’t know. Kids are a big deal. I can’t imagine finding out two years later. Probably because I packed the kid around for nine months. The surprise I got was how much crying and pooping there was.”

  A picture of the daughter Raquel had at eighteen was tucked into the corner of her mirror. She’d had a shotgun wedding, followed by a divorce at nineteen—I knew because we’d already planned her next wedding, even though she hadn’t found the guy yet. Her daughter was now almost ready to go to school.

  I bit my lip. “So should I give him a second chance, then?”

  “He wants one?”

  “He claims he does, anyway. And I’m mad, but I love him, too. Then again, he hurt me worse than anyone ever has. Which is why I keep going back and forth.”

  Raquel pushed away the cart with the hair dye and foil wraps. “You’ll have to decide that, chica, but with your body and this fab hair, you’re going to have guys drooling over you. Might as well enjoy it for a while before deciding if you want to re-settle down.”

  Since she was so enthusiastic about it, I didn’t bother telling her that the only men I was around these days were about to marry my clients. I’d been out of the dating scene—any scene, really—for a long time. And I thought I wanted that. But if Grant wasn’t sure, how could I be sure? Maybe there was another guy out there waiting, one who’d be better for me.

  Or maybe I needed to stick with my plan to forget about guys and just focus on myself. My in-shape plan and an apartment of my own where I could be with the only guy I needed—my dog. So what if he also drank out of the toilet?

  The thing that killed me was that I didn’t used to be one of those girls who needed a guy. I knew how to take care of myself, and I prided myself on being able to fix my own problems, no help needed. What happened to that girl? And how could I get her back, because this caring and crying was really starting to blow chunks.

  After Raquel had washed out my hair, trimmed up the ends, and styled it, I stared at myself in the mirror. She was right. I’d needed a shake-up.

  I needed to remember who I was before Grant and the wedding had eclipsed everything else.

  Chapter Six

  GET READY TO WED by Dakota Halifax

  Hair-Raising Tales

  Perfect hair isn’t essential to your big day, but why would you want anything less than your best? So here are some hair dos and don’ts. Avoid specials from unknown stylists. Sure, they might be great, but is discount hair what you really want? You don’t want to be looking at those wedding photos for the rest of your life, wishing you’d gone with the sure bet instead.

  Choose a style that’s still true to you. You need to be comfortable, and the hairdo needs to last through a ceremony and a reception that might include dancing, and then there’s the weather. I know, it’s hard to predict the weather, unless you happen to be psychic. How’s this for psychic? If it rains, your hair will get ruined. Have a covered area as a backup.

  Make sure your hair, accessories, and style of dress go together. They should all complement, not fight one another. Avoid all drastic changes, especially before the big day, but also before having engagement photos taken. Remember, dyeing and perming are also hard on your hair, so even if you’re only looking for highlights and volume, you might end up with more of an I-just-got-electrocuted look. The good news is most problems are fixable as long as you’re willing to lose a little length or pay for hair extensions, and you can always find a bigger veil. My number one tip is to find a hairdresser who knows what he or she is doing. Always do a practice run, and do all cutting and coloring two weeks in advance. You’d hate for an oops to happen, but you’d hate even more if you didn’t have time to fix it.

  I’d like to give a shout-out to Fusion Locks, my favorite place for all hair needs. Book an appointment and book it early. Trust me, you won’t be disappointed.

  …

  With my heeled feet propped up on my desk, I finished reading through my article one last time before hitting send. At some point, I was probably going to have to address the subject of my failed nuptials, but how would that get people ready to wed? Right now, hair was much more important. Admittedly, I’d admired my new do each time I’d passed the mirror. And deciding to get back to who I used to be helped me look at the smiling bridal pictures in my office without wanting to maim them.

  In fact, I was doing so well I decided to change the color of my “get over my bitterness toward love” to-do list item from Fuchsia to Tangerine. No anger, but I wasn’t quite at Wary Canary yet. I’d get there, though.

  My cell rang, and since it was Jillian, I picked it up. “Have you seen Phoebe’s social column today?” she asked.

  “No. Why?” I swung my feet to the ground and sorted through my pile of mail, searching for my copy of the Beacon. “Did I miss someone famous?” Most of the time, the column was filled with what celebrities were performing where, or who was seen at what nightclub. I didn’t know why anyone would want to read it, but apparently Phoebe’s column was popular.

  While I’d come a long way from the days when I couldn’t be friends with girls, Phoebe Pratt, gossip columnist, was an exception. She considered herself the social butterfly of Las Vegas, and unfortunately, she did seem to know everyone, which meant she attended a lot of my clients’ weddings. She always had something negative to say about the weddings, too, and she liked to tell me how she would’ve done it better. I’d heard from one of the other columnists that she’d pitched an idea that got turned down in favor of Get Ready to Wed, which had her hating me from the get-go.

  There was also an incident where she threw herself at Grant. So needless to say, I avoided her as much as possible—it wasn’t too difficult, considering I didn’t have to go into the newspaper office very often.

  “Just don’t read it,” Jillian said. “But if you do, I’m totally down for jumping the woman in whichever nightclub she’s trolling tonight.”

  The pages of my paper stuck together, and I thought I probably should’ve just pulled up the Beacon on my computer instead. But I was prideful enough to have it delivered to my office so I could see my articles in print, so I might as well use it. I scanned to Phoebe’s column—she was forever trying to get me to give her dirt on my clients, especial
ly the more well-known ones, like when I did the governor’s daughter’s wedding. I’d told Phoebe that I didn’t want to be involved, and told her I wouldn’t comment due to planner/client confidentiality.

  “Seriously don’t read it,” Jillian said as I skimmed the beginning that covered a young starlet drinking in a nightclub.

  My name stood out, and I blinked, thinking I must be seeing things. I shouldn’t be mentioned in the social column—I wasn’t even social.

  A few weeks ago, well-known wedding planner and fellow newspaper staff member Dakota Halifax wrote about her upcoming nuptials with all the excitement of a blushing bride. It turns out that her best-laid plans didn’t prevent her from being stood up at her own wedding. The exact details are unknown. Her friends haven’t responded to my calls, and her now-ex-fiancé claimed he didn’t want to talk about the disastrous day. I finally squeezed the following response out of him. “I love Dakota and I always will.” So, was it a case of cold feet, or is our wedding planner off her game?

  My breaths came faster and faster with each sentence, and angry heat traveled through my veins. No more Canary. As far as anger levels went, I was pushing into the Fuchsia zone for sure. I crumpled the paper in my hands. “I’m going to kill her.”

  “Like I said, you need an accomplice, I’m here for you.”

  “How could they even print this? How would they know that I was stood up? Did she call you?”

  The hesitation on the other end was answer enough. “I ignored the call and the message asking me to call her back. I thought she’d leave it alone—that she was just curious. I never thought she’d print anything about it.”

  “This is so embarrassing. It makes me sound desperate.” Right now, I felt desperate. Desperate to corner Phoebe Pratt and make her eat her words—literally. I was going to jam my paper down her throat. “I’m going down to the office. If I need bail money, I’ll call you. I suggest Barry from Barry Bonds.” I’d had to deal with him before when bachelor parties got a little out of control. He was faster than most, and easy to deal with, which was always important when brides were screeching at levels that could shatter glass. Plus, he used a play on a sports star’s name, and that made me oddly happy.