Page 1 of The Ex Effect
ONE
MORGAN
“Everything wastight.”
If a more perfect review headline existed, I wasn’t sure what it would be. Maybe everything was “pristine”? Or, a personal favorite, “perfect.” I reread the review on my cell, savoring the callouts to “Morgan Rose’s structure, attention to detail, and clearly defined schedule.” That last comment was an endorphin-filled arrow striking me directly in the heart. Schedules had always been my best friend, providing the calm and comfort I craved but didn’t receive from others. Warmth filled me, starting at my toes and landing directly in my soul, and I swear if I didn’t just plan this woman’s wedding, I might drop on one knee and propose myself.
I tapped off the phone and tossed it in my purse. I took a few moments to breathe in and out, begging my brain to give me just one tiny moment of reprieve before I started down my daily “what if” thought track.
In the wedding-planner business, reviews are everything. It only takes one disgruntled Bridezilla to tank a business. And ever since Dreams Wedding and Event Planning Services moved into the neighboring town of Duluth, Minnesota, threeyears ago—undercutting prices and offering things like a full staff, a beautiful showroom, with cucumber-infused water and miniature Belgian chocolates upon entry (yes, of course, I scoped out the place)—I needed every positive review I could get.
Although I couldn’t admit it to anyone quite yet, because I barely accepted it myself, my business dangled by a thread. Dreams had done the same as a few chain restaurants and a big department store—stormed into our community and elbowed out the ma-and-pa shops that our town thrived on. Including mine. For years, spring and summer was my busy season. I was booked almost every weekend from May through September. But this season, none. Not a single wedding besides Olivia’s.
Right now, I had just enough money saved to pull me through until the fall, and then I was done. My business absolutely could not survive on the scraps. And if that happened, I’d have to choke down the last of my pride and join my family’s home-improvement business—which I wanted to do about as much as a Pap smear.
The thought of closing the doors on my business after a decade of blood, sweat, and tears (literally, although, except for the unfortunate Henderson wedding, the blood was normally minor), and sacrificing my personal life for success, made me want to throw up into my favorite Jimmy Choo pumps. Which was exactly why last week I did the unthinkable—I accepted a client with an impossible deadline: ninety days.
Now, ninety days would be tricky, but not impossible, for a destination wedding or a small backyard affair. But this bride, Olivia, wanted the quintessential traditional wedding with multi-tiered cake, several hundred people, a full wedding party, and made a joke about trying to book Miley Cyrus for the reception. At least, I hoped it was a joke, but at this point, I really wasn’t sure.
Thankfully, I loved a challenge. Next to immaculate spreadsheets and the joys of punctuality, challenges were damnnear delightful. Butthis? Ninety days was nearly impossible. Every venue, DJ, caterer, officiant, and photographer would be booked by now. After the anxiety of the timeline had rendered me silent during our consultation—a rarity—Olivia quickly slipped in two magical phrases. One, “I heard you were the best.”Swoon. And two, “I’ll, of course, pay a rush fee.”
And… sold.
Truthfully, though, she could’ve asked for the graduating ballerina class at Juilliard, and I would have done just about anything to make it work. Olivia’s wedding was a life preserver for my company, and I’d grip on to this gift. If I couldn’t make her wedding work, I would close up shop. End of story.
I tugged on my peacoat, checked the large wood-framed mirror next to the front door, and frowned. The last hair stylist took a half inch too much off my perfectly respectable inverted chin-length bob, and I verged dangerously on having the Karen-cut. But, because every interaction was a potential client, I’d swallowed back my fury and spent the last week straightening my blonde locks within an inch of their life to create more length.
The front porch step creaked under my wedge ankle books. “Oof.” The spring northern Minnesota air was crisper than yesterday and a trace of the fresh mineral scent from Lake Superior wafted to my nose. I snugged my collar, hopped into the car, and typed out the address to a venue thirty minutes outside of Duluth.
I waved to a neighbor walking their husky and turned down the street to drive near Lake Superior. Even though I’d lived in Spring Harbors my entire life, when I saw the tranquil, expansive water, my insides instantly settled.
This last week, I learned a few key details about Olivia. At first, I couldn’t understand the rush for her to get married in three months. Then she explained her stepfather had recently been diagnosed with a terminal illness, and it was important toher that he walked her down the aisle. Also, she was a medical student at the University of Minnesota Duluth with limited time, had wealthy parents who were footing the bill, and zero creative vision of what she wanted for her wedding. “Just give me something to react to and I’ll decide.”
Thankfully, Olivia had surprised me with one life-saving detail: Her fiancé, Tommy, had access to a photographer, some friend of the family—Frankie Lee—who was available on short notice to take their wedding pictures.Thank God, I’d thought. With this short leeway, the only people available would be a high school senior dabbling with a cheap camera and no concept of lighting. Last week, I’d messaged Frankie to see if he wanted to scope out a venue with me and was pleasantly surprised when he agreed.
After rolling to a stop sign, I typed a quick message to Frankie.
Morgan:
Hi, just making sure we’re still meeting in an hour at Woodlands?
Frankie:
Yep
Morgan:
Great. I’ll wait outside for you, and we can go in together. Looking forward to meeting you!
Frankie:
Cool
Whatever. This dude was clearly not one for conversation, but would it kill him to be a smidge friendlier? Ultimately, as long as he wasn’t a complete misogynistic jerk, I could work with him. These last few days, I’d had roughly two seconds to check out some photos on his website, and they werestunning.Landscapes, architecture, and lots of older homes.
The website did not, however, include any wedding photos, at least not that I had seen, which created a Lake Superior-size red flag. I pushed through the nerves and indulged in my extremely valuable poker chip: I didn’t recommend him. If funky angles, terrible shadows, or edits went sideways—the heat was off me.
Thirty minutes later, I shook out my cramping hands from unknowingly holding the steering wheel too tight.Breathe.This placehadto work. Finding a venue three months before a wedding was damn near impossible. I’d given it a go, of course, and discovered that every single location within a two-hour drive was booked. Yesterday, I went to the second-to-last place on the list—a church basement fifty miles south of Duluth. I should’ve known that the place would be disastrous after the church secretary not only said they had availability in August, but also waived the requirement that the couple had to be a church member to use its facilities. I was in and out of that place in under ten minutes.
