Maya sighs. Curses. Then sighs again. “All right, well… We’ll just have to hope there are a few solid florists in London who don’t bend the knee to Queen Belinda. Looks like the Rousseau wedding is off the table for this summer, too, so we need to lock Fletchers down more than ever.”
“What?” I stop mid-pace, nearly tripping over my exploded roller bag. Apparently, stress brings out my messy side. “But we’ve been courting them for months! I sent them a custom proposal with hand-painted watercolors!”
“I know, they suck. I hate them. Whatever, though. Moving on.”
Smelling a rat, I demand, “What really happened, Maya? Tell me.”
She heaves a tortured sigh. “Fine. They just texted. Said they’re going with someone with a ‘more refined social media presence.’ Apparently, having a planner who’s trending for being a sexy minx whose milkshake brings all the English lords to the yard isn’t the vibe they want for their ‘elegant Southampton soirée.’ Which is ridiculous. Those pictures were hot. You were hot! And have they been alive lately? The gossip cycle moves so fast, you’ll be old news months before they send the final invitations. By January, no one will remember you were ever in London.”
“I hope you’re right,” I mutter, fighting to swallow past the lump forming in my throat.
My laptop pings with a new email, making me flinch.
I shouldn’t look. I really shouldn’t.
But hell, I’m already spiraling, might as well keep swirling down the despair drain.
Ms. Darling: After careful consideration, we’ve decided our firm wouldn’t be a good match for what you have in mind for the Fletchers’ event. But we wish you the best in your future endeavors. Nathan Smythe, Chelsea Botanicals
“Make that seven florists,” I mutter, sinking onto the bed with my laptop on my trembling knees.
“Seven? How is that even possible? It’s not even noon!”
“Belinda Moore rides at dawn.” I refresh my email, watching two more rejections pop up in real-time. “Eight. Nine.” I scroll, throat growing tighter as I scan the messages. “The last one includes a personal note advising me to leave the country as soon as possible. Apparently, once the British tabloids have someone in their crosshairs, they’re like a dog with a bone.”
“Well, at least that’s kind? Sort of?”
“Sort of,” I agree. “But they also included a link to a meme of me crushing the manger. Apparently, one of the parents was filming when I fell.” I click over to Instagram, unable to stopmyself from looking. “Nearly a million views, Maya! Already.” My stomach pitches as I realize it’s set to ‘All I Want for Christmas,’ and that they’ve timed it so I land on baby Jesus right when Mariah hits the high note. My breath comes faster, and my ribs squeeze tight. Tighter. Tightest. “I’m a meme. A horrible, embarrassing meme. And once you’re a meme, there’s no escape, Maya. Once you’re a meme, the internet will haunt you forever. This is now my own personal, hellish Ghost of Christmas Present! And Future! And?—”
“Emily, breathe,” she cuts in. “This isn’t helping. We have to calm down and strategize.”
“I think we’re beyond strategy, Maya.” I scroll through other social feeds, each one bringing fresh horror. “This is it.I’mover. Finished. I’ll have to change careers. Move away from people who have access to the internet. Maybe I can get work on an insect farm in rural Kenya. They speak EnglishandSwahili, so maybe I could?—”
“Stop it, woman. Right now. And listen to me.” Maya’s voice takes on her no-nonsense boss babe tone, the one that usually means she’s locked in on a solution against all odds. “I’ve been scrolling, too, and a pattern has emerged.”
I frown. “A pattern that I am a hideous, klutzy sow with a leg that does weird things when I’m kissing?”
“A pattern of assumption,” Maya counters. “The pictures actually aren’t that steamy, Em. And you don’t look silly at all.”
“The comment section would beg to differ.”
“Well, I beg to differ with the trolls, and so should you. You look like a cute woman, fresh off a long flight, having a steamy night with a hot guy,” she says. “The problem is that the tabloids and the gossip accounts and everyone else are assuming you’re some rumpled nobody who threw herself at a drunk aristocrat who kicked you to the curb as soon as he sobered up.”
“Thanks,” I say. “You’re making me feel so much better.”
“Let me finish. You’re only a scandal because you’re an outsider. A nobody. Some spicy stranger who popped up in connection with this usually well-behaved guy they’re assuming you led astray with your big American boobs.”
“Don’t remind me.” I squeeze my eyes shut, but the shot of Olly cupping my breast through my shirt is burned into my brain.
“What I’m saying is they’re assuming you’re fair game. But what if you weren’t? What if you weren’t a stranger or a nobody? What if you were something far more banal?”
I exhale, my eyes flying open. “I don’t understand.”
“Emily, what’s the most boring story in the world?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. Watching paint dry? British parliamentary procedure? My love life before last night?”
“An established couple getting drunk and handsy after date night,” Maya says, victory in her voice. I don’t understand. “Nobody cares about a man kissing his girlfriend outside a pub. I’m sure it happens literally every night. It’s normal. It’s boring. The press would move on in forty-eight hours, guaranteed.”
