For Better or Worse

Brooke shrugged. “Sure, but you’ve done the most work out of the three of us. It’s your vision, babe, and it’s a good one.”

“It is a good one,” said a third voice from behind them.

Heather turned around to see the founding member of the Belles trio standing behind them, elegant arms crossed, nodding approvingly as she surveyed the surroundings.

Heather rolled her eyes at her friend and boss. “Seriously? How the heck are you pulling off that dress right now?”

Alexis was wearing a sleeveless sweater dress in a shade that could only be described as nude. But whereas the formfitting beige sheath would have looked hideous on Heather—and just about any other woman she knew—Alexis looked effortlessly chic.

But then, when was Alexis not effortlessly chic? The Belles’ founder was one of those women who managed to channel old-school glamour right alongside modern-woman girl power. She was pretty, yes, but it was more that she was so damn together. Her dark brown hair was in a slick chignon more often than not, her makeup always natural and polished, her posture straight out of an etiquette manual.

Alexis glanced down at her dress. “Is it no good? I bought it online, but the model had considerably bigger boobs than me, and I’m a little worried it makes me look like a stuffed condom.”

Brooke choked on her water. “So not what I thought you were going to say.”

Heather let out a laugh. That was the other thing she loved about Alexis—the woman had the look of a 1920s film starlet and the mouth of a trucker when it suited her. It had taken Heather a while to figure that out. When Heather had all but thrown herself across the stone steps of the Belles’ headquarters after ­seeing a write-up of Alexis Morgan’s hot new wedding ­planning venture in The Knot, Heather had at first been intimidated as all heck by the other woman’s chilly sophistication—though not quite enough not to practically beg that Alexis hire her on as an apprentice.

But little by little, Alexis had loosened up, revealing a woman who was kind, generous, and a little bit badass. Heather wasn’t sure at what point they’d crossed from boss and employee to friends, but the two of them got each other, in an opposites attract kind of way. Heather was a little bit noisy, a touch crass when her trailer-park slipped in; Alexis, former country-club darling, was the opposite.

Stuffed condom comments not withstanding.

As though reading Heather’s thoughts, Alexis pursed her lips. “I think my lack of recent sexual exposure is starting to manifest.”

“Hear, hear,” Heather said, raising a hand before fixing yet another bow. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen a stuffed condom.”

“Okay, is nobody else thinking that’s a gross visual?” Brooke said. “It makes me think of sausage.”

“Ooh, speaking of sausage . . .” Heather’s head snapped up.

“On it,” Brooke said, finishing off her water bottle. “Alexis, want anything from Starbucks? I need to feed Heather before she kills someone.”

“Ooh, get me a coffee, too,” Heather said. “A big one.”

“Only if it’s decaf,” Brooke replied, holding up Heather’s fifth cup of coffee, which was nearly empty, and looking at her pointedly.

“Decaf coffee is like an unstuffed condom,” Heather argued. “Completely useless to me.”

“I give up,” Brooke said, throwing her hands in the air. “If you start levitating later, it’s on you.”

Alexis gave Heather a concerned glance. “You didn’t sleep? I can recommend a nice tea.”

“Is it a nice tea that will turn my noisy musician neighbor into a nice, quiet accountant?”

“Oh, but musicians are kind of hot,” Brooke said interestedly.

Alexis gave a nod. “They are, rather.”

Heather narrowed her eyes at both of them. “First of all, they’re only hot when they’re not next door. Second of all, I didn’t peg either of you as the musician type.”

“I think every woman is the musician type. At least a little,” Brooke argued.

“Nope.” Heather shook her head. “Your type,” she said, pointing at Brooke, “is tall, dark, and grumpy. And yours,” she said, pointing at Alexis, “is . . .”