Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 159208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 796(@200wpm)___ 637(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 796(@200wpm)___ 637(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
Still, there’s a special ragey edge when it’s coming from Burns.
“Not my name,” I say coldly.
“Poe?”
“Better.”
“Why shouldn’t I fire you right now for that stunt?” he growls.
“Because HR will tell you coffee isn’t in my job description?” I try, hoping like hell he isn’t serious.
“You’re a workout in patience.”
“Crazy coincidence—I could say the same about you.” I practically skip out of his office, more exhilarated than I should be.
Yes, I’m being childish, but I’m hardly the only one. I know if I talked to any boss like I talk to him, they should fire me on the spot, regardless of what’s in my job description.
But I just can’t help it.
He makes it so easy to loathe him with the fullness of my soul.
And he clearly hasn’t fired me yet.
What does that mean? Is he a glutton for punishment or am I truly the butt of his bad jokes around here?
As soon as I sit down at my desk, Anna emails a few images for print ads she wants me to align with the copy in today’s projects.
The first picture shows a groom running from the altar at full speed. The bride holds her skirts with both hands and chases after him. They’re both smiling like they’re high on helium.
Bad reminder of what I’m doing here, of what this job really is...
I want to crawl under my desk and die.
I lived this scene.
Trust me, there was nothing cute about it.
Writing wedding copy—even for ridiculously good pay—must be punishment or vicious karma for some cardinal sin from a past life.
Maybe I really do have more in common with Edgar Allan than I realized.
Whatever. I’ll support the wedding industry because it’s my job, but I’ll never buy into it.
I feel sorry for all the poor, blissfully ignorant souls who do.
The worst part is, I’m blanking.
I have no clue how to write snappy copy for this image set.
Honestly, I wish I could forget images like these. The first thing that comes to mind is: Run, don’t walk, away from the altar. RUN AS FAST AS YOU CAN.
I scroll to the next image. The same model groom holds his bride against him. Her hands rest on his. Both of their rings are in the shot. A picture I never got to experience.
So lovely. So heartfelt. So vomit-worthy.
Why did I take this job again? Eliza did warn me.
I let out a slow, hissing breath.
Sure, I can blame Lincoln Burns for the long hours, late nights, and stupid coffee runs—even if I didn’t have to agree to that last one—but he’s not to blame for this.
It’s not his fault that I have to hide hot, rebellious tears just looking at these stupid photos of an imaginary wedding I never had.
He’s also not responsible for my new evening plans to cope with a pound of M&Ms after work.
I’d say Jay is to blame—and he is—but the hard, grisly truth is there’s one person responsible for the pain.
Me.
Because once I was naive. Once, I looked at ads like these, bursting with happy couples and happily ever afters, and I bought it hook, line, and sinker.
I swallowed a lie.
Never again.
For once, I have to live up to my new namesake.
Nevermore.
The whole team gets an email from Anna, telling us to report to the conference room for an evening meeting.
“Do you know what this meeting is about?” I ask.
Cheryl, a friendly middle-aged woman, picks up her purse and slings it over her shoulder. “No, but we’re about to find out.”
I grab my notepad and follow her into the meeting room, where Anna and a few other people are already waiting.
“Red alert, people,” Anna says, leveling a stare at everyone. The bright crimson blouse she’s sporting today adds emphasis to her words. “Our competition just dropped an ad today that’s pretty close to what we created last week. We need a fresh concept like now.”
“There are only so many ways to promote a wedding. Run it anyway,” Cheryl says with an annoyed click of her nails on the table.
“This line is worth a fortune. We’re not just phoning the pre-sale in. We need to stand out,” Anna says.
“What if we present the anti-bridezilla dress?” I say, tapping my pen.
“Anti-bridezilla?” Anna asks.
“My hometown was known for weddings before it was known for big oil and weird murder mysteries.”
Everyone stares at me.
“Sorry. Ignore that last part. My point is, the wedding industry definitely keeps us going. This big movie star, Ridge Barnet, even tied the knot of the century and had it all over the press a few years ago. There are several huge weddings in Dallas, North Dakota, every year. They range from hometown heroes to celebrities jetting in for a destination wedding. They all have one thing in common. The number one thing that makes any normal woman a bridezilla. The alterations aren’t right or her form feels off. Something, something, disaster! But whatever the catastrophe, it’s always the dress at the heart of it, right?”