“Logan’s stressed, like me. Or rather, he’s stressed because I’m stressed. If it were up to him, we’d get in a helicopter and fly to the nearest justice of the peace and get married there, but there’s too many people involved at this point.” She grimaced as she scribbled a note on another thank-you card. “And there’s some jerk here at the resort that’s driving him crazy.”

“Oh?”

She shook her head absently, not looking up from the card she was working on. “Something about some shady business guy wanting to get Logan’s attention so he’s lurking around at the hotel. It’s pissing Logan off because he wants everything to be perfect for me this week, and that guy’s like a burr under his skin.”

“He showed up here just to get Logan’s attention? That seems crazy.” Marjorie shook her head. “Crashing a wedding is pretty rude.”

“Yeah, Logan’s kicking the guy out before the tabloids get here. Apparently he’s major fodder. One of those party-boy types that never met a hooker or a drug he didn’t like.”

Marjorie blanched. “That sounds awful.”

“Doesn’t it?” She shuddered and handed another card to Marj. “But enough about that. Tell me how things are back at the restaurant. Is Sharon still being a diva?”

“And then some.” She shook her head, stamping the seal on the back of the newest envelope. The pile was moving quickly, and the stack of completed envelopes was starting to take form. With help, Brontë would be able to get through these faster, and Marjorie was glad to be of assistance. “We’ve had to redo the schedule over and over again because Sharon either calls in sick, comes in late, or wants a particular day off because she’s ‘busy.’”

Brontë made an irritated noise in her throat. “God, she’s so awful. Want me to have Logan fire her?”

“Oh, no,” Marj said hastily. “She needs the job. And she’s really not that bad. She’s just . . . high maintenance. But let me tell you about the new guy Angie is dating—he rides a Harley! With the handlebars so tall that they’re over his head.”

Brontë’s eyes widened. “What? No! Another guy? What happened to Bob?”

“Bob was last month.” Marj began to tell Brontë all the gossip of the job and the people they’d both worked with. She tried to pick out funny tidbits that would amuse Brontë without calling too much attention to anyone—the mention of Sharon was a reminder that Brontë was marrying the boss, and Marjorie didn’t want to cost anyone their job.

By the time they finished discussing the personal lives of coworkers and favorite customers, the stacks of envelopes were down to almost nothing, and they’d forgotten lunch entirely.

Brontë picked up the last envelope in her stack and signed it with a flourish. “Last one! I can’t believe how quickly this went. You’re so good to help me, Marj. You have no idea how much time this has saved me.”

“I don’t mind at all,” Marjorie said with a smile. “It’s the least I can do.”

“You know,” Brontë said, tapping the card thoughtfully on the table. “I’ve been thinking. How tied to Kansas City are you?”

That was an odd question. Marjorie shrugged. “It’s always been home because that’s where family was. And now that it’s just me, there hasn’t been a reason to move.” Her throat knotted at the thought of her beloved Grandma and Grandpa. She still missed them daily. And she was lonely, if she admitted things to herself. Brontë had been her closest friend at the restaurant, and now that she was gone, she felt like more of an outcast than ever. She spent most nights at the nursing home, reading and playing games with the tenants there, trying to make a difference in someone’s life. Trying to feel wanted.

“Would you ever consider relocating to New York?”

“New York?” Marjorie’s eyes went wide. She’d never considered it. She’d always thought if she relocated, she’d move south to Dallas or Oklahoma City. Never something at the level of New York City. “Really?”

“I’ve started up a foundation,” Brontë said, enthusiasm in her tired face. “We’re sharing classics of literature with those that want to read. Some of our groups are schools, but a lot of them are the elderly. We have discussion groups weekly and organize outside events and get-togethers. It’s really wonderful and I’m so excited to do it. Logan helped me set it up.” She beamed with pride.

“That sounds wonderful, Brontë. And it sounds perfect for you.”

“The problem is that I’m doing that in between getting married.” She grimaced. “So I’m running on empty. Logan told me to hire an assistant, but I just haven’t had time. And you’re so good with people. Especially the elderly. I really need someone like you.”

“You want me to be your assistant?” Oh, wow. “But I’m just a waitress.”

“So am I,” Brontë said, grinning. “But you’re smart and dedicated and we work well together.” She gestured at the stacks of now-finished envelopes. “And I’d pay you well. It’d be a big change, but we’d get to hang out more, and, well, it’s New York. There’s always something going on there.”

“I never dreamed . . .” Marjorie murmured. New York. Wow.

“Say you’ll think about it. I need to run things past Logan, but he won’t care. He—”

“Run what past Logan?” A masculine voice broke into the conversation. Both women looked up as a man in a starchy business suit entered the Green Dining Hall, dodging the sea of tables anointed with upside-down chairs. He carried a large tray with several dishes and two drinks.

“Hey, baby,” Brontë said happily. “What are you doing here?”

“I was told that my fiancée was last seen entering an empty dining room carrying stacks of envelopes to handle during her lunch hour. And I bet that you’d forgotten to eat again.” He frowned down at her smiling face, utterly austere. “I see that I was right.”

She waved off his irritation and got up, taking the tray from his hands and lifting her face for a quick kiss, which he gave her. She set the tray on the table. “I was just talking to Marjorie about coming to New York and working as my assistant for the foundation. What do you think?”

“Whatever you want to do.” He looked over at Marjorie. “Brontë takes on too much to do. If you can do the job, I’ll pay you two hundred grand a year.”

Marjorie’s jaw dropped.

Brontë elbowed Logan in irritation. “I was going to talk to her about salary.”

“No, love, you’re going to sit and eat your lunch, and then we’re going upstairs so you can take a nap. You’re exhausted.” The look in his cool gaze became tender as he led Brontë to her chair and then sat down next to her. “It does no good to have a wedding if the bride needs a vacation from her vacation wedding.”

Brontë just shook her head, placing the lunch tray on the table. “Didn’t I tell you he was pushy, Marj?”

“I think you told me he was wonderful,” Marjorie teased.

“Well, that, too,” said the bride. And she smiled up at her fiancé as he pushed a wrapped sandwich into her hand.

***

Marjorie stayed down in the Green Dining Room for another hour, chatting with Logan and Brontë about New York, the wedding, and most of all, Brontë’s foundation. It turned out that Logan hadn’t been joking when he’d offered her the salary. It was overpaying for an assistant, he said, but he wanted Brontë to have good help, and he didn’t put a price tag on her happiness.

And Brontë had just beamed at her fiancé with contentment.

Marjorie found herself saying yes to the job, even without knowing all the details. How could she pass it up? Her job as a waitress was fun, but didn’t pay all that great. Two hundred grand a year to live in a magnificent, bustling city and work with her best friend doing something that she would love? It was a dream come true.

Someone was going to have to pinch her pretty soon, because things kept getting better and better.

She was still floating on a cloud of pure happiness when she returned to her room. The maids had come through and straightened things, the bed sheets so firmly tucked she could probably bounce a quarter off of it. And on the nightstand next to the bed, there was a box with a big red bow. Curious, she sat down on the bed and stared at the package. Who’d left her a gift?