Chapter 17
By midweek, Jamie had appointed himself unofficial “party suggestion wrangler.”
He’d created a Google Form.
He’d bribed the interns with muffins.
He’d even printed actual suggestion slips and left them on the lunchroom table with a sharpie and a sign that read:
“What would make YOU stay at a party? (No judgment… mostly.)”
And the ideas poured in.
Some were… ambitious:
“Bring your own plant corner. I bond best with ferns.”“A tarot reader. Preferably hot.”“Miniature horses in party hats.”“An espresso martini bar with a therapist.”
Jamie stared at that last one for a long moment.
Honestly… not the worst idea.
Others were actually usable:
Live acoustic music during the first hourA Polaroid wall with instant photosCoffee-flavored dessert table – tiramisu, affogatoComfort corners with plush chairs, books, warm lightingMood lighting that doesn’t make us all look like vampires, please
Jamie compiled everything into a clean, color-coded list – outlandish to inspired – and hit send.
Subject: Party chaos, curated with love (and caffeine).
He leaned back in his chair, satisfied.
This is dangerously close to being good at my job.
That afternoon, the real crisis hit.
“I HAVE NOTHING TO WEAR,” Shona declared, storming into the office like a well-dressed hurricane.
Ryan didn’t even look up. “You said that before brunch last Sunday. And then you wore a leather jumpsuit and emotionally destroyed everyone at the café.”
Shona waved him off. “This is different. It’s the Ritual launch. There’ll be cameras. There’ll be clients. Blake will be there in fitted trousers. I need impact.”
Ryan grinned. “You’ll look amazing in anything.”
Jamie shook his head. “Dude. That’s not helping. That’s boyfriend fluff.”
“I need a gay, not a guy,” Shona snapped, pivoting. “Jamie, I’m kidnapping you. Mall. After work. I need honesty. I need styling. I need retail-based therapy.”
Jamie sighed dramatically. “Fine. But if I see a sequin jumpsuit, I will make you try it on.”
“Deal.”
Two hours later, they were deep in the chaos of their favorite department store.
Shona emerged from a fitting room in something that looked like a disco ball had achieved sentience.
“Is this bold or blinding?”
Jamie peeked in. “You look like Studio 54 and Rihanna had a baby.”
A beat.
“And I mean that in the most respectful, intimidating way possible.”
She grinned. “Perfect.”
Then she turned on him.
“Your turn.”
Jamie blinked. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
“You are not showing up in jeans and a half-tucked button-down,” Shona said, already shoving hangers into his arms. “This is your moment. Lead writer. Party power. You are going to turn heads.”
“I don’t… turn heads,” Jamie muttered.
“You will,” Shona said. “Now go.”
Five minutes later, Jamie stood in front of the mirror.
Black tailored trousers.
A silky olive-green shirt that caught the light just enough.
A fitted black blazer that made his shoulders look like they belonged to someone more confident.
He stared.
Oh.
Shona appeared behind him, arms crossed. “Yes.”
Jamie tilted his head. “Do I look like I know what I’m doing?”
“You look like you could make Blake Sterling stutter.”
Jamie flushed instantly.
“That’s not the goal,” he said too quickly.
Shona just raised an eyebrow.
“Sure it’s not.”
Jamie adjusted the blazer, smoothing it down like that would calm the sudden spike in his pulse.
What if he notices?
“Tell me you wouldn’t enjoy it,” Shona added.
Jamie hesitated.
Then – very quietly…
“Maybe just a little.”
Shona’s grin turned wicked. “That’s what I thought.”
She grabbed her bag and nudged him toward the register.
“Come on, Capulet. Let’s make sure this party sees you coming.”
Jamie glanced once more at his reflection.
Still him.
But… not quite the same.
Okay. Maybe I do turn heads.
And for the first time…
he kind of believed it.