Lucky Love Read Free Page B

of eligible guys at the party and I wanted to make a good impression. All Amanda’s friends are classy and if she says there’ll be talent, I believe her.
    Amanda’s my boss. A formidable forty-something, she uses her extensive connections in the Australian media to score rich and famous clients to plan weddings for. She gets rich off the A-listers and I slave over their lousy invitations. The sad fact is I still commute daily to work and Amanda has retired, occasionally dabbling in the company from a multi-million-dollar apartment overlooking Sydney Harbour. I’d like to be her when I grow up.
    Though I sound jealous, I like her. She’s feisty, competitive and driven, attributes I’d like to possess and don’t. For some unfathomable reason, she seemed to like me too and had recently promoted me to assistant wedding coordinator.
    I love my job. Where else would I get to rub shoulders with the snooty wealthy that try to outdo each other when it comes to matrimony? Not just in monetary terms either. The bigger the hairdo/gazebo/yacht, the better. I have no gripes about my work. Invitations are easy and I’ve been assigned to help coordinate the biggest celeb wedding this country has ever seen. Besides, I spend enough time lamenting my single status, if I complained about my job too I’d be a total loser.
    Coordinating events is fun. So far, I’ve learned sucking up and simpering were the most valuable attributes an aspiring function coordinator needed. And it’s cool I write soppy verses for the invitations. I’m a budding author, if you count my journal and the notepad I keep by my bedside to jot down dreams and inspiring thoughts.
    To be completely honest, I haven’t written in the journal since high school and the dream book only has a few pages filled (mostly with guys’ defunct phone numbers) but I know I can write. I have a million ideas in my head waiting to be published and in the meantime customers think our invitations are ‘ so original ’. Nat calls it a waste of my talent; I prefer to call it honing my craft.
    As I pull up outside the address on Amanda’s stylish invitation—not designed by me—a black Jag screeches to a halt behind me. I wind down the window to give the driver a mouthful when Channing Tatum steps out of the car and the abuse dies on my lips as I watch him shut the door with a bump of his sexy hip.
    He walks around the back of the car to the passenger side and opens the door. No doubt he has a date. I can’t see much through my mirrors so I get out of the car and casually glance over. He takes a cute plant, not a cute date, out of the car. It’s not Channing but a dead ringer for him.
    "Could you give me a hand? I’ve left my keys in my pocket and I’ve got my hands full."
    "Sure." I briefly wonder if giving him a hand means reaching into his chino pockets to remove the much-needed car keys.
    "Thanks." He smiles and his likeness to Channing is uncanny. "Reach into my jacket pocket and hit the button, it’ll lock."
    Somewhat relieved I wouldn’t be starting our relationship by playing pocket billiards, I reach into his jacket and locate the keys. My hands are shaking as the overwhelming scent of new leather and spicy aftershave wafts over me.
    Now I wish the keys had been in his chinos.
    "You’ve got it. Give it a press."
    The Jag’s indicator lights flash twice as I press the remote. "Done. Anything else I can help you with?"
    Carry the plant, take off the leather jacket, marry you ?
    The killer smile again. "No thanks."
    He stares at me from around the fronds, checking me out from head to foot. I take a deep breath that thrusts my chest out. No harm in advertising. Hopefully Channing was in the market to buy.
    "Is that for Amanda?" I gestured at the plant, hoping the housewarming gift was all he was giving her at the moment. He was just how she liked her men: tall, dark, sex on legs. Damn, I envied her.
    He nodded. "Think she’ll like it? I don’t know her that