- Oaklyn -

In the gallery of men, prepare for sketches, not masterpieces.

Keep your expectations low. You will never know when that sketch of yours will smudge or fade before it can fully take shape.

Boston is that sketch—correction: was. Instead of critiquing, I wanted to jump right in. I stayed up at night, dreaming about getting lost in the lines of his perfectly sculpted facial features, while tracing the tips of my fingers down the canvas of his body. Truth be told, Mr. Young could've been an esoteric—a masterpiece in disguise. But I learned that as the morning light hits the canvas, it becomes clear that some sketches are better left on the easel because not every art piece is fit for gallery walls.

I'd much rather erase those sketches. Or simply trash them.

Better yet, I'll leave my walls blank.

I can't shake off the internal feeling of betrayal. It could never be overlooked. Here I am, in a place where I'm set to plan top-tier weddings for engaged couples. And this is how I find out that Boston is not only engaged to the one and only daughter of the CEO of the finest line of hotels in the state of Florida, but he's also toying around with women's hearts as if they're some disposable pieces in his board game.

I foolishly thought we could be something special. Something real. Now, I feel like an idiot, standing here in this opulent office, swathed by the promise of happily-ever-afters that feel so far out of reach.

And I've got a mental playlist of words that perfectly nail what to call Boston at this very moment.

I mean, the list could go on and on.

Jackass. Goon. Buffoon. Nitwit. Seducer.

Womanizer.

This is exactly why I steer clear of dating, and marriage is completely off the table. At the end of the day, there's always a chance that the foundation of love is built on lies, credit to womanizers like Boston Young

"At last, Ms. Miller, we meet," Boston voiced, hand outstretched.

I don't shake his hand. I don't want to shake his hand. I'm not going to, that's for sure. Instead, I take a step back and say, "Have we met before?"

Boston uncomfortably moves his hand and uses it to comb back his dark hair.

"I don't think so," he lies.

On the contrary, I see right through this chararde he is playing.

Don't get me wrong, I'm all for a good game when  I see it, especially when it involves revenge. But this is different. My career. And any oddball hijinks he trying to throw at me won't do justice the slightest.

"I think you do," I begin. "I recall you giving me your number."

Right away Boston visibly gulps. I study his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. There's a dab of sweat accumulating at the road of his brow—he's nervous. I bet he's sweating bullets on the inside and I'm adoring every single second of it.

"Number?" Alexa questions. She and Chandler are just as confused and are just instant bystanders watching two enemies go at each other's throats.

I do hope they enjoy the show.

Instantly, I wag my head and pretend to mistake the order of my words. "Oops, my bad. Did I say number? I meant his business contact."

I paused, changing the story.

"He actually handed me his business card." I clarify.

Boston wraps his arms around his fiancée and adds more fuel to the fire. "It was purely for business purposes, of course," he adds, verbally visualizing Monday night at the Mediterranean Breeze. "After a little mishap with our orders, let's just say, after a very interesting conversation, I passed her my card. And a taste of something she'll never forget . . ." He perked his brow flirtatiously.

Was he still shooting his shot even while his fiancée was right next to him? What a slimy move. Ugh!

I hate men.

"That's correct. In fact, he promised that if I ever needed an article in the Miami Bulletin, he's the man for the job."

Boston then feigns a cough. "That's if Oaklyn here focuses on making our special day perfect," He shoots a veiled threat.

I can slowly feel my blood boiling and at any given second, I am going to break my professional character. A part of my mouth opens slightly before I can get the words out, Chandler chimes in. He steps in front of me with his finger raised, clearly interjecting.

"And we will ensure that happens," he noted. "Oaklyn is top-notch in her field."

Phew. . . saved by the bell!

Alexa smiles and adds, "Oh, I have no doubts about that." She is such a sweetheart. It's too bad that her fiancé is a no-good deceitful liar.

"Thank you." I motion the party of three to my office. "Let's move this discussion into my office and get down to business."

Once inside, the engaged couple sits in the two guest chairs in front of my desk. Meanwhile, I move aside my laptop, bringing out the old notepad and pen. Chandler closed the door, giving us some privacy although my office was surrounded by tempered glass. We were prepared to start this disaster of a consultation.

I was willing to do anything not to be in a room with Boston right now. Anything.

I couldn't bear watching him as he gently rested his right arm on the head of the chair while the other hand perfectly fitting with Alexa's smaller one which he strokes in a rhythmic pattern along the skin. It angered me to the core how someone could be so nonchalant about a situation like this. It's mind-blowing.

"Let's start with the basics." The sound of my pen conceals the silence in the room.

I continue. "Tell me, Alexa," I said, my voice filled with genuine curiosity. "What is your vision for your dream wedding?"

Her face lit up like a child in a candy store. From her reaction, you could genuinely tell that she had waited for this moment her entire life. "All right! So, this is what I've been thinking about so far. A beachfront wedding is definitely a must."

Alexa continued to talk. A lot. So much that even I was zoning out. The only saving grace was unfortunately Boston himself who seemed. . . preoccupied by his surroundings. His eyes wandered, fixating on a rather unconventional focal point. It was as if he had momentarily forgotten the conversation as well and was enthralled by something else entirely. With a quick glance, I realized his vision was drawn to the slight cleavage of my work attire.

This guy must be thirsty. Dehydrated. Parched.

Suppressing a laugh, I discreetly adjusted my blazer, pulling it up to cover any lingering distractions. It was like playing a game of peek-a-boo with Boston's wandering eyes. It was hilarious as I strategically shielded his view from the unexpected eye-full sight of my coconuts.

Boston's copper-tinted globes snapped back up to meet mine. Embarrassment colored his cheeks. He quickly averted his peer, pretending to be lost and taken by Alexandria's passionate description of the beach wedding. It was clear that he had been caught red-handed, or rather, red-eyed, in this case.

Apparently, Alexa must have been blabbering on for some time now because I was completely lost on the topic. Somehow she went from discussing the long list of guests to talking about certain color schemes. It was a load to take in, so it was a good thing Chandler was there to reflect on everything and catch me up later on.

"And the colors of the wedding are pretty much set in stone." Alexa hesitated and Boston nodded assuredly, politely urging her to continue. "We've decided to go with the color sea mist green."

I write that down. "That's a beautiful color."

"It is. It's in honor of my late mother. This was her favorite color," Alexa finished. We can all sense her pain. It was heartbreaking.

From the corner of my eye, I spot Chandler who is a sucker for sad stories. He eagerly took off his glasses to wipe away his tears on cue. I find it a bit unprofessional how he struggles to hide his emotions. With a quick gesture of "quit it" motion—he instantly stopped and got himself together.

Most definitely, it was hard to see her pain. But I needed to remain calm and focused.

"I'm sorry to hear that," I send my condolences. "Your mother would have loved to hear that."

After everyone got themselves together, we were back to square one with the basics. Not only did I miss the outline of the beach location, but why Alexa didn't want a cocktail bar. I hope that wasn't important.

Then, I decided that it was time to get some information out of Boston. Being in this business for as long as I have, it's a known fact that the soon-to-be groom about eighty-five percent of the time has no input on what they want for his special day. Given this journalist's lack of insight on what needs to be done to continue to have a successful wedding (by not playing his fiancée). I can certainly bet on everything I own that he doesn't even want to have a wedding.

More so, he doesn't even want to be with Alexa.

Creating a separate category on the page, I jot down what Boston's wishes might be—if he has any. The only thing he's probably interested in is the bachelor party the night before and flirting with all the bridesmaids.

"Boston, what's your vision of your perfect wedding day?" I ask.

Boston snaps out of his trance and brushes back his flawless hair. I can't be backtracked like this. I'm still very pissed.

"I've never really thought about it," he says with a smirk. "I'm more interested to know what will happen later that night on the honeymoon, if you catch my drift?"

I couldn't have made an eye roll more obvious—I'm sure my eyes would get stuck. Chandler laughs along with Boston at his joke.

Alexa playfully smacks his chest and intervenes, "Babe, be serious for once!"

"I am serious," Boston tries to control his laughter. Was it honestly really that funny?

"I'm sorry about him, Ms. Miller," Alexa nicely apologized for her fiancé's childish behavior. I feel embarrassed for her.

I smiled. "Don't apologize. I get it. Your first night of being newlyweds is important."

My eyes meet Boston's directly. "But my job is to make sure that everything leading up to that is flawless, and your input matters. So, Mr. Young, if there is anything you can think of, please, bring it up."

The words barely leave the tip of my tongue before Boston bolts up and out of his chair like it is on fire. "Um, hold that thought. I need to hit the restroom."

Was it me? Or was he avoiding the question?

Alexa sighs. "Seriously? We just got here."

"I'll be quick," he announced and looked back my way. "Where's the men's room?"

"Take a right from here and go all the down the hall. It will be the third door on the left," Chandler tells him.

We all scanned Boston's frame as he rushed out faster than a U.S. Olympian. I realized that this was my chance to speak to the liar before we continued the consultation any further. Because this whole situation was weird and Boston was acting weirder. I will and cannot sit another hour with this tension in the room. It was time to face the music.

What better time than to do it now?

Back and forth, I skimmed the area urgently to find an excuse to get the hell out of this office. Luckily, a lightbulb formed. Right on the bottom corner of my desk were a few lists of expenses and outlined documents that I promised myself to make copies of before I clocked out for the day. Eagerly, I grabbed the vanilla folder and pushed my body out of my desk chair.

"Mr. Beaufort," I began. "Do you mind showing Alexa here a few of my previous weddings while we wait? I need to go make copies of a few official documents and print them out."

Chandler nodded and pulled out his work tablet. "Of course, Ms. Miller."

"Excuse me for one moment," I tell Alexa before dashing out of the office.

Fury courses through me as I storm out of my office. The tight skirt hugs my thighs with each determined stride, emphasizing my unwavering resolve. The click-clack of my stilettos thrifts through the hallway, a representation of outrage and frustration. I make a sharp left turn, flinging open the doors to the men's restroom with an air of righteous anger.

There, at the urinal near the entrance, stands Boston. His expression twisted in terror as he fumbles to finish his business. Panic flickers in his eyes as they merge with mine.

"Jesus, Oaklyn!" he exclaims, his voice trembling. "Have you ever heard of a little thing called privacy?"

I advance toward him with my arms folded. I can't help but steal a glance at his pants, my curiosity deepens. As a woman, it was difficult to ignore. I watch as Boston desperately tries to conceal his secrets. I was impressed by his futile attempts, but my eyes were heavily gifted. It's clear that he's a total package, both inside and out. If only he were a loyal man, he'd be a true catch.

"Not bad," I mused.

Boston hastily zips up his pants, stumbling to take a step back. He attempts to create some distance between us. His eyes dart around the room to avoid my attention. Boston was horrified by my presence. Good.

"You're insane. You know that?" he retorts.

I shrugged, knowing he would notice. "I know. This isn't the first time I've heard that come out of a man's mouth."

I mean, it is nothing new. This was only a small fraction of what I was really capable of doing. If I wanted to, I could shatter his ego—his engagement with Alexa right then and there with no regrets. Although it would be a financial and reputation loss for me in the end, it would be worth it to put another lover-boy in his place.

Boston relocates to the sink. With his back turned to me, he scrubbed his hands vigorously as if he could wash away the tension. The water splashes against his ecru skin and our conversation continues through the reflections in the mirror, intensifying the emotional exchange.

He was a hot mess. Literally.

The way his hands shook as he reached to pump out more soap. And the fact that I can see him physically clenching his jaw while he ignored contact. I almost felt bad. But then I remember that I have the upper hand. That's why he's so nervous.

"What happened to the Boston Young I met the other night? Because you are an entirely different person now," I admit.

Boston yanks at the paper towel dispenser and collects nearly several pieces—a pet peeve of mine. Just take one or two pieces. Not the whole damn thing.

He glides the crunched towel into the bin near the door. "I don't know. Maybe I was trying to impress you. But clearly, that was a mistake."

Suddenly, it dawned on me the real reason why gas was thrown on the fire. The afternoon when Sailor and I had swiped on his profile. Not only did Boston decline her request, but he had also sent me mixed signals. He played both of us.

I knit my brows together and step closer to him, but he scoots away. "I have every right to be mad. First, I found you on a dating website, and not even a week later, you're asking me out. Oh, but that's not even the worst part. You're engaged to the Alexandria Vanderwood. That is a big deal."

"Wait," Boston leans against the tile of the bathroom wall. "How do you know I'm on a dating app?"

Seriously? Is he going to ignore the engagement bombshell?

I eyed his fidgeting body, like a cornered animal. "Are you kidding me? That's not important right now." I can't shake the unsettling feeling. "Why are you so jittery?"

Not going to lie, I was genuinely concerned that he was going to have a panic attack.

"Because I'm losing it, all right!" His voice cracked and wavered.

I finch at the sudden sound. "Well, calm down. I'm not gonna tell your little fiancée about any of this."

He exhales, visibly calming down. I wait as his breathing steadies before continuing, "But this . . . whatever is between us, has to end," I announce.

If this continues this will end badly for either of us. And I couldn't afford to be caught up in another man's lies for the second time. I won't allow it. No matter how attractive, successful, or strong-minded he is, this is an affair. And I refuse to be branded a homewrecker for any man.

Because at the end of the day, there are plenty of fish out in the sea. And I don't mind throwing this one back to the sharks.

Boston shoves his hands in his pocket, wearing a quizzical expression. Like a deer in headlights. "Why?" he asks.

"Because you are engaged, Boston!" I nudge the side of his temple with my index finger. "Get that through that thick skull of yours."

He blinked, stunned. "That doesn't mean anything."

"It means everything. You made a commitment. And I won't be the reason you break it."

I turn to walk away, feeling the weight of the moment. I was done with this. But Boston pulls me back, and suddenly, we're close—too close. I can feel the warmth of his breath and the soft allure of his pink-tinted lips. It was hard to resist, but I managed to shuffle backward, putting some distance between us. I jerk my hand away, knowing exactly what he was trying to do, and I wasn't going to let it work.

"Wait, I didn't mean it like that. You don't understand," he pleads.

"Understand what?" I snap.

"There's more to this than you realize."

"I don't have time for complications. I am a professional wedding planner and whatever you think this is leading to will be put to an end once I step out of this bathroom."

"Not so fast," he says, raising a brow. "You agreed to have lunch with me this afternoon. So I'll have plenty of time to explain everything."

There's no hiding my laughter from his audacity. He's seriously this dumb. "Absolutely fucking not," I shoot back.

"Why?"

How many times was he going to say "why?"

Were the rules of engagement this hard to grasp for men?

"You know what? I'm done with this conversation."

Boston stops me by reaching for my right hand, but I fastly yank it away and foot towards the door.

His voice calling "Oaklyn" is the last thing I hear as I exit the men's bathroom, leaving him and his complications behind.

𓆉 𓆉 𓆉

There's a soft knock on my bedroom door that breaks me from my introspections. I panned the pillow beneath the hem of my neck and turned to get a view of Sailor. The lemon-colored lights are the only source that effulgences the room. Through the lineation of her body, my vision visits her freshly damp hair and silk pajamas.

"Hey, Oaklyn," Sailor says as she steps into my bedroom. "You mind if I borrow a few of your highlighters?"

Exhausted, I plucked the sheets away from my face to get a better look at her. It was late. Past midnight and I was on the verge of falling asleep. One of the absolute worst things is being waken seconds from a deep slumber. Especially when it is for something stupid and random like multi-colored highlighters.

Rubbing my eyes, I motion bleakly to my makeup vanity. "Sure, go ahead," I respond.

Sailor dragged her bedroom slippers across the frigid wooden and rummaged through the organizer. She decides on a lime green and neon pink highlighter.

"You're not going to bed?" I squint, not wanting to open my eyes completely.

"No, probably not at all. I've got an exam for my microbiology and immunology class tomorrow, and I haven't had time to study for it."

I cringed at the thought of studying.
Extending my degree? No way. I'd probably quit on the spot. I have a lot of respect for Sailor as a med student. "Don't miss that," I blurt out, and then guilt creeps up on me.

"Wait, you had to study this whole time,
Sailor?"

She smiles and waves her hands dismissively.
"I know where you're going with this, and don't blame yourself. I've been procrastinating for two days now. If anything, your venting about your problems gave me the push I needed."

"But I feel horrible," I whine.

I had come home with a hot head. The second I kicked off my shoes, Sailor patted the empty spot next to her, and I spilled the piping hot tea—the Boston Tea Party, as I preferred to call it. For three hours, I unloaded my entire dilemma and then some that didn't involve Boston. An hour later, we woke up on the couch surrounded by Chipotle burrito wrappers and an empty tub of Ben & Jerry's peanut butter ice cream with the insides scraped clean.

Sailor frolics with the duo highlighters, twirling them like a baton before leaning in the frame of the door. "Please, don't," she spits playfully. "Anyway, I'm off to my room. Goodnight, babes."

"Night, Sailor."

The door creaks shut and I'm left alone in the plumbing darkness. Just as I turn on my side to seek comfort, my phone lights up on the nightstand. Sighing, I fetch over to salvage the device. Immediately, I wish I didn't.

Saturday 1:02 AM

BOSTON: When are the first venue tours?

ME: Next Tuesday at noon.

Gradually, I wait for Boston to respond. And wouldn't you know it, this is the first time I've heard from him since the wedding consultation yesterday afternoon. I figured our mediocre argument had lodged itself firmly in his brain. Now, it looks like he's finally moved on from the ridiculous idea of pursuing something with me and has scampered back to his engagement with Alexa. Fantastic. Now we both can move our lives.

Saturday 1:03 AM

BOSTON: Awesome . . .

BOSTON: And what time will I be stopping by your office tomorrow?

I rolled my eyes and went straight to the settings on my phone. With one easy click, I tapped the familiar moon icon. I set my phone to 'Do Not Disturb' and slam it face down back onto the nightstand.

Enjoy talking to yourself, buddy, I thought as I tucked my chin back into the warm sheets. And I left it at that.