My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

by Lauren Landish

  The door opens beside me, and I look to my side, expecting to see Roberta telling me to get my ass back to the line. Instead, it’s much, much worse.

  “There you are, baby,” the woman purrs. Valentina is dressed to kill tonight, as usual. Her round tits spill from her silk blouse, her black skirt is painted-on tight, and her long, toned legs end in stiletto heels. She sashays up to me, her manicured nail tracing along my forearm and her smoky eyes half-lidded. “You miss me? I missed you.”

  I jerk my arm, flinging her touch off and spitting out, “Have you no shame? I’ve told you . . . not interested. Never.”

  I’m being cruel and crude, but it’s absolutely warranted. I’ve tried polite, I’ve tried charming, I’ve tried blunt, but it’s come to this. And still, she keeps coming back for more.

  “Aw, my bad boy is scared of my husband? There’s no need, baby. He need never know.” Her nail finds its way to her lush cleavage, drawing a line designed to direct my attention to the mounds.

  Why does she think that’s a reassurance? More importantly, that she is Sergio’s wife is not the reason I don’t want her. She’s simply not . . . her. Not the one who can capture my attention, keep me intrigued, and somehow manage to continually surprise me. No, Valentina is as transparent as a window and as shallow as a puddle in the desert.

  I thought I might’ve met someone interesting once, but her roots were too complex and deep, and I’d run, scared. I’m still ashamed of that.

  “Perhaps I’ll tell Sergio how his wife behaves when his back is turned?” The threat has crossed my mind more than once when Valentina gets particularly aggressive in her pursuit of me. I’ve always considered it a suicide mission, though, something that, while it might get Valentina to leave me alone, would also lead to Sergio firing me over his wounded pride.

  But with wanderlust growing in my gut, I find myself less concerned about Sergio’s potential response.

  Valentina laughs, throwing her head back to expose her neck. “You won’t do that. It serves no purpose.” She shrugs, her lips lifted in a red-framed smile. “He won’t believe you, but on the off chance that you speak the truth, he’ll never trust you. He’ll make your life hell until you quit or he fires you. Either way, I’ll be here by Sergio’s side long after you’re gone.”

  Her eyes flash, her smile turning predatory as she realizes she has me between a rock and a hard place. But while she thinks she holds all the cards, I’m about ready to play fifty-two pick-up and just say fuck it.

  “Find me later, baby.” There’s a hint of an order to the words, and her heels click on the dirty concrete as she goes back inside.

  I think she would’ve let me fuck her right up against the filthy brick of the building, those red-soled heels stepping on cigarette butts, with anyone able to see if they came out the back door.

  Sexy? Maybe once it would’ve been. Or maybe with someone else, it would be. Now? A shiver of disgust worms its way down my spine as my cock tries to climb back up into my body in revulsion.

  The door opens again, and despite my strong spine, I startle.

  Milo smirks. “Busted.”

  I think he’s talking about Valentina and shake my head. “Fuck no.”

  His brows jump high on his forehead. “You’re not coming in? You’ll have to tell Sergio he’s fucked for dinner service then.”

  “Oh, no . . . I’ll be right there,” I say, realizing he’s not talking about Valentina at all but is likely thinking I’m hiding for a long ‘smoke break’ to get out of the prep work. He doesn’t let me off that easily, holding the door open for me to pass in front of him.

  I wonder if he can sense that I’ve got one proverbial foot out the door, ready to make a run for the city limits and the next thing.

  In the kitchen, I wash my hands and dive in. Alessandro’s caprese salads and antipasto platters are already going out for the first course, which means I’m up.

  Fresh ingredients are the secret to my success, but there are also some tricks I’ve cultivated to truly take my plates a step above. I use a large spoon to help swirl the fettuccine into a neat circle, sliding it onto the center of each bowl. Once a tray is complete, Milo works behind me to add a sprinkle of fresh parmesan and a parsley sprig to each. Finally, I eye each bowl critically, giving the final approval on them all before they’re taken to the guests.

  And then the process begins again for the next tray. And then again and again.

  Next, Roberta’s soup, served in small, delicate bowls with an arancini ball, a swirl of sour cream, and freshly shaved carrot garnish, goes out. It’s not the traditional progression, but we do it intentionally to offer variation of flavors based on the specific menu. Plus, it allows Roberta and me to work together on the main dish. Chicken and fresh local veggies sauteed in truffle oil is a simple but delicious recipe that lets the ingredients shine. Last but not least, the tiramisu goes out.

  And service is complete. Sweaty, exhausted, but feeling good about the food I’ve made tonight, I start the cleaning process. We may not handle the dishes, but I take special care of my knives and my station like a chef should.

  “Roberta! Lorenzo! Come, come!” Sergio’s voice is excited and loud, leading us both to pop our heads out to see what he wants.

  “The special guests, they would like to speak with the chefs. Come, come!” He waves a hand for us to follow, and to my chagrin, I do, letting him show me off like a trained dog.

  In the dining room which has been closed for the private party, I see the tables have been rearranged into a large square. Along one edge sits the bridal party. I recognize the bride and groom from Milo’s picture, though they look different now.

  Kennedy is wearing a gray suit with a bright pink tie—I was right about the color, at least—and talking to an older man at his side. Next to him, Milo’s obsession, the bride is taking picture after picture of her untouched tiramisu from various angles.

  Sergio walks straight up to them, interrupting Kennedy’s conversation. “Here they are! I present Avanti Ristorante’s chefs, Lorenzo Toscani and Roberta Esposita. Chefs, these are our special guests, Cole Kennedy and Claire Johnson.”

  Wait . . . did he say Cole Kennedy? Hell, I even got the guy’s name wrong, thinking Kennedy was his first name. Not that it matters since they’re both last names. That’s a rich guy thing, right? I’m surprised there’s not a junior or even some numbers after his name, like Cole Kennedy the third.

  Anyway, I did the special dinner party, fed the guests, and now I’ll never see him again. Still, the name tickles something in my mind. I eye the man again, trying to place him, but I come up empty.

  As I’ve been eyeing the guy, I feel the prick of another gaze on me and realize that I’ve become the object of attention. Especially a lot of female attention—the bridesmaids ogling me, a few female guests getting up to come closer, and even the bride has lifted her eyes from her phone. In fact, I’m pretty sure she just took a picture of me.

  I stiffen my back, ready to play the charming chef role that’s required of me. I even purposefully thicken my Italian accent, knowing it makes the food somehow seem more authentic the less decipherable I become.

  “Buona sera,” I say, placing a hand on my chest and bowing my head slightly, though I keep my eyes lifted, a small flirtatious gleam in them as I meet the bride’s. I don’t mean anything by it, but making the guest feel special is always a slick move. “You enjoy the fettuccine? It is my family’s recipe, perfected through the generations as it’s passed down to the next. Now, it is my turn to create it for you.”

  She swoons, a blush rising on her cheeks, and my work here is done.

  “Yes, it was ah-maz-ing,” she says, each syllable its own word. “I don’t think I’ve ever had anything that delicious in my mouth.”

  I choke on the thirteen-year-old boy laughter that automatically tries to burst free at her phrasing, especially when she seems guilelessly unaware of her unintended double entendre.

  “The p
leasure was all mine,” I answer, keeping my tone level so as not to give my laughter away.

  Cole takes Claire’s hand, patting it affectionately like one would a dog. It might not be a possessive, claiming, Neanderthal-type movement, but he’s warning me off all the same. “Claire Bear, didn’t you have something you wanted to ask?” he prompts.

  She smiles sweetly at Cole and nods thankfully at the reminder. “Yes! Everything was so delicious tonight, and Mr. Sergio was telling us about how you’ve traveled all over the world learning how to cook—Italy, France, Spain, Germany, and finally, all over the States.”

  I smile congenially while she tells me my own life story.

  “And that fettuccine was . . . wow,” she says breathlessly. I swear she looks around the table for her plate too. Cole taps her hand, and her eyes flick back to me. “Will you come with us and make it for the wedding? Maybe even do one of the dinners? Whatever you want, as long as you make more of that alfredo.” To Cole, she gushes, “God, I would drink it like wine! Like cheese and wine all in one. I would be cheese drunk and carb loaded all the time.”

  She beams, like any of that made sense. I look to Cole, thinking he can help translate what she’s saying. It’s not that my English is lacking, but Claire is talking fast and making little sense. But Cole is quiet, simply smiling lovingly with eyes only for Claire. Next, as much as I hate to admit it, I look to Sergio. He is good with the guests, after all, and perhaps can step in to help me figure out what the hell is going on here. But he too is silent, his cheeks flushed.

  A woman in a black suit steps forward. Her hair is shellacked in place, her face stony in an expression of practiced blankness. “Signore Toscani, may I speak with you privately? Now.”

  Not giving me a chance to answer, she turns and walks into a side hallway. “Excuse me,” I tell Claire and Cole. Sergio gives me a pointed look as I pass him that says ‘don’t fuck this up.’

  In the hallway, any warmth the woman might’ve shown has chilled. She’s as frosty as an Ice Queen, a hard sculpture of a human in frozen form. “Signore Toscani, I am Meredith Wildeman. I’m in charge of pulling this wedding together last-minute and turning it into something worthy of the Kennedy-Johnson names.”

  I think I’m supposed to be impressed by that somehow, but I give exactly zero fucks. “Yeah.”

  With Claire’s effervescent friendliness, I gave formal politeness. With Meredith’s cold professionalism, I inherently want to push every button and piss her off with improper English and a lazy vibe. It’s my nature, and honestly, a bit of fun.

  She sniffs, unimpressed by me.

  Feeling’s mutual, woman.

  “Yes, well. Miss Johnson seems to have taken a pretty strong liking to dinner tonight and would like to invite you to come to the wedding. Cook the fettuccine alfredo, as she said. Perhaps another meal or two, depending on the resort chef’s willingness to share his kitchen. I’ve already got a call in to confirm that.” With that, she pulls a tablet out of her bag and begins clicking around.

  I hold up a hand, taking control of the conversation. I hope. “Uh, hey. What the hell are you talking about? Wedding? Resort?” I shake my head. “What?”

  With a beleaguered sigh, she explains again. “Miss Johnson is the type of celebrity who gets what she wants, and she wants your fettuccine at her wedding. Name your price, your requirements, whatever. We leave on Sunday, so I’ll need your information to arrange your flights.”

  “Let me get this straight, you want me to come to a resort in . . .” I pause and she jumps in.

  “Aruba. And not me. Miss Johnson.”

  I nod. “So Claire Bear wants some pasta and I’m supposed to just hop on a plane, go to an island resort, be on call to make her alfredo at the drop of a hat, and do a dinner service? That about sum it up?”

  “Yes, yes.” She’s clicking away again, and I realize she really is booking me a flight.

  The ornery ass inside me rears up and I want to say no. I’m not some punk kid who can be ordered around or enticed with money. I cook for the love of it and share my food to grow that love.

  But Claire loved it.

  That’s true, so maybe I’m not really selling out. And it would be ridiculous to turn down a trip to Aruba over foolish stubbornness, especially when I was just thinking that it might be time to hit the road. This could be a way to test that theory out. If I miss Avanti, I can return. If not, I can put out some feelers on where to go next.

  “There you are, baby,” Valentina purrs, coming into the hallway with me and Meredith. Valentina presses the length of her body to my side, her hands going around my neck. Giving zero thought to what she might be interrupting, she whispers loudly, “I’ve been looking all over for you. I thought we were going to meet when you finished service for the silly girls with their phones out.” Her smile makes it seem like that’s a private joke between two lovebirds, or at least fuck buddies. We’re neither.

  I analyze for another second and then turn to Meredith. “I can go straight to the airport now if you want me to.”

  Her smirk is pure maliciousness, though I don’t understand why. She’s getting her way.

  I shake Valentina off, hating the way her unwanted warmth has soaked into the side of my body, the skin tingling with desire for a shower to wash her play at seduction from my memory.

  Valentina pouts, crossing her arms, which only serves to boost her full tits up another inch. “Baby, you’re not leaving me, are you?”

  I take in Valentina’s pout and want to escape even more. Like run away screaming with my arms flailing crazily. Now. “I’ll let Sergio know right away.”

  Chapter 3

  Abi

  “Absolutely not,” Archie decrees from his perch on my bed.

  Wait, is it a perch if he’s stretched out on his side, booted feet hanging over the edge with a mimosa in his hand and a look of disbelief on his face?

  “Actually, that not only won’t work for Aruba, but you need to donate it to a blind beach bum. What were you thinking with that print and that color?” He holds a flat hand above his brow as though the shirt is the brightness of the noon sun shining in his eyes.

  I look in the mirror again for a new appraisal. The hot pink button-up shirt with sunglass-wearing pineapples had seemed fun and quirky when I bought it. I figured I could wear it with white cut-offs and pink heeled sandals and be vacay-ready. But maybe not?

  I yank the shirt out of the waistband of my shorts despite the fact that it took me nearly five minutes to get it there. Instead, I knot it at my waist. “Better?”

  The snort from Archie says quite equivocally that the answer is still no.

  Violet shoots him a glare, having my back the way a bestie should. Technically, she’s Archie’s boss when they’re doing an interior design project, but the truth is, Archie does what Archie wants, and that includes saying whatever he thinks with zero filter. It’s why we love him, and occasionally, why we hate him.

  “What’s wrong with pineapples? They’re cute and fun. A hospitality thing, I think.” Violet tilts her head as if trying to remember where she heard that. “Oh! And there’s the whole quote thing about them . . . be a pineapple—stand tall, wear a crown, and be sweet on the inside.” Her smile is one of encouragement to keep the shirt that Archie finds so hideously offensive.

  Archie smirks. “That is not where I thought you were going with that.”

  Courtney steps out from my closet with a gauzy swimsuit cover-up, innocently asking Archie, “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing,” I tell her. She’s grown and married, but she’s still my baby sister, and I’m not giving her sex tips and tricks. Not today, not ever.

  Although she probably knows more than I do at this point. She’s definitely getting more dick than I am with her and Kaede being newlyweds.

  But now, I’m going to be thinking weird sexual thoughts whenever I pull this shirt on, so off it goes. I toss it to the floor, done with it and glad my solo fashion show has
been hijacked or else I would’ve been looking a mess in Aruba.

  “I cannot go shopping. I don’t have time. What I have in my closet has to work.” Even as I say it, I consider hitting the mall one more time.

  Archie sighs, his cattiness disappearing as he snaps his fingers and flips into work mode. “Give me the list.” This is the other reason we love him. He is the most organized person I’ve ever met, and that includes Courtney, who is a planner extraordinaire.

  I hand Archie my tablet, and he reads aloud while we listen like he’s telling a bedtime story. “Day one—travel. That includes drive, flight, and check-in. Show me what you have.”

  The order is sharp, and Courtney holds up soft joggers and a slim tank top, while Violet picks up a lightweight wrap for the cool airplane. I add, “I’ll wear my slip-on sneakers for TSA.”

  He taps the screen. Day by day, he works through my trip agenda, from clothes that can get dirty while I create on-site, clothes that can be seen while I’m setting up, and then moving into the fun stuff for my downtime. I’m planning to make the most of this opportunity and balance work and play, so I’ll need shorts, swimsuits, and yoga clothes.

  “Let me see your swimsuit.”

  Violet holds it up, the straps thick and the bottoms modest. It’s my suit for the pool when I’m going to swim and don’t want anything falling out.

  Even Courtney laughs this time. “Seriously, Abs. That looks like a mom-suit designed to lock and load the girls for serious mission work.” She takes it upon herself to dig through my dresser drawer for something else, but I’m fighting for this one.

  “Give me that. High-rise bottoms are hot right now. I’ll show you,” I argue, grabbing the suit from Violet. Not shy in front of my sisters and not having the right parts for Archie, I strip and pull the suit on.

  In the mirror, I pose as I turn left and right. “See? Adorbs!” It is, I’m certain of it. The green bottoms are high waisted, but the sides scrunch up into little ties that highlight my thighs, and the top is halter-cut to create cleavage while keeping my breasts secure.