My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

by Lauren Landish

  Meredith hums disbelievingly but then spots someone with their phone out and she goes stomping toward him, her heels clicking on the floor like someone else’s death knoll. “Excuse me, did you take an unauthorized picture?” she barks.

  While Meredith is distracted, I grab Lorenzo’s hand. “Come on, let’s get out of here,” I hiss, pulling him toward the elevators.

  He could hold his ground and end this madness, but he lets me drag him along, shove him into the elevator, and board behind him, throwing a suspicious glance back to the lobby to check whether Meredith or Emily have witnessed any of it.

  I press the button for the sixth floor and the doors close, leaving us alone, dangerously alone, for the first time.

  All I can think about is that somehow, despite seeing it happen twice to my family already, despite vowing I don’t know how many times that I wouldn’t pull the same shit . . . I just talked my ass into a big, fat, fake marriage situation at a time when I have much higher priorities.

  Why?

  Am I that burned up about Emily?

  Or do I just want a reason to be with Lorenzo?

  Deep breath, girl. Whatever’s happened, I’m going on a date with Lorenzo . . . with the oddest of circumstances. A date! A part of me is horrified and excited all at the same time.

  And then, miraculously, my brain overrides my barren pussy. He’s working with Meredith? That needs an explanation first and foremost.

  Right after I replay him whispering that line about his cock in my pussy in my ear. I clench my thighs together.

  I am so fucked. And not in the good way.

  Again.

  Chapter 5

  Lorenzo

  The sea doesn’t crash so much as lap and whisper in the air, kissing the atmosphere with a sense of salt and of calm enjoyment. Pausing to look out at the water, I’m reminded of the beautiful blues of the Mediterranean and home, although this Caribbean water is clearer once you get up close.

  Too bad this island is so small. If I could take my bike out and really turn it loose around here, it would be paradise.

  Turning away from the sea, I go back inside the spacious suite. Casa Del Mario, not the best name, in my opinion, but I don’t get asked my opinion on such things. But what this resort lacks in proper naming, it more than makes up for in architecture and design. The sweeping white sandstone and stucco are a sight to behold. And this suite is interesting, though that has more to do with the two women sitting on the couches inside than the décor.

  They started by whispering, trying to keep me from hearing their conversation, but the breeze swirling from the balcony has carried their words right back to my ears.

  Now, they’re not even trying to be quiet.

  “What the fuck, Abs? This is our big shot, an opportunity that comes once in a lifetime, our chance to seize everything we’ve ever wanted, and you’re letting it all slip away!” Janey hisses.

  She is fiery. Though I’ve never met her before, I like Janey instantly. Her hair is short, her eyes are bright, and her skin is like cappuccino. She could easily rest on her beauty, but she seems to be the yin to Abigail’s yang.

  “Do not paraphrase Eminem to me and make it sound like you’re some lyrical genius. I know this is all fucked up, but I didn’t know what else to do!” Abigail’s response is equally passionate, and the two women lock eyes in a visual battle for dominance.

  I’m not surprised when Janey drops her eyes first. Abigail, for all her bubbly free-spiritedness, is still a powerhouse.

  “Okay, Lorenzo, let’s do this. You start. What are you doing here?” Abigail demands.

  Not one accustomed to being ordered around, I give her only the bare minimum, knowing how it will set her off and waiting with hunger for the fireworks I know are coming. “Cooking.”

  Her growl is intended to be badass. It’s adorable, like a tiny kitten thinking itself a fierce tiger. “For the Johnson-Kennedy wedding?”

  There’s something fearful in her tone now, and though I typically enjoy pushing buttons and boundaries, I find myself wanting to ease her concerns.

  “Yes. They had a dinner at Avanti, and the bride quite enjoyed my fettuccine alfredo. They invited me, through Meredith, to come to the festivities this week and cook for a few of the meals, including a few options for the wedding itself. Seeing as I have never been to Aruba, it seemed like an adventure I would enjoy and an opportunity to learn a new cuisine from a local chef.”

  I do not answer people’s inquiries that fully, ever. But once I began telling her how I ended up here, her direct gaze never left mine, and I find myself wanting to keep sharing more just to keep her attention.

  Now, though, the room is quiet, and I can almost hear her brilliant mind putting things together.

  “The dinner at Avanti must’ve been the centerpieces I prepared. I only knew they were for a dinner, not the venue. So it does sound like a bit of a coincidence for us both to end up here, I guess,” Abigail gives me.

  “Or fate putting me in place so that I could step in with your other situation,” I correct, knowing that the quirk of my lips will be enough to set her off-kilter once again. I like her flip-flops from rash to reasonable, finding them exciting. But though I seek out adventure and enjoy danger, Abigail is a danger I’m not sure I can afford.

  She flops back on the couch morosely, her head shaking back and forth as she rolls her eyes toward the vaulted ceiling. “I cannot believe I said that. Do you have any idea what I’ve done?” she asks.

  Perhaps she’s asking the ceiling, or maybe me and Janey? Maybe even herself? I’m not quite sure.

  Janey jumps in before I can. “Tell me again. Who the hell is this Emily character and why do we give a single fuck what she thinks? Screw her and the broom she flew in on.”

  Abigail rolls her head toward Janey as though she hasn’t the energy to even lift her head. “It’s stupid. I know that. I do. But you weren’t there. It was constant through school. Anything I would show interest in, there was Emily doing it too. Until she was literally doing my boyfriend.”

  Janey gasps indignantly.

  “Oh, mio Dio,” I whisper. “Seriously?” Whoever this stupido was, he had clearly not understood what it would mean to hold Abigail in his heart. How could someone cheat on her with that . . . Emily?

  “She was just a catty bitch, but we’ve always run in the same crowd, you know? So she never went away and would keep picking and poking . . . at me, at my family. And when she was all fake sorry that I’m alone, I could feel her glee at my failure, and I wanted to shove it in her face that I’m not a failure.” She sounds so sad, and surprise at the layers to this woman works its way through the steel surface of my heart. For all her strength and shine, she is battered and bruised just like the rest of us.

  “You could’ve, you know, told her how you’re doing the flowers for the biggest wedding of the year. She would’ve seen that you’re not a failure then,” Janey says logically.

  Abigail shakes her head. “That’s not Emily’s currency. She truly doesn’t understand the value of that. But she understands . . . you.” Abigail’s eyes, dark and hopeful, turn to me appraisingly. She might think that only Emily understands my appeal, but Abigail does as well. I can see that clearly.

  “Okay, so it is settled then. We will do this charade for Emily and go to dinner and blow away the wedding guests with our combined genius. It sounds like an exciting week, an adventure waiting to unfold,” I summarize.

  Truthfully, Abigail is an adventure I’d like to fold and unfold in countless positions. But she is Violet’s best friend, and Violet is not someone to upset carelessly. Nor is her entire family branch. And though Abigail might flirt and play at being a fun girl, I think her heart is fragile, easily bruised like a peach, and I do not want to be the man who destroys her for some short-lived enjoyment.

  I’m an asshole, but I’m not a monster.

  That’s why I left that night at the wedding. Not because she wasn’t enough but beca
use she’s more than I deserve. More than I need right now.

  Except she needs me. For now, at least.

  I pick up my small bag and stride toward the bedroom Abigail set her carry-on in. That has her moving double-time off the couch, beating me to the bedroom doorway where she stands with her arms outstretched, one hand on either side of the door frame as a scowling, but cute, blockade. “Where do you think you’re going?” she balks.

  “To our room, mia rosa,” I tell her calmly, absolutely knowing the effect it will have.

  “Oh, no. That’s not part of the deal,” she argues, as if this is a negotiation. But she’s already lost this hand.

  “Of course it is. Otherwise, when Emily and Doug come to meet us tonight, they will wonder why we are spending our honeymoons in different parts of the resort. Especially when your room is so luxurious and spacious and mine is a last-minute crew quarter space not much larger than a coffin. I think perhaps I have married up.” I flash a bright smile, knowing she’ll see reason.

  Her arms cross and her eyes narrow, but nothing comes out of her mouth.

  “Very well. Which side of the bed do you prefer, mia rosa?” I call out over my shoulder as I enter the bedroom, making sure to brush against her as I pass.

  It’s large and bright. The king-size bed is crisp with white linens and fluffy pillows and surrounded by floor to ceiling windows. The one centered on the far wall is a slider that opens onto the same balcony as the living room. I drop my bag and take a running leap for the bed, bouncing onto its lush cushion.

  “Aah, this is exquisite,” I moan.

  “You can take the couch,” Abigail instructs, still standing in the doorway and pointing to a couch in the corner. “I’m not sleeping with you.”

  I quirk a knowing brow and let my voice drop low and turn to gravel as I say, “I did not say anything about sleeping, Abigail.” She crosses her arms protectively again, but I see the way her thighs squeeze together. “And if I am doing this favor for you, I will not be sleeping on the couch. You can if you choose to, but I’ll be here in this bed that should not be missed.” I pat the open space beside me in invitation.

  She waves a dismissive hand. “Whatever. We can figure that out later. Right now, I need to get to work. I have an email to read, apparently, and I need to get down to see the coolers and check our shipments. I’ll meet you back here at seven so we’re ready for dinner?”

  Reluctantly, I hop up from the comfortable bed. “Yes. I should get down and introduce myself to the chef as well and make sure the kitchen is up to snuff.”

  Abigail’s brows rise nearly to her hairline. “You told Meredith you’d already done that!”

  I shrug carelessly. “I lied. I’ll take care of it, and everything will be fine. I’m a big boy, don’t need her checking up on me. There’s no need to hand her ammunition.”

  I can’t decide if Abigail is impressed with me or horrified that she didn’t think of it herself first. Or maybe considering how big a ‘boy’ I am, I think with evil delight.

  Testing that theory, I reach down and adjust myself.

  Abigail’s mouth closes with a clack of her teeth. Ah-ha, got you, mia rosa.

  “Kitchen. Coolers. Seven p.m. Don’t be late,” she orders, pointing a finger to me, then herself, before settling it back toward me.

  “As you wish,” I reply, giving her sarcastic bow.

  “Inconceivable,” she mutters. I don’t get the joke, but something about the glint in her eye tells me that’s what that was. Perhaps it’s an English language thing I’m unaware of?

  I can’t wait to see what the kitchen is like. But as exciting as that prospect always is to me, my mind is still on Abigail. When I saw her distress and overheard the things that woman was saying, I couldn’t help but come to Abigail’s rescue. I swooped in to save her day like Superman, but with better hair.

  I didn’t know it would get me involved in what followed. How could I have expected that I’d be declared her husband? That we’re now faking a honeymoon?

  Ah, but the spice of it all. It’s crazy, it’s insane, and I know it’s dangerous for Abigail. Probably for me too, though for different reasons.

  But that just makes it even spicier.

  And Abigail? She’s an adventure herself. One I’d like to take.

  Trying to distract myself, I head through the grand hall toward the kitchens. Casa Del Mario’s website talked a lot about their three full-service restaurants, multiple grill stations, and twenty-four-hour room service. But of course, other than a picture of the poolside barbecue, there were no pictures of the actual kitchens. I fear I’ll find a bank of microwaves and a freezer full of manufactured shit.

  I introduce myself to the maître ’d at the main restaurant, who seems largely unhelpful until I mention Meredith’s name. With that, I am quickly led to the back. I’m pleased to see that it’s an open kitchen, with windows that overlook the dining room like a fishbowl. Sure, that means the kitchen staff are half entertainers on display and half cooks, but it also means more space and equipment that is top-notch and well-maintained.

  This might not be so bad after all.

  “Chef Toscani, may I present Chef Esmar Maduro. Chef, this is the chef from America I mentioned?”

  “Bon bini! Welcome!” a huge, big-bellied and grinning man booms as he comes from behind a workstation to greet me.

  His dark complexion beams with warmth, as do his bright eyes and white teeth. I’m instantly put at ease. Some chefs would not accept an outsider into their fold, especially for a special event such as this wedding. But Chef Maduro does not seem to be one of those sorts as he shakes my hand.

  “Come into my kitchen, Chef. We have much to do, yes?”

  “I hope I’m not intruding,” I say politely, the question laced through.

  His laugh is deep, shaking his belly. “No, I look forward to tasting your work. I have not been to Italy since I was a young man, and stories of your fettuccine precede you.”

  Fuck, what did Claire say about my pasta? It’s good, Earth-shatteringly so, but I guess I wasn’t expecting this sort of reputation on an island far from my home in Positano by a fellow chef whose admiration I should have to earn.

  “I would enjoy creating for you, if you do me the honor of the same, Chef Maduro,” I tell him.

  “Naturalmente!” he replies. “I want to know your soul, and the only way to do that is through the belly.” He pats his round middle, smiling wide. “I have known many souls, Chef Toscani.”

  He laughs, and I laugh along, finding myself relaxing and at ease. “If you are agreeable, please call me Lorenzo when we’re not on the line.”

  He dips his chin in acknowledgement and lays a hand to his chest. “Esmar.”

  Greetings made and friendships simmering, he takes me on a tour of his kitchen. The whole time, he’s tossing out bits of information, like how he grows his own herbs for the restaurants, has a vegetable garden on the property, and sources local meats whenever possible.

  We finish up our tour with an introduction to the staff, a mixed group of locals and transplants who came to the island for one reason or another and never left. “If you need anything, let Gilberto know. He will be your sous chef, one of my best.”

  Gilberto smiles at the praise from his chef. Gilberto is tall and thin, with what seem to be spaghetti noodles for arms and legs. I have heard jokes that one should not trust a skinny chef, but if Esmar says he is one of the best, I will trust that it is true.

  “Thank you for assisting me, Gilberto. Can we sit down and go over ingredient lists for the basics? Though I’ll know more after my meeting with the wedding planner tomorrow.”

  Esmar shivers. “The wedding planner, she is the frosty woman in black?” He pulls a face of snooty displeasure, straightening his spine and flipping non-existent hair in a perfect imitation of Meredith.

  I don’t hide my smile at his obvious dislike. “Yes, she’s quite . . .” I pause, not finding a word in English and not spea
king Esmar’s native Papiamento. “Fighe de legno,” I finish. “A wooden bitch.”

  “Ah,” Esmar exclaims, the sentiment translating even if the words do not. “She came into my kitchen—my kitchen!—with no invitation, just waltzing in like she has the right. ‘Rank has its privileges,’ she tells me. She did not like it when I told her that the only rank in my kitchen is Chef and that’s me.” He slaps his chest proudly. “We will watch out for her, alert you if she tries to come in again. I will gladly show her what privileges she is entitled to.”

  Esmar’s support, with the agreement of Gilberto’s nod and the rest of the crew’s murmurs of unity, means a lot to me. Being the new chef to come into a kitchen can be hard, and I’ve had experiences where I had to prove myself again and again with my food and my willingness to learn just to be marginally accepted. But here, they welcome me with open arms and warmth. It’s a gift I will return in exchange while I am here.

  “Mashi danki. Thank you,” I tell the group in Papiamento, one of the few phrases I learned on the plane ride here.

  “Di nada,” they answer.

  I make my way down the hall, my key card in hand. It’s early, only six o’clock, but I want to shower before dinner tonight and I’m doing so in the lap of luxury via Abigail’s ensuite.

  At the door, I stop. Perhaps I should knock? It is my suite now too, but that’s not entirely true.

  The slight pause gives me a chance to hear voices on the other side of the door.

  Janey’s voice is high-pitched, as if she’s repeating herself and getting more frantic with each repetition as she’s not heard. “Husband? You said he’s your husband? Do you remember what happened with your brother? Your sister?”

  I wait for Abigail’s response but only hear a grunted moan as if she’s tired of the conversation.

  “You should’ve said he was your boy toy,” Janey suggests. “I bet Bitch Barbie would’ve shit herself at that. Or said he’s your love slave or something.” A small giggle sounds out and then Janey says, “I would love to have that man feed me grapes, fan me with a big palm tree, and give me an oil rubdown . . . everywhere. Did you see those abs?”