My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

by Lauren Landish

  I put down the flower I was working into the arrangement and focus on my best friend tough-love style. “Violet Russo Andrews, you shut your pie hole. You are an awesome woman, wife, and mother. Charlotte is an amazing, well-adjusted, perfectly healthy, beautiful baby, and that’s all because of you because it sure has nothing to do with my asshole of a brother.” I throw that last bit in on purpose to distract her.

  “Ross isn’t an asshole. He’s so good with Carly. I just miss him.” She presses a soft kiss to the baby’s head, and I can see the sheen of tears in her eyes. “Gah, distract me. Tell me about paradise and this whirlwind wedding. Let me live vicariously through you.”

  A laugh pops out before I can stop it, and it’s too loud, disturbing Carly. Just like I said, the mother instinct in Violet kicks in automatically and she’s soothing the disruption away before she even realizes it. “What’s funny about that? What happened? Did you slip and fall into the pool and snort so much water up your nose that you sneezed it out . . . again? Or get poison ivy when you peed while hiking through the resort grounds? Or tell the bitchy wedding planner to ‘fuck off’ out loud when you meant to say it in your head? You do tend to do stuff like that.”

  She’s right. I do have quite the history of fuck-ups and craziness. But this is on a whole different level.

  “Actually, something did happen. Do you remember Emily Jones?”

  Violet’s nose crinkles as if Carly just let a stinky one rip, but her reaction isn’t about baby shit but rather about the name Emily Jones. “Ugh, yeah. Why in the world are you bringing her up? Let the past stay in the past, especially the catty, bitchy past.”

  “I wish you’d told me that before because she’s here. At the resort. On her honeymoon.”

  “Well, good for her.” Violet’s snarky, drawn out tone says loud and clear that she doesn’t think it’s actually good.

  “There’s more,” I tell her hesitantly. At that, she leads forward, hungry for the distraction she asked for. “Now, don’t give me shit about this because believe me, I know how it sounds . . .”

  “Ooh, this is gonna be good. I can tell,” Vi says eagerly.

  “Well, it was when I first got here. Emily saw me and was bragging about her wedding and honeymoon, all the while putting me down—”

  Violet interrupts to add, “She always did that, Little Miss Competitive.”

  “Before I knew it . . . she thinks I’m on my honeymoon too.”

  Eyes wide and mouth open, Violet stammers. “What? How? Why?” And then most importantly, “Who?”

  I stick to the easier questions first. “I was standing there, and she was talking smack about my brother and younger sister getting married and how wonderful that must be, except ‘ooh, you never did find someone who would love you, did you?’ ” It might not be exactly what Emily said, but it is what she meant with her cutting remarks. “And then he just stepped out of nowhere and saved me, telling Emily that we’re on our honeymoon too. We’ve had two double dates now and she totally believes it.”

  “Wait . . . so you’re on a fake honeymoon?” Violet says meaningfully. “Along with the most important job of your career?”

  I nod. I won’t hide the fake honeymoon thing, not from her. I know how much it hurt being lied to when she and Ross had their thing going on. As messed up as this whole thing is, I’ll own it. Even the hard part, which she hasn’t realized yet.

  “So, who is this mystery knight in shining armor?”

  Whoops, spoke too soon. That’s the ten-thousand-dollar question with the million-dollar answer. “Uhm, well . . . you see . . .”

  Violet can sniff blood in the water. My blood. “Who’s the guy?”

  “Lorenzo.”

  “What?” she screeches. Carly goes ramrod straight in her arms and returns the scream, starting to wail. Violet stands up, bouncing and swaying with the baby in one hand and the phone in the other. “My cousin, Lorenzo?” When I nod, she lays down the gauntlet. “Abigail Andrews, you’d better start explaining now.”

  I expect Vi to say something to me about how I chose this time to do something or to say I’m being stupid doing this in the middle of a very important business deal, but instead, she tilts her head, confused. “Wait . . . why would he be there?”

  I shake my head, shrugging. “Somehow, he got offered a short-term gig for the wedding too. He’s making fettuccine. You really didn’t know?”

  Violet glares at me. “Yeah, I knew my best friend and my cousin were working on the same event, going to the same place for a week, but it somehow slipped my mind to mention it as I helped you pack your suitcase.”

  Gee, dial down the sarcasm, girl.

  I explain the scene in reception and how Lorenzo seemed to just appear out of nowhere and what I did. “So, yeah,” I wrap up, blushing furiously. “We had a dinner date last night and then went kayaking today too.”

  “And you did all of this because of Emily?” Vi asks. “What the fudge, Abi?”

  “You know, you’re cute when you don’t curse in front of your daughter even though you know she’s going to hear it ten thousand times before she turns five?”

  Vi cocks an eyebrow, and I’m reminded that this woman is at least partly Italian and has a temper to match. “Abi?”

  “Okay, okay,” I admit, ashamed. “Yeah. I mean, you remember how we were.”

  “Of course I remember,” Violet, who also got her fair share of unwanted attention from Emily, says. “She was nearly Regina George incarnate. But my God, Abi, why would you let her get you into such a bad situation? You’re an adult now, and you only gave her more power by doing that!”

  “I know, I—”

  “How long have we known each other, huh?” Violet fumes, her eyes narrowing. “You’re supposed to be the strong one.”

  She lets me think a second and then continues, “That being said, she’s pretty much Voldemort with a vagina, so I got your back.”

  That was a good one, but I can’t even laugh right now. This is too serious. “So you’re not upset?”

  Violet blinks, then grins. “Upset? I’d be a hypocrite if there ever were one. Just relax. If Lorenzo’s good with it, maybe something good will even come out of it.” I can see the light of hope burning brightly in her eyes as she lifts her perfectly shaped brows at me. Even a mess, Violet is never truly far-gone and probably had an Archie-scheduled brow wax within the last few days. “I’d love to have you in my family the way I’m in yours.”

  “It’s not like that, Vi,” I assure her. “I mean, he’s great . . . like, have you seen him?” I fan my face, both of us aware of Lorenzo’s hotness. “But he’s intense.”

  “What, Abs? What’s that look on your face mean?” Violet pries, and I never could hold back from telling her anything.

  “He said he’s ‘feeling’ things,” I admit, and Vi’s eyes widen to dinner plate size, “but I think what he’s feeling is horny. I don’t want to do something knowing he’ll get bored and ditch me soon. Hell, maybe even here, but at the latest when we get home. I need to just focus on work. This is too important.”

  Violet chews at her lip, thinking. Finally, her words come haltingly. “So, you’re in paradise with a guy who wants to fudge you—wait, that sounds like a totally different thing and is not what I mean . . .”

  “Fuck, Vi. You can say it. Carly’s asleep again.” I point to the curled-up baby in Vi’s arms, where I can see that her eyes are closed softly and her lips are pursed up like she’s kissing the air.

  “Aw, that’s my girl,” she coos, brushing Carly’s hair on her forehead. To me, she continues, “Where was I? Oh, yeah . . . paradise, a hot guy who wants to fuck you, who you want to fuck, with a bit of sexy roleplaying about being newlyweds on a honeymoon giving you permission to do all sorts of crazy things, and then you can come back to your busy life a bit worse for wear in the best way.”

  “When you say it like that,” I tell her, rolling my eyes. Feeling vulnerable, I confess, “I don’t want to get
hurt, or mess up the wedding deal, or hell, I’ll admit it . . . I don’t want Emily to find out and have new ammo against me.”

  “I can’t believe I’m telling you, of all people, this, but don’t be so serious, girl. Have some fun, live a little, and get laid.” She waves her hand like after those assignments, I should keep going with the crazy adventures.

  “Really?” I ask, surprised by her advice.

  “Well, and make sure you show Emily that you’re doing amazing. Rub her nose in it a bit. And then tell her that you’re on your honeymoon and not playing these competitive games of who’s more in love or having wilder sex or has the better life.”

  “That’s exactly what’s happening! How’d you know that?”

  “Because I figure Emily is still Emily. And a Queen Bee-wannabe doesn’t change her stripes.”

  “You’re really good with this Lorenzo thing?” I ask again, wanting to be sure.

  “Abs, you’re my best friend for a reason. He couldn’t do better than you. Also, that’s why Emily’s always been so jealous of you. She knows you’re better than her.” Violet sounds wise, but that’s ridiculous.

  I’m just me—a weird, easily distracted daydreamer.

  But I won’t argue with her, not when I can see that sleep is overtaking her the same way it’s finally taken Carly.

  “Thanks, Vi. Get some sleep while Carly does. You need it.”

  “You need a little something too,” she tells me with a sleepy smirk. “G’night.”

  “Sleep tight,” I answer.

  I set the phone down, returning a critical eye to the arrangement I’m working on. It’s taking shape and looking good, perfect for the bridal party luncheon.

  Before I can even pick up a single rose, though, my phone goes apeshit, and I see that I’ve got a half-dozen texts coming in, one right after the other, from Courtney, who in no uncertain terms wonders what the hell I’m thinking, and am I certain that she and I are actually related?

  “Damn you, Vi, I thought you’d keep it to yourself for at least a few minutes,” I whisper, tucking my phone away. I finish my arrangement and see that Janey’s already got the small supplement pieces ready for tomorrow.

  I think we’re ready for the luncheon. The only question is . . . am I ready for a fling with Lorenzo?

  Chapter 10

  Lorenzo

  Morning arrives too early, but I eagerly reach over to snuggle Abigail. She is reason enough to greet the day with a smile on my face.

  But the bed is empty beside me.

  I sit up, looking around the room. “Abigail?” She’s nowhere to be found. Instantly, I’m up and pulling on underwear. I slept in the nude, keenly excited for her to argue with me about it again, but it seems she did not come to bed.

  In the outer room of the suite, I see her. She’s laid out on the couch, passed out with one leg on the floor and one stretched out, her arms askew. Her hair is a tangled mess, half in her face, and her mouth is dropped open as she breathes softly. Beautiful.

  I should move her to our bed so she can get some real rest. Padding across the floor, I bend down to scoop her into my arms when I see movement out of the corner of my eye.

  Janey is waving her arms wildly and shaking her head. I quirk my head, silently asking what’s wrong. She mouths, “I’ve got her. Alarm goes off in one hour. Let her sleep.”

  It goes against every instinct I have to leave her on the couch, but if she’s so exhausted she collapsed before even making it to bed, an additional hour of rest might very well be important. I nod, slowly stepping back but watching to make sure I haven’t disturbed Abigail’s slumber.

  I feel eyes on my body and look back up to find Janey appraising me openly. She flashes me a thumbs-up and a grin. “Boss lady did well with you.”

  The compliment is kind, but I feel awkward in my underwear in front of Janey, so I retreat to the bedroom after shooting Abigail one last look of longing. I would so love to carry her to bed, curl her into my side, and listen to her tell me about the flowers she touched last night. She finds them beautiful, but what I find even more stunning is her passion.

  I shower and shave, quickly getting dressed in kitchen clothes. I have work to do this morning, a private bridal party luncheon. The same one Abigail and Janey were making centerpieces and arrangements for.

  But I can’t leave without touching her. Slowly and quietly, I approach Abigail’s makeshift bed on the couch and bend down to ever so gently press my lips to the back of her hand. “I will see you later, mia rosa,” I whisper.

  Janey smirks at me as I leave, wiggling two fingers at me in goodbye. I trust that she’ll take good care of Abigail today.

  “Chef Toscani!”

  The sharp bite of my name breaks into the zone of focus I have perfected through years of practice. The entire kitchen could be on fire, sous chefs battling it out with fists and knives, and I still wouldn’t break from my concentration.

  But that annoying voice does it.

  “Yes?” I snap, looking up to see Meredith stomping through the kitchen. She’s wearing another black power suit, and I wonder if she sleeps in them.

  She probably lies in bed like a vampire, her black heels on and legs straight with her hands crossed over her chest. And when the sun rises, she hisses at it like a pissed off cat but forces herself up. Maybe that’s why she’s always so cold and angry? She’s a creature of the night forced to live in the daylight.

  “What are you doing?” she stands behind me at the line, arms folded across her chest.

  “You are not supposed to be in the kitchen,” I remind her. “There are food and health codes.”

  Her eyes narrow, and instead of backing up the way I’d hoped, she steps closer to my station. She knows what she’s doing, intentionally irritating me to get the answer she wants. I’m certain she’s accustomed to people acquiescing to her maneuvers and manipulations.

  I’m not one of those people. I don’t need anything from her.

  On my cutting board, I have a small pile of diced onions and a larger one of tomatoes. The skins and juicy remnants are in another pile to be trashed. Using the back side of my knife, I wipe the unneeded bits into my trash bowl, but one wayward tomato bit misses and falls to the floor, only to be intercepted by Meredith’s expensive black pump.

  Oops! Did I do that? I think smugly.

  “Ugh!” She groans, kicking her toe out to sling the tomato bit to the floor.

  “Kitchens are messy places,” I say with zero apology.

  Her lips press into a thin line. “As I told you at yesterday’s meeting, I needed the menu for today’s luncheon by last night.”

  “Must’ve slipped my mind.” It did no such thing. I never had any intention of sending her a menu, my food reduced to nothing more than a list of ingredients. “No worries, I’m already preparing lunch, creating wonderful dishes the guests will love, each more delicious than the last. This, I promise.”

  Her smile is robotic, but the gleam in her eyes is dangerous. “How about this? Since you didn’t do what you were told, with each course the waiters bring out, you can come out and explain what they’re eating and how you made the dish. Really give it that personal chef touch for the girls.”

  We’re locked in a battle of chicken, seeing which one of us will flinch first.

  She obviously knows that table visits are something chefs dread. The fawning over our food is fun, of course, especially when you are a new chef, but it is disruptive to the flow of the kitchen to have the captain of the ship leave the bridge mid-voyage.

  Plus, based on the bridal party’s interest at the dinner at Avanti, I might have to play polite with guests when I would rather be in the kitchen.

  Or with Abi.

  The thought intrudes into my battle of wills with Meredith, setting me off-kilter at a crucial moment, and I give in. “Of course. I’d be happy to come out and share a few tidbits about each course.”

  Victory makes her teeth look extraordinarily sharp when
Meredith smiles. “Next time, perhaps you’ll simply send me the menu,” she muses.

  One last dig to let me know she’s won this one.

  Her heels click across the floor as she war-paths out of the kitchen. As soon as the door swings shut behind her, Esmar peeks out from around the corner to whisper, “Is the coast clear?”

  I grin. “Afraid of her?”

  He nods vehemently. “Yes! She is like a fox, a patient and cunning hunter that pounces when you least expect it.” He snaps his teeth, his fingers claws that scratch at the air in a charade that looks more like a lioness than a fox. But I get his point. Meredith is not one to be underestimated.

  “Well, she’s gone for now, so let me get this prep finished.” Esmar comes over to help me, and after a while, Gilberto arrives as well.

  Just in time because the front-of-house manager comes back to ask for my approval of the table setting. “Since I don’t know the menu, we want to be sure the silverware is appropriate.”

  I get the feeling he’s one of Meredith’s minions, doing her bidding. Intentionally or not.

  But it’s not an unusual request when I’ve kept the menu to myself. It’s not a secret. I just wanted to let the fresh ingredients speak to me and create something truly special.

  I follow the manager to the floor and see that they’ve set up a lovely table by the open windows. The salt breeze off the sea blows in gently, rustling the pink- and white-striped runners that line the length of the table display. White china plates are nestled on silver charger platters at each place setting, and that is layered onto a large, fresh palm leaf.

  Abigail’s doing, I’m sure.

  As if thinking of her conjures her in truth, she walks in with a lush arrangement. “These are the last ones,” she says to no one in particular.

  Janey follows along behind her, carefully carrying a tray full of small buds bursting with floral color.

  “Let me help with that,” I tell Abigail, taking the flowers from her. “Where does it go?”