“Harrumph.” She huffs. “I looked for you and your assistant flower girl in the workroom and cooler, but I can see now why I wasn’t able to find you. It’s nearly eleven.” She makes eleven a.m. sound like three in the afternoon.
“Eleven-oh-eight, actually,” I correct, looking at the clock on the nightstand.
Her lips press into a thin red slash across her pale face. “There’s a photoshoot in the Azure Ballroom at noon,” Meredith says, all business. “We need you to have flowers ready to go and prepped. Not the whole room, but enough that the photog doesn’t have to crop the shots too much. And definitely more than those single flower arrangements you did the first time.”
What does she have against flowers? I’ve never seen anyone who has such little joy over the beauty of nature before, but Meredith seems to think that flowers are offensive to the very balance of nature.
Or maybe it’s just me she objects to?
“Wait . . . what shoot?” I ask, groaning internally but keeping my voice level and professional. “It wasn’t on the schedule.”
I know this for a fact. Janey and I have spent hours going through the schedule, line by line, to plan out each arrangement with the new shipment of flowers we’ve received. The manager did at least come through on that.
Part of me wonders if this little surprise was actually planned by Meredith as a way to catch Janey and me off guard.
I can almost hear Meredith telling Claire . . .
I know, dear. Sometimes staff just can’t be trusted to do as they’re told.
We’ll have to postpone until Miss Andrews can get out of bed long enough to pull a few flowers together.
Your ‘flower girl’ is a world-class fuckup who gets by on her last name, not talent.
Fuck that. Not on my watch.
“True professionals are ready to adapt and adjust on a moment’s notice,” Meredith says, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. What, does she think I never heard that little nugget growing up? “And Miss Johnson and Mr. Kennedy did book your services for the entire week, including any impromptu needs.” The reminder isn’t needed, but Meredith seems delighted to tell me that she’s got me over a barrel.
“Of course,” I say crisply.
“I sent over the email about today’s shoot at the start of the day, at eight a.m., but would you like me to resend it so it moves to the top of your overfull inbox?” The accusation that I’m not handling my shit the way I should stings even though I know it’s not true.
I’ve worked my ass off to build SweetPea Boutique. And I’ve done it all on my own, taking Dad’s advice and the lessons he’s taught me my whole life but not taking a single penny of his money or trading on my last name. I know what I’m doing, and I won’t let Meredith Wildeman make me feel otherwise.
“That won’t be necessary. Janey is already pulling it up.”
“I see,” Meredith says doubtfully. “I’ll meet you in the ballroom at eleven thirty, then.”
It’s a statement, not a request, and without a goodbye, she disappears from my screen.
“Ahh!” I scream into a pillow. “God, I hate that woman.”
Janey looks at me with trepidation. “Want me to make her disappear? I might know a guy. Or I could slip some arsenic into her coffee?” She shakes her head. “Never mind, she probably drinks it regularly to give her coffee an extra kick and become immune to it.”
“You can’t be immune to poison, can you?” I don’t know why, of everything, that sticks in my head.
“Mithridatism,” Janey says. I have no idea if that’s English or another language, or even something she made up, but I shake my head to focus on the tasks at hand.
“Boss? What’s the plan?”
I look back to the clock. 11:10.
“We have twenty minutes to have arrangements in the ballroom. Clothes first. We’re out the door in three minutes. We’ll have to use some of the smaller arrangements we’ve already done for the shoot and then we can re-do them for the rehearsal dinner. Let’s go!”
I move to get out of bed, but Lorenzo grabs my hand and yanks me back to him. I land on his chest with a thud. “Can I do anything to assist, mia rosa?”
I smile. Sweet, sweet man. Sexy, luscious, naked man.
No, I don’t have time for that. Not even a quickie. Besides, my pussy probably needs a break, at least for a few hours, to recover from last night.
I shake my head and press a kiss to his full lips. “Thank you, but no. I’ve got this.”
“Of course you do.” He is sure, certain, with utter faith in me. “I’ll see you tonight because the true craziness begins tomorrow with the rehearsal dinner.”
He’s right. Tonight will be our last chance to be together with any hope of alone time. Tomorrow’s rehearsal dinner will require both of us to work all day, and then Saturday’s wedding will be a madhouse of a day.
“Definitely.” One more kiss and I’m up, running to yank on black pants, a black polo, and black flats. It’s not couture, but it’s functional for my work, allowing me to go unnoticed as I hustle and bustle around to set and reset flowers.
“Janey!” I call out, my hand on the door.
She appears at my side, her hair slicked back and dripping wet in contrast to my excessively messy bun. Desperate times call for desperate measures, I guess.
I open the door, ready to roll, but find a surprised Emily standing there with her fist poised to knock. “Oh! Abi! You scared me!” she says, laughing as she grabs at her chest.
“Emily?”
I do not have time for this right now. Whatever this is.
“Yeah, uh . . . hi! I wanted to talk to you for a second.” Her smile is warm and friendly. I don’t trust it. Don’t trust her.
But manners are so ingrained in me, even when they’re the false-sweet kindness of a cutting barb like my mom’s sweater set and pearl set is skilled with, that I can’t say a flat-out no. “Maybe later? I’m kinda running out right now.”
That gets Emily’s attention, and her eyes flash from me to Janey in our pseudo-matching all-black attire, to the open bedroom door behind me. I know without looking that Lorenzo is quite visible if he’s still in bed.
“Hi, I’m Emily Jones.” She introduces herself to Janey and holds her hand out.
Janey shakes the offered hand, but Emily’s handshake is more limp-wristed finger touching than an actual shake. “Janey.”
Fuck, I love that girl. She doesn’t give anything away.
“And you are?” Emily prompts. She’s testing to see if Janey is someone she should know, maybe if there’s some way Janey could help her on her way to wherever it is she thinks she’s going.
“Masseuse,” I say off the cuff, thinking that there has to be some reason for Janey to be in mine and Lorenzo’s honeymoon suite.
“Threesome,” Janey says at the same time.
“What?” Emily is back to holding her chest—or more likely, her invisible pearl necklace—in shock at Janey’s statement.
Oh, shit. I’m totally tongue-tied and am about to blurt out something else—anything else—when Janey says something even worse. “What, you’ve never had a threesome before? I could give you my card if you’d like.” Janey looks Emily up and down with open appreciation.
“Really?” Emily asks, looking at me with newfound . . . something. “You kinky bitch!” She laughs, smacking my shoulder.
“She’s not serious,” I lie quickly. “She’s an assistant of sorts.”
Emily’s face pinches as though that’s considerably less desirable than Janey being part of a three-way with me and Lorenzo. “Yeah, I guess being an Andrews comes with privileges, doesn’t it?” She laughs as she says it, almost like she intends it to sound complimentary, but it definitely does not. She sounds jealous and catty again.
“Look, I’m sorry, but I’m in a rush this morning. Can we talk later or something?” I have no idea what she might want to discuss. There are no good old days to relieve, no axes to bury, no f
riendships to reignite. I’d honestly be happy if I never saw her again.
But that won’t happen.
She’ll be at the country club, at the charity functions Mom holds, and at every schmoozing elbow-rubbing opportunity back home.
Fuck.
That hits me like a train. I’ve been faking this honeymoon all week with Lorenzo thinking that once I get home, I could just pretend like this never happened. But I will see Emily on occasion. I’ve avoided her over the years, but our social circle is small and gossipy. She’s going to realize that I don’t have a new husband by my side at the next red-carpet event.
What am I going to do then?
“Oh, of course,” Emily agrees easily, which makes my skin crawl. I don’t know what she wants to talk about, but as she hair flips and walks down the hall, I feel like she got more than she came for.
At my expense.
I collapse against the door as soon as it’s closed and look over at Janey, who shrugs.
“Seriously? Couldn’t come up with something better than a threesome?”
“Hey, don’t talk, Miss Newlywed.” I glare, and she waves her hand in front of her face. “Seriously, don’t talk. I know we’re in a hurry, but you could’ve at least brushed your teeth. Here.”
She hands me a mint and we run out the door.
11:14 and counting.
We split up, Janey raiding the coolers for flowers while I head to the Azure Ballroom to see what we’re working with.
I’m counting tables and analyzing the photographer’s setup when Meredith approaches.
“Flower girl, you seem to have forgotten the most important part of your job,” she sneers.
“Janey is bringing the arrangements. I’m organizing my plan.” I tap my temple. “We’ll be ready.”
Janey comes through the doors a moment later with a cart full of beautiful blooms. “See?” I tell Meredith, pleased with myself and Janey for meeting the ridiculous timeline of this surprise shoot.
“Eleven thirty-three is not the same as eleven thirty, Miss Andrews.”
Fuck, there is no pleasing this woman.
“Excuse me,” I say coldly. I don’t wait for her to dismiss me or discuss my shortcomings further. I beeline to Janey and hiss, “Let’s get this done before I kill her.”
The photographer’s assistant is actually here, and she’s more than helpful. With clear, short commands and a willingness to get her own hands into the flowers, we get the staging done in record time, including trimming the petals off over two dozen roses to scatter them on a large white backdrop.
Just in time, too, because Cole, flanked by a bunch of makeup people and the main photographer, comes in. Without even acknowledging my work, they get started, having Cole pose in three different ‘sets’ while the photographer goes crazy with the shutter.
“Okay, one more,” the photographer says before looking over his shoulder at me for the first time. “We’ll need the flowers reset for Claire. You can get those done now.”
Janey and I get to work, re-scattering the petals and resetting the arrangements that were moved while Cole has his last shots taken.
Then he’s done, disappearing as quickly as he came in. I can feel the entire room take a breath, relaxing for a short moment before we go again.
Claire comes in the same way Cole did, with an entourage. But where Cole had been all business, Claire is warm and friendly, talking to people and signing autographs before she gets situated for the shoot.
She really is . . . nice. The word seems so bland, but it’s the truth. Claire is a bit of a princess and appreciates the finer things in life, but she’s worked hard to enjoy that privilege and hasn’t forgotten where she came from. I can understand why she has so many fans and such a rabid following.
“All done, Claire,” the photographer says.
“Awesome!” she says with a true smile. “Thank you so much, everyone! Only one more day until I’ll be Mrs. Claire Johnson-Kennedy!” She squeals happily and we all smile in return.
As she leaves, Janey and I get to work once more. We need to load up the arrangements that are salvageable and get them back to the cooler for some TLC and make new plans for the rehearsal dinner arrangements minus what we’ve lost.
“What was up with the last-minute photo shoot, anyway? Did you hear anything?” I ask Janey.
She shakes her head. “I swear I looked at the schedule. You know I did. We both did. And this little shindig wasn’t on it.”
Janey’s eyes narrow as she looks around, and I follow her gaze, seeing the staff, staging, and setup. “This kind of thing doesn’t happen on the fly. We should’ve known about it.”
I agree. And that worries me. I know Meredith seems to have it out for me, but would she really ruin Claire’s wedding week by ‘forgetting’ to tell me about an event?
I can’t believe she’d be that unprofessional. But . . .
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a blonde head, but before I can see who it is, the head’s gone, and I’m left wondering if I just wandered into a telenovela or something.
Or maybe I’m just stressed and going crazy?
“Abi?” Janey asks, tapping me on the shoulder. “You okay?”
“Um, yeah,” I murmur, picking up my water sprayer to refresh a few petals. I don’t say anything, but I swear that blonde head reminded me of Emily. But why would she be here? Was she spying on the famous celebrity wedding? Or on me? “I think I’m going to go talk to that photographer’s assistant and confirm that our schedules line up. I want you to follow up with that resort manager too. He should have a full breakdown of what spaces are being used, at what time, and what for.”
“Can I threaten him to get it?” she asks with evil excitement written all over her face.
“Absolutely. I’m not going down like this. Especially because of some bitch like Meredith Wildeman.”
Chapter 14
Lorenzo
“Okay, Gilberto, after you trim those steaks, I want you to start working with Juan on the shrimp,” I tell the cook I’m overseeing as he starts with another filet round. “Make sure the shrimp are perfect. They’re the showpiece of one of the pasta courses. And save the shells for the stock!”
Gilberto nods, answering, “Yes, Chef.”
I’ve spent as much time as I can in the kitchen with Esmar and his crew, laughing and joking as we prep and work side by side. They are a well-oiled machine, providing interesting and flavorful dishes to the resort’s restaurant. Some might look down on a ‘hotel chef’ a bit, snobbily thinking that a true chef owns his own restaurant, but I can see the fire in Esmar and sense a kindred spirit in him. He works where he does because he is passionate about food and experience, not business and the hours of paperwork being the owner requires.
I feel like I have already learned a lot from him and will miss him after this event. But not yet because there is still much to be done.
While Abigail has gone to do her impromptu photo shoot, I’m getting ready for tomorrow’s rehearsal dinner which requires one hundred meals, and Saturday’s wedding, which is less than twenty-four hours later and will serve over three hundred.
These are not events you prepare for on the fly or on the day of, and as such, the true hard work begins today. Now.
Vegetables have to be cleaned and cut, proteins shaped and prepped, and fruits selected. About the only thing we aren’t prepping are the starches, but that’s because risotto can’t be prepared in advance and the pasta sheeter is going to be cranking out fresh fettuccine tomorrow.
Cranking. Such a fun American word, I think. CR-anking, cr-ANK-ing, crank-ING, I repeat in my head, unable to stop the smile from blooming on my lips as I emphasize various syllables. Languages are such interesting and funny things. An entire group of people simply agreeing that this sound means that thing. If only we could all agree more often, I think wistfully.
I know something I could crank. Or more precisely, someone.
I tilt my head, trying
to decide if my crude wording makes sense in English, but ultimately, my mind focuses on the better part of the question. Abigail. Mia rosa.
The thought of Abi brings a surge of tension underneath my apron. She was all that I imagined and more. Last night was magical.
It wasn’t just the almost unlimited passion we had for each other and the touches that left me feeling like I could make love to her body all night long and never, ever tire. It was the pleasure I felt from every gasp, every sound she made, and every touch and look, even every smell.
It wasn’t the setting, although Esmar’s suggestion of the ‘Blue Lagoon’ certainly was a good one. It was the woman I was with. She was better than I could’ve dreamed possible. She was a goddess.
Right now, I would do anything to give her the same pleasure and feeling that we shared last night. The memories flood my mind, and I relive them, my cock surging to full hardness. I’m so lost in what I’m thinking about, in fact, that I don’t notice what I’m doing until the flames flash up, and suddenly, I’ve got a pan on fire.
“Shit!” I growl, grabbing a nearby lid and tossing it on top. Well, there goes that batch of herb-infused olive oil for the vinaigrette.
“Lorenzo, Lorenzo!” Esmar calls, hurrying over with a concerned look on his face. “What happened?”
“Shit. Sorry, Chef,” I tell him, pulling the pan off the fire and setting it aside to cool. Looking at it, I sigh. “At least it wasn’t the good olive oil.”
He chuckles good-naturedly, clucking his tongue. “Are you all right, my boy?”
Chefs are notorious for being fickle, and I’ve seen chefs go on screaming rants over a lot less, but he seems more concerned for me than that I almost burned his kitchen down. “Yes. Just a little tired. Had a busy night.”
Proving that we have an audience of cooks watching to see Esmar’s reaction to my fuck-up, a friendly chorus of oohs and oh, yeahs go through the crew.
Gilberto, ever the jokester, calls out, “You used Chef’s suggestion well. Welcome to paradise, indeed.”
My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon Page 18
