“And he’s sleeping with the sous chef, which complicates things,” my mother states matter-of-factly while plucking another piece of bacon out of a chafing dish.
My jaw drops because that was not part of the swoony scenario I was just envisioning. “Where did you get that idea?”
She shrugs. “It couldn’t have been more obvious. Every time Yvonne looked Matthew’s way, she had a knowing smirk on her face that said, ‘I know what he looks like naked.’ Also, when I mentioned the title of my book, Matthew flinched and his eyes went straight to Yvonne, which confirmed that A) they’re sexually involved and B) he feels inadequate as a lover in some way. Based on his age, chances are good that he gets overexcited and has a problem with premature ejaculation.”
“In that case, Melissa isn’t missing out on much, is she?” Viv queries sunnily as she dabs some clotted cream on her scone. “Plus, Yvonne is her sister and she doesn’t strike me as much of a sharer, so . . .”
I make a face. “This all just got depressingly sordid.”
And I was so delighted thinking that I’d been witness to a great love affair in the making between Matthew and Miranda/Melissa. Sometimes I wish my mother wasn’t so annoyingly observant. Her ability to accurately read people based on their behaviors can be a real buzzkill sometimes.
My junior year of college I’d been dating a hunky Bruins volleyball player for a couple of months when I brought him home to meet the fam. While passing him the potatoes at dinner, Mom asked how old he’d been when he started cross-dressing (she noticed him caressing my scarf when he removed it earlier in the evening). There was no judgment in her question; she was merely curious from a psychological standpoint. He was mortified as it was not something he talked about or shared with anyone, and I was aghast as I’d been sleeping with the man and had no clue he had a penchant for wearing ladies’ things. Shane broke up with me soon after and I forbid my mother from making an unsolicited observation or comment about one of my boyfriends to their faces ever again.
“Then let’s move on to a more fun and fascinating subject . . . me!” Viv trills the last word.
Happy to comply with this request, I inquire, “How are rehearsals for Raindrops on Roses going?”
“Wonderfully! I just love this script. It has everything—drama, comedy, tragedy, romance.
I’m getting to show my full range as an actress for the first time in years. And my chemistry with Treat Williams is off the charts! No one will have any trouble believing we’ve been passionately in love for decades even though we’ve been separated for the majority of that time.”
“And when will the play’s opening be so that I can schedule the night off from work?” I query.
“May seventh.”
I pull my phone out of my purse so that I can make note of that. When I see my calendar for May, I’m reminded of another important event that month.
“I know theaters are dark on Mondays. Does that apply to rehearsals too?”
“Depends on the play. We’re rehearsing on Mondays, but only until five. Why do you ask?”
“Ian’s birthday is on May third, and since it’s his thirty-fifth, his mother is throwing one of her big parties. I know he’d love it if you could be there.”
“An opportunity to get dressed up and drink Cristal all night? Don’t mind if I do.”
“Great. I’ll let Mrs. Ellingsworth know to put you on the guest list.”
“Ahem.” Hearing my mother clear her throat from the other side of the table, I turn toward her.
“Are your stepfather and I not invited to Ian’s birthday bash?”
“Technically, yes, since Ian told me to invite my family, but I think it best you sit this party out.”
“And why is that?” she asks in her best, the-doctor-is-in tone, and I know she’s going to dissect, study, and draw conclusions from whatever my answer is.
“You’ve made no secret of the fact that you disapprove of my relationship with Ian.”
“First of all, it’s an arrangement,” she corrects me, “not a relationship.”
Yes, my mother and Viv know what’s what with Ian and me. There’s no way I could have fooled either one of them into thinking he and I were in love all this time.
“Secondly, I don’t disapprove. I know you did what you thought you had to do in order to make your business a success. However, this fauxmance of yours has long since served its purpose and perpetuating the lie, as you seem intent on doing, is the worst kind of avoidance behavior.”
“Tell me how you really feel,” I grumble, sounding like a petulant teenager.
“I always do. And to put it bluntly, you have been emotionally stagnant since your last, real relationship ended four years ago and you’ll never get over that heartbreak and find true happiness until you stop hiding behind a six-foot-three, monogamy-averse CEO.”
“Vanessa does have a very attractive bird in the hand with Ian,” my grandmother asserts. “I don’t see why she can’t go all in with him and give his hedonistic lifestyle a try.”
“Viv!” my mother chides her while I frown in consternation.
“There’s nothing wrong with a good orgy, ladies. I speak from experience. There was this time in Amsterdam—”
“On that note . . .” I shove my chair back and stand because I will lose my pancakes if I have to hear about another one of Viv’s sexcapades. “. . . I will say goodbye. I have a meeting with some vendors who are helping me implement my vision for a client. Thank you for brunch, Viv. Mother.” I give her a curt nod and stalk off, but I only make it a few feet before I’m compelled to turn around and come back to the table to address our resident shrink.
“In your assessment of me, you implied that I’m an emotional coward. For the record, I did date my fair share of men after I broke up with him.” I refuse to say my ex’s name all these years later. “And I felt nothing for any of them, which made those dates an exercise in futility. I know what it’s like to love someone with all of my heart and even though it didn’t work out, I’ll be damned if I settle for less the next time. I believe lightning will strike twice without me having to force it. So I will wait and keep my eyes and heart open. Meanwhile, I do like having the security my relationship with Ian provides. He’s in my corner, and I’m in his. And I assure you, neither of us is holding the other back.”
“You know I only want what’s best for you,” my mother, whose gaze never wavered from mine the entire time I was setting her straight, says.
“I do, but your inability to filter yourself and refrain from offering other people diagnoses of their mental states, whether they want to hear them or not, is precisely why I cannot allow you anywhere near Ian’s birthday party. Understood?”
She nods, and I feel a small sense of victory. “Good. Love you.” I blow her a kiss to let her know there are no hard feelings, mostly because I got the last word. I give my grandmother a quick peck on her check, then I’m off to put the finishing touches on the most spectacular marriage proposal I’ve ever planned.
CHAPTER 7
“Let’s do one last walk-through,” I tell Cole and Aubrey, who fall in line behind me, as I stride purposefully out to the foyer of the stunning, clifftop house I rented for Astra’s big night.
This isn’t just any old, stunning, clifftop house either. Back in the late ‘60s, it belonged to the one and only King of Rock and Roll, Mr. Elvis “Hunka-Hunka Burning Love” Presley. Elvis and his iconic, white, rhinestone-covered jumpsuits are so closely associated with Sin City that his home really is the perfect venue for a Vegas-themed proposal. I may or may not have given myself a high five when I found it, and Astra was equally thrilled when I told her. She didn’t even balk at the $2,950 cost for us to take over the place for an evening.
“Okay,” I say, spinning on the five-inch heel of my black patent-leather Louboutins when we reach the massive set of white doors that lead from the red-bricked motor court to the grand entryway of Casa Presley. “Astra’s future husband will b
e welcomed here by Joaquin.” I gesture at the uniformed man loitering nearby.
“Joaquin, I need the lights in this area dimmed a smidge more so that this neon sign really pops.” I’ve got a big replica of the famous “Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada” sign that people see when they’re approaching the city limits positioned on the foyer’s back wall. “And where’s the music? I want Xander to hear ‘Viva Las Vegas’ the minute he steps through these doors.”
While Joaquin scurries off to fulfill my requests, I lead my staff along the path our guest will take, narrating, “Xander will be escorted through the foyer to the bar where his soon-to-be-fiancée will be waiting for him.”
The set-up of this house really lent itself well to my vision of a casino as there’s already a circular stone bar in place in the large entertaining area that connects the foyer to the living room. Behind that bar is our mixologist, Dave, who puts on a Cocktail-style show, dumping ingredients in a shaker, then flipping and tossing it around. He pours the signature drink our client approved after sampling copious concoctions (we’re calling it “Xtra” as in Xander + Astra) into a salt-rimmed cocktail glass, then garnishes it with a lime and hands it to me.
Although I’m not a big fan of tequila, I want to make sure the drink tastes as good as it looks, so I take a sip. My lips immediately go numb from the spicy habanero pepper-flavored salt, which is an addition Dave and I did not discuss. That’s no good since I’m sure the happy couple will want to kiss at some point in the evening, and it would be nice if they could feel their lips when that happens.
“The habanero’s too much. Stick with the sea salt.” I instruct, handing the fiery-colored drink back to Dave.
My team and I continue on through a sea of slot machines that are making the usual noises: lively music, wheels spinning ‘round and ‘round, the ding, ding, ding of a winning combination, and coins clinking into a metal receptacle. We’re now in the billiard room, which I’ve turned into a Vegas lounge complete with tables, cocktail waitresses, and a blue-curtained stage where “Elvis” will perform.
“What’s the final set list Astra decided on?” I ask Cole, who was in charge of taking her to listen to the impersonator I hand-picked for the evening.
He checks his clipboard before telling me, “She couldn’t make up her mind about the order of the songs, but she picked ‘Love Me Tender,’ ‘I Want You, I Need You, I Love You,’ and ‘It’s Now or Never.’”
I grimace. “She can’t use ‘It’s Now or Never.’ That will imply that her proposal, when it comes later in the evening, is an ultimatum. Let’s scrap that song and have our guy do ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’ instead, followed by ‘I Want You,’ and ending with ‘Tender.’ I think that will be a good emotional progression.”
Having settled that, I say, “They’ll watch the concert, then have their three-course dinner here.” I wave my hand over the table for two sitting in a front-row position by the stage.
“Ladies!” I signal the two waitresses to come over. “I need you to light the candles on this table as soon as you’re told that our guest has arrived. Only one signature drink per person. That Xtra is too potent for seconds, and we don’t want our prospective groom to end up face down on the game table felt before Astra gets a chance to propose. Offer the couple their choice of Cab or Shiraz with dinner and make sure you give them plenty of water throughout the evening so that they stay hydrated while imbibing. Also . . .”
How do I put this politely? The waitresses are wearing black, corset-style dresses with spangly, gold bras underneath, which is appropriately Vegas-y, but also rather revealing, which could easily lead to problems. How is Xander supposed to stay focused on his girlfriend when all of this jiggly boobage will be on display?
All right, forget polite. I have to be honest if I want to avoid drama.
“You’re not getting tipped by anyone here tonight, so let’s minimize the cleavage as much as possible, and please, I beg you, do not bend over in front of the gentleman who’ll be sitting at this table. He needs to have eyes only for our client.”
They give me a simultaneous thumbs-up and wander off, hiking up their bras to cover more flesh.
“Where are the photographer and videographer?” I query, glancing around, but not seeing anyone who fits the bill.
“Last I heard they were doing some test shots in the game room,” Aubrey informs me.
“Let’s head that way then.”
We migrate from the lounge into what I consider to be the pièce de résistance of this Vegas-themed fantasy . . . the casino proper, a long and narrow space, which used to be Elvis’s office, that I’ve filled up with everything from a roulette wheel to tables where blackjack, craps, and poker can be played. I told Astra that she and Xander can start wherever they like in the room, but they have to end at the blackjack table as that’s where the evening will culminate with our client popping the question.
“Hello,” I greet the scruffily handsome dealer standing behind the blackjack table whose name eludes me at the moment. “Mind if we do a dry run?”
“Sure thing, pretty lady.” He winks at me, then starts doing some fancy, and rather impressive, shuffling of a deck of cards.
“Cole, sit down and pretend you’re Xander.” I gesture at the padded stool to my left as I take the seat next to it.
“Okay, let me get into character,” Cole says, plopping down on the stool and doing a slouchy man-spread. Lowering his voice, he asserts, “I’m straight and I’m clueless. Have I forgotten a birthday or anniversary? Why is Astra doing all this? I hope we’re going to have hot, hetero sex in Elvis’s bedroom later.”
Snickering, I say, “Nailed it. Dealer.” I tap two fingers on the table in front of me so that he’ll start laying down cards.
“You have to place a bet first,” he reminds me, one corner of his mouth tilting up in a teasing half-smile. He really is quite attractive in a just-rolled-out-of-bed-after-doing-naughty-things way, but I’m on the clock tonight and don’t have time for flirting.
“Of course.” There are piles of red, blue, green, and black chips positioned to my right. I have no idea which color denotes what dollar amount, but it doesn’t matter since we’re not playing for real anyway, so I toss in five black chips.
“Big spender.” Trent (that’s the cute dealer’s name!) nods approvingly. “I like a woman who takes risks.”
I suppose I have been a risk-taker in my professional life, striking out on my own and starting a business. Not so much in my personal one, though. At least not since I had all of the romantic hopes and dreams of my youth crushed to a fine powder by a certain someone four years ago.
Trent’s brown eyes are locked on mine as he waits for me to say something coquettish in return, but what I see instead are a familiar set of slate blue orbs that make me feel a pang of sadness and regret.
“She’s got a boyfriend,” Cole tells the dealer as he tosses in his own handful of chips. “He’s gorgeous and filthy rich to boot, so you’ve got no shot no matter how talented you are with your hands.”
“Cole!” I admonish my assistant with a furrowed brow.
“What? I didn’t want the poor guy to get his hopes up where you were concerned.”
“It’s all good,” Trent assures us that his heart is not broken by my unavailable status. He sets a card face down in front of me, then does the same for Cole and himself. Our second cards are dealt facing up.
Cole’s exposed card is the two of hearts with the word “Will” emblazoned in black across its center. He lifts his mystery card, revealing a jack of hearts that says, “You.”
We glance over at the dealer’s hand and see that the card he’s got showing is a king of hearts bearing the word, “Marry.” When he flips over the card on top of it, the queen of hearts finishes the question with, “Me?”
Cole gasps and swings around to face me with comedically wide eyes, “Are you proposing to me?”
I reach under the table to find the little cubby w
here a special item has been stashed and pull it out. “Yes, I am. Will you do me the honor of becoming my husband?” I pop open the hinged top of the gift box, revealing a gleaming, silver Octo Watch from Bulgari that cost Astra a cool ten grand.
“Oh my god!” Cole squeals with delight, bringing his hands to his cheeks. “You have the best taste! Of course, I’ll marry you. Gimme!” He makes a grab for the watch, but I retract it with a chortle.
“Nice try. Unless your name is Xander, this watch is not for you.”
Cole makes a pouty face. “I need to stop dating all of these hot guys who don’t have a cent to their names or I’m never going to have any decent jewelry. Are you sure Ian doesn’t have a brother? I’d even settle for a distant cousin.”
“He’s an only child, and all of his cousins are girls. So, unless you’re willing to switch teams, you’re out of luck. Great job with the cards,” I compliment Trent as I stand and offer him my hand, which he takes with both of his.
“I aim to please,” he says, lifting my hand and pressing his lips to my knuckles.
“Charming,” I murmur because he is, “but this is going to be a proposal, not a bachelorette party, so do me a favor and rein it in when the blonde comes in here. I don’t want your flirting to make her man cranky right before she asks him to marry her.”
“Your wish is my command.” He gently releases my hand although his eyes stay trained on mine. “Just know that there’s more where that came from, and I don’t consider a boyfriend to be an obstacle to us having some fun. You’re stunning, and I’m digging this whole boss lady vibe you’ve got going.”
As hard as I try not to blush, I can feel my cheeks heating up. “I’m flattered, but I really need to stay focused on the job right now. If you’ll excuse us . . .”
I walk away with Cole by my side.
“He is totally checking out your ass,” my assistant stage whispers as he keeps sneaking peeks over his shoulder. “It really does look amazing in that skirt.”
Straight from the Hart Page 7
