Kiss This

by L. L. Muir

  “You can double the flower budget if necessary. I just don’t want it to look...sparse.”

  “Sparse? What the h—”

  He winked. “Okay. Well, you just think about it and maybe come talk to Ms. Mayhue on Monday. See you tonight.”

  A wink was not going to shut her up, especially since she’d already burned her bridge.

  “Sparse? You’re going to go with sparse? If you want to fire me, I understand. But don’t go bad-mouthing Ivy and Stone. Sparse is not on the menu here.”

  He tucked his phone away and straightened his jacket as he stood. Two steps later, he leaned over her with his hands on the arms of Crappy Chair. The anticipation running like electricity through her veins could be blamed on the fact those chair arms might collapse under his hands. The chair was that crappy. Of course, she would have to catch his fall…

  “What about you, Ms. Mayhue? Are you on the menu?”

  She breathed carefully. Gave the chair a couple more seconds, but it held tough.

  “Careful,” she finally said. “You’ll get your suit dirty.” It was the cool cucumber-est thing she could think of to say. And if she hadn’t been leaning back so far, she wouldn’t have sounded so breathy when she said it.

  “Pem’s got plenty to work with. See that this reception is half so beautiful as she is, and you will have earned every penny.”

  He tapped her on the nose with a finger, then straightened and headed for the door.

  “Wait,” she said. “You’re not cancelling?” She couldn’t find the strength to stand.

  He turned and smiled, tugging at his cuffs in a move he had to have learned from James Bond Movies. Real people didn’t do that. Did they?

  “I am not cancelling. Are you mad? At this late date? I may as well try to change the color of the wedding.” He winked, then frowned. “Will it be too late for you to order in more flowers?”

  “No, it’s not too late to order more. But I don’t need to. It’s going to be perfect. As planned. You’ll see.”

  She was going to blow his mind. And if he claimed he wasn’t impressed, when all was said and done, he could kiss her b—

  She was so tired her head spun, but among the images parading around her mind, there was one where St. John was leaning over her, asking her if she was on the menu. It was a detail she wouldn’t share with London—her friend would never believe it. It didn’t make sense. They didn’t even like each other.

  “Ms. Mayhue?” There he was, leaning over her again.

  “What?” Maybe she was hallucinating.

  He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek—not very far at all from her mouth. In fact, it felt more like he’d been aiming for her lips and missed. Had she turned her head?

  Either way, intentional or not, it was the most incredible non-kiss she’d ever been given, coming so close to touching lips, but not. And those lips were much warmer than she imagined they’d be. And yes, she had imagined them, damn him. After all, he was gorgeous…for an ass hat.

  And he was still there, hovering over her.

  She clamped her teeth down on her tongue, to keep from criticizing his aim and suggesting he try again. Since he was still in the area.

  What was wrong with her? He brought out the worst in her. Clearly.

  “I just wanted to thank you,” he said quietly, “for reminding me that it is also my job to make sure Pemberly is happy.”

  “Mm hmn.” She wasn’t about to let go of her tongue. Not as long as she was so tired she couldn’t trust herself. And not as long as his expensive cologne and car leather hung in the air, giving her the ridiculous urge to whimper.

  And then he was gone. The fading roar of an expensive car engine left Mal shaking and cold.

  She blamed it all on fatigue. Well, that and the kind of shock she’d learned about in High School Health Class. But nobody was around to toss a blanket over her. And since there was no head injury, someone should really lie her down and raise her feet.

  Mr. Bennett St. John was gone, along with the flavor of him. She sniffed, testing the air.

  Nope. All gone.

  It had been so long since she’d been hit on, she couldn’t tell if she’d been sexually harassed or not. He’d asked if she was on the menu. But the question was, had he been trying to intimidate her, or trying to tell her he was interested? She really needed to get out more so maybe next time someone got that close to her, she'd be able to tell. Maybe next time it would be someone in her own league. Someone who didn't do formal either. Someone who wouldn't turn his nose up because her life was a little messy.

  Probably someone boring.

  She could at least hope that he'd be half as handsome as Pemberly's brother. Or if she was greedy —exactly as handsome as he was.

  Oh, give me a break.

  She couldn’t waste good sleeping time worrying about an ass hat.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The morning of Pemberly Adams’ big day was full of excellent omens. A light, harmless cloud cover kept the temperature above freezing, so by the time Mal got to the shop, they didn’t need to wrap up every flower in order to get them from the refrigerated truck, to the vans, then into the lodge. A simple garbage sack, draped across the larger items was enough to keep any malicious breeze from doing damage. The delicate body flowers, the corsages and boutonnieres, were already packed in boxes.

  Another promising sign was that every designer, delivery boy, and extra pair of hands that had committed their day to her, actually showed up by six a.m. No stragglers. Even the chick assigned to bring donuts showed up on time, and that never happened. Donuts were never on time.

  Donut Chick also happened to be driving a snow-tired Suburban, in case they were short on room.

  As Mal was about to lead the convoy out of the parking lot, she took one more look at the awakening sky. The clouds were parted perfectly around a morning moon—a tiny sliver of curved ice that would probably be gone by nightfall, melted away to make room for the New Moon. No moon-dogs in sight—the rings that promised snow—and Mal was a little disappointed. Pemberly had hoped for a light snowfall once the Lodge was all lit up. A wedding reception in a snow globe. So Mal said a little prayer with her attention still on the moon.

  Just a little miracle snow. Please.

  London honked. She sat behind the wheel of one of the big vans. Mal got her own head back in the game and left the parking lot. They’d gone over the master list twice. They’d forgotten nothing. Besides, the Hopi Indians—at least she thought it was the Hopis —believed that perfection was bad luck, and so did Mal. If they’d forgotten anything important, they could call it a good omen, then they’d have it brought up later. Or they’d improvise. That’s what florists-slash-wedding planners did.

  An hour and a half later, they were unloaded and settling in for a long six hours of on-sight set-up and design. Mal glanced out the cut glass window of the lodge’s grand entrance. A strange car headed up the causeway. A low sports car. Instead of driving off to the side of the lodge, to the tiny parking lot in the rear, the car remained in the circle and stopped in front of the steps. Or more importantly, in front of the sign that read, “No parking in the driveway.”

  Ass Hat.

  Pemberly’s brother climbed out of the driver’s door, speak of the devil. Her stomach dropped to the floor, then ran for the kitchens without her. But she had no time to worry about her reaction to him. There was too much to do. No way could she take a moment to enjoy the sight of him. And if he came in smelling like leather…

  She should have eaten a bigger breakfast. The hole in her middle, left by her fleeing stomach, needed filling. Of course she refused to believe she was hungry for him.

  She ignored the pounding in her chest as he came up the steps looking like a god. She was in Wedding Day Mode. She was Wonder Woman, poised and ready to deflect anything that came at her, to solve problems in the blink of an eye, and defend 'the vision' with her life.

  Later, she'd find a small dark corner, c
url up in a ball, and cry her eyes out, like she often did after a big event. But not now. Nothing would go wrong. She wouldn’t allow it.

  And just what in the hell was 007 doing on the island at nine o'clock in the morning?!

  He pulled open the 100 lb. door like it was a piece of paper in his way, but she refused to be impressed. Instead, she tried to imagine he was someone else, like the father of the bride or something.

  “Mr. St. John,” she said. “I wasn't expecting anyone from the bridal party until four-thirty, for pictures.” Mal set her clipboard on the center entrance table, next to a half-completed arrangement that would, in the end, stand seven feet tall. But the vans couldn’t transport something that size, so the base had been done the day before. The top, she would finish herself.

  She turned to face him. Only then did she realize he was furious. His dark slashing eyebrows may as well have burst into flame. But even though this was the awe-inspiring villain from her past two weeks of nightmares, he couldn't make her nervous now. He'd picked the wrong day to look at her cheerios, let alone piss in them.

  He stormed past her into the ballroom. She followed, ready for anything.

  “Have you lost your senses?” His gaze shot around the room like a pinball, noticing every mess, every cardboard box flung on the floor. “My sister's wedding reception cannot possibly be held here. This is a disaster!”

  Mal smiled patiently. Six young men on ladders paused and looked at her, as if to ask if there was any point continuing if the customer was going to cancel. She lifted her wrist and pointed to her watch. They all got the hint and went back to work.

  “Trust me, Mr. St. John. By three o'clock you won't recognize this room. My staff will be gone, and everything will be in its place.”

  “You'll have to forgive me if I find that a little hard to believe, Ms. Mayhue. The parking lot looks like a circus has just been bombed, and this building looks like it has been bombed twice!”

  Mal shook her head and took a deep breath. She really wasn't used to clients getting a good look at the mess it took to create something breathtaking. She was pretty good at keeping the mothers of the bride and groom distracted until most of the chaos was cleared away. She should have treated Big Brother like Big Mother and told him when he'd be allowed on the premises.

  Just what was he doing there, anyway, if not to knock down her confidence, like he had in her nightmares?

  “Wait a minute,” she said. “What are you doing here? You're supposed to be at the temple soon, aren't you?”

  He was certainly dressed for it. He looked like he'd just walked out of an Armani catalogue. Only his face was still red. Was he upset? Or was he embarrassed?

  “I'm not allowed to witness my sister's wedding, as I'm sure you're aware. So why would I be expected at your temple?”

  Mormon temples weren't open to the public, and even members of the church had to have special permission to go inside. But apparently no one had explained about wedding protocol.

  “Hang on just a minute,” Mal said. She went back for her clipboard, then took it to London, who was telling a boy on a ladder what to do. “Hey. Call some of those cell numbers. See if he's expected.” She came back to 007. “There will be lots of family members who weren't able to witness the wedding. But they'll be there, waiting for the couple to come out. Then the family usually gathers on the steps and has pictures taken.”

  London got off the phone. “Yes, they're expecting him. Wedding starts at ten.”

  Mal already knew what had to be done. As she moved to the back of the ballroom, she hollered to Big Brother. “Don't suppose you know how to get to the Salt Lake Temple? Where to park? How to get in?”

  “Of course not,” he said loudly, but he sounded a little nervous. “I'm sure you're mistaken. They wouldn't want me there. I'm only a step-brother, in any case.”

  Mal laughed. “Nice try. They're expecting you, buddy. Pemberly wants you there. Today, Pemberly gets what Pemberly wants.” She waved an older boy down off a ladder, then crooked her finger at the other one assisting him. “Both of you have been to the Salt Lake Temple for a wedding, right?”

  They both nodded. The tallest one, Chandler, had been her driver once upon a time. She trusted him.

  “Know where to park at the Conference Center, to get to the temple fast?”

  They nodded again.

  She pointed to the shorter one. “You ride with Mr. St. John. Chandler, you take my car. He'll follow you. One of you walk him all the way in, then you both get your butts back here. Don't wreck my car.”

  She turned to find 007 standing behind her, looking a little small.

  He waited for the boys to head for the door, then bent toward her. “What if she doesn't want me in her pictures?”

  Mal rolled her eyes, but took pity on him. He really was nervous. This warm and fuzzy family stuff wasn't something he could control, and it probably scared him to death.

  “Don't worry,” she said. “Family is family when it comes to the Mormons. But look on the bright side. If she doesn't want you there, she can always photo-shop you out.”

  The boys pulled their coats and headed out into snow flurries. Big Brother started to follow, but turned back.

  “Thank you,” he said. Then he looked around again. “And I suppose I shall simply have to trust you.”

  “Get out,” she said.

  He gave her a little bow and left. She was pretty sure his hands were shaking.

  “That's it, people,” she shouted. “We've just lost two bodies. Let's move it!”

  ~ ~ ~

  At noon, the caterers brought a load of food and case goods, including plates, goblets, and flatware. They set up their chafing dishes on the buffet tables so Mal and her crew could decorate around them. They would return later with all of the hot appetizers, leaving some out in the tent with the hot beverages.

  At 1:30, just ahead of schedule, the cake crew arrived and began assembling the seven layers of cake around which Mal’s crew would hang more of the hand-painted ornaments. The cake itself was the most gorgeous Mal had ever seen, and she’d seen a lot of fabulous ones. The tiny white Onsidium orchids, made of paste, were half the size of butterflies and clung to delicate stems. The stems themselves shot out of the cake at the same angles as the real stems of orchids shooting out of the centerpieces, giving them the fountain effect. Everything was falling perfectly into place. Every creation was a reflection of another creation.

  Pemberly Adams was going to be thrilled.

  By the time the bakery crew left the island, the ballroom was swirling with the smell of gourmet cake. Mal should have been able to smell the flowers, too, but she had become desensitized to them. She was always told she smelled like flowers when she walked into a room, but she really couldn’t tell anymore.

  She leaned close to a giant sphere of solid white roses and took a deep breath in through her nose and was grateful she could smell them. If she kept inhaling cake fumes alone, she would soon find herself next to the cake table looking for a wayward piece of icing that didn’t belong. And it didn’t matter how solid the cake was, or how gifted the bakers who erected it, any wedding cake could fall if accidentally bumped. And with a cake of five-plus-feet, in addition to the three feet of table, she was taking no chances. So, just in case others were feeling the same temptation she was, she waited anxiously for the ornaments to be hung, then placed ten chairs in a circle around the cake table.

  If only to discourage herself.

  They’d had lunch two hours before, at 11:30, but apparently she should have ordered cupcakes for everyone, because all her employees, temporary and otherwise, were staring at that cake like she’d been.

  Mal sighed. As tortured as they were, they could suffer a little more for Pemberly’s sake.

  On the rest of the round tables, the massive centerpieces were perched on three feet of heavy glass. Inside that glass, artificial snow. Suspended above that snow, by invisible magician’s wire, were more hand-paint
ed ornaments. The arrangements consisted of white hydrangea, Columbian roses the size of apples, antique pink anemones, and crème French tulips. The fountain design was created with long stems of dendrobium orchids, and various grasses.

  But the finest effect was produced by five hundred stems of expensive, white, and rare Onsidium orchids. They floated out from the arrangements like trails of tiny butterflies playing Follow the Leader. To Pemberly, they would look like snowflakes.

  And nestled deep within the fountains were electric lime ornaments. Some solid. Some so intricate the eye is forced to take a closer look. If the flowers were as successful as the cake, the guests would wake up the next morning with sore necks from looking up all night.

  And as a little reward for looking up, the ancient ceiling was furnished with stenciled light in the shape of tiny snowflakes. Another of Pemberly’s wishes. The snow globe wedding had to be fun for those inside the globe, too.

  Mal looked back at the centerpieces. They were finished.

  They were finished! Not just on time, but early!

  “Looks like we over estimated-set up time for once,” said London, coming to stand next to her. “And what’s the deal with that cake? Think we can slip one of the layers out of the middle and they won’t notice?”

  “I know, right?” Mal gulped in a breath of sugared air. “We’d better get these teenagers out of here before they come up with the same idea.”

  “I can’t believe we’re not sweating this one down to the wire.”

  “Me too. I’m just glad Big Brother won’t be watching us hall out the trash.”

  London gave her a funny look.

  “What?” She wiped at her mouth, wondering if she’d wished so hard for a bite of that cake a bit of frosting might have manifested on her lips.

  “He’s gorgeous.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “And he kissed you.”

  Mal had forgotten she’d spilled those beans. “And he’s also the guy I’ve been having nightmares about for the past two weeks. I can’t wait until this is over and he’s gone back to England. I need sleep.”