by Cary Hart
And just like that, I realize why Mindy’s mesmerized by this ruggedly handsome man. Everything about him is a contradiction. His voice is smooth, but his actions—arrogant. He looks as if his face hasn’t seen a razor in weeks, yet his suit is tailored to perfection and fits him in all the right places. Not that I’m looking. Okay, I’m totally looking. More like gawking, but let’s not go there.
“Miss?” the sexy suit purrs.
Do guys even purr? Because this suit, did exactly that. He purred—my—name. Well, maybe not my name exactly, but pretty damn close.
“Yes. I…um…” I stutter, trying to get myself back on track. “That’s why I came in here.”
I turn my back on Mr. Sex On A Stick and address Mindy. “How’s that coming?”
“It’s going great, Vegas. It actually tastes pretty good for being a gluten and dairy free cake.” Mindy blushes as she glances at our intruder.
“Good. Great.” I nod, unable to find the right words. “Wait—” I spin around, facing the smirking stranger, who is now standing there with his arms crossed—watching—waiting. “Who in the heck are you?”
“Actually, I’m here for an appointment.” He straightens and takes a step toward me.
“Oh! Oh my God.” I begin to panic.
Man.
Suit.
Appointment.
He’s the groom!
“Listen.” I rush toward the stranger, grab him by his elbow, and pull him out of the kitchen. “I know what you’re feeling, and it’s normal.”
“You do?” He seems confused.
“Yes. It’s natural for a man to have cold feet on his wedding day, but I assure you, when you see your bride walk down that aisle, it will be the most perfect day of your life.” I pull him down the hall into Carol’s office, our on-site marriage counselor. “Carol should be coming in real soon. Okay? So just hang in there.”
“Listen, I don’t think you…” the suit interrupts, but I cut back in.
“But I do. I know this is going to work out for the both
of you, okay?” I pull the chair out and push him down. “You just sit here and try not to think about anything unless it’s your bride until Carol gets here. Got it?”
He smiles. “Has anyone told you that you have the cutest nose?”
“What?” My eyes grow wide. Is he coming on to me? Did he just tell me my nose looks cute? I throw my hand up, covering half my face.
“Yeah, apparently when you get worked up, you do this little twitchy thing with your nose.” He chuckles.
I’m not amused.
“Listen here, buddy. My nose is not cute, and you will get married. Do you understand? There will not be a runner on my watch,” I huff out.
“A runner?” His grin is even wider. A permanent smirk plastered on his face.
Is this guy for real?
“Good Morning, Vegas.” Carol waltzes in, coffee in hand. “What seems to be the emergency?” She rounds her desk and takes a seat.
“I caught the groom in the kitchen flirting with Mindy.”
“I wasn’t flirting.” He turns and stares me down with those smoldering baby blues. “Not with Mindy, at least.” He winks at me.
“See what I mean, Carol?” I reach up and gently push his face away. “What are we going to do?”
“Yeah, Carol.” He leans forward, arms on her desk. “What are we going to do?”
I gasp.
He laughs.
Carol smiles.
“Vegas, he’s not the groom,” Carol says as she leans back in her leather chair.
“He’s not?” I crinkle my nose.
“There!” He points at my face. “You’re doing it now.” He turns back toward Carol. “It’s cute, don’t you agree?”
“Vegas,” Carol ignores the suit. “He’s not the groom. He’s your new boss.”
“My what?”
Mr. Sex On A Stick stands and holds out his hand. “I’m Grant Foster, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Manilow, is it?”
This has to be some kind of sick joke. Like, who does he think he is coming in here and acting like he’s my boss? I’m the boss. So, he can’t be. Can he?
“You must be mistaken.” I wait for one of them to say something, but they just sit there and let me unravel. “Ohhh! I get it now.” I scan the room for a hidden camera. “I’m being punked. Yeah, that’s it. This is a joke, right?”
“No joke,” Carol admits.
“This can’t be. The One Stop was left to Harold and Darla’s only grandson, Jujube, and he didn’t even have the decency to show up for their funeral,” I rattle off. “Who does that?”
The suit stands, towering over me as his smile quickly disappears. “Someone who didn’t know what was happening.” His voice is filled with pain and regret.
Can it be?
“Jujube?” I say the name I’ve heard a million times.
“Please—call me Grant, your new boss.”
My new boss.
My boss, Grant Foster.
It doesn’t matter how many times I say it, I still can’t believe. In the eighteen months I’ve worked here, never once did Harold and Darla say their grandson showed interest in taking over the family business.
Which then brings me to my next question: why is he here? From the stories Darla would tell me, Harold came from old money and invested it wisely. Their precious little Jujube was set for life. So, again—why now?
I can’t do this. I have a job to do and a list to check off. Standing, I excuse myself and rush out.
“Miss Manilow,” Grant calls after me. “We need to talk.”
Pulling out my cell, I open my notes and scan to see what’s next.
Specialty Cake
Flowers
Wedding – Name List
Reception for Saturday (email band)
Sully (vacation – call temp srvc.)
Change lock on Suite 7
Call Monica
Magazine shoot (approve models)
Pick up dry cleaning
Check inventory
“Miss Manilow!” Grant hollers as he swings me around, and our chests collide. I try not to notice how muscular his chest is. Or how hard. Rock hard, like a brick wall. No, I didn’t notice at all. “Mr. Foster!” I shriek. “That was uncalled for.”
“Please, Vegas,” he pleads, his voice calm and collected. “I just need a minute of your time.”
I shouldn’t be upset. I never planned on staying as long as I have, but I did, so I am. This is more than a job to me. It’s my home. Now, I’m standing in front of this arrogant asshole who says he has every right to take it away. I’m furious.
“Just one,” he whispers.
“Fine,” I cave. “My office—now.”
Grant
I didn’t plan on staying. I was just on my way to the Attorney’s office when I thought I would make a quick pit stop by the One Stop Wedding Shop, but when I finally came face to face with Vegas Manilow, “quarter girl,” I knew I had to know more about her.
The problem? Our introduction.
First, she thought I was some jerk hitting on the baker, then she thought I was the runaway groom. Neither time did I correct her. It wasn’t until Carol, the marriage counselor, decided to out me as her new boss. Which, technically, I am, according to the papers—I just don’t want to be.
However, the feisty blonde with eyes the color of gems, had other plans, and I’m about to find out exactly what they are.
“So, is everyone in line to get married?” I take my chance and ask a question.
“Grant…” She spins around and holds out her arms, “this is a wedding chapel. People come here to get married!” her voice rises an octave as she begins speaking louder and slower, for my benefit no doubt. “If you are unaware of that, then maybe you should rethink your position.” She enunciates every word before throwing her arms in the air and marching to the office. I hear the door slam and decide two can play this game.
I’m not ex
actly sure what game she’s playing, but if running after her is what she wants, she’s going to have to play harder. So, I take my sweet time and greet the soon-to-be newlyweds. One by one. I would never admit it to her, but I am a little shocked by the characters who come through this place. But if we’re selling weddings, then weddings it is!
Opening the door, I feel her eyes on me. If she’s staring to intimidate me? It’s working—almost. I came here to talk to her, and talking is what we’ll do, even if it falls upon deaf ears.
“Kill ’em with kindness, Jujube,” my grandmother always said. No time like the present.
“I could have sworn I saw a pirate confessing his love to a parrot out there.” I throw my thumb over my shoulder.
“Figures,” Vegas mumbles. “People come here because they are in love and want to get married. We don’t discriminate, and if you do, this is not the place for you.”
“Oh, I’m all about lovin’ the one you’re with.” I wink.
“Is this a joke to you?” Vegas warns. “Because happily ever forever was what your grandmother wanted, and I’ll be damned if it’s not what those people are going to get.”
“Vegas…” I try to reason.
“You want it?” Vegas throws a stack of lists down on the worn wood desk. “It’s yours, boss man. I have a goat to wrangle and pirate wedding to plan, so if you’ll excuse me—boss.”
“I’m not…” I start to say, but I don’t give her the satisfaction.
“No, you’re certainly not.” She storms right past me and slams the door. “Asshole,” she mutters on the other side.
“I can hear you,” I call out.
She swings the door open, and yells, “I wasn’t whispering!” before stomping off down the hall.
I came.
I saw.
I will conquer.
Vegas Manilow struck a chord with me, and I’m about to show her how to play.
“Kid, wake up,” a loud husky voice, which can only belong to one person, jolts me awake. “We have a situation.” Dottie yanks the covers down.
“Aunt Dottie,” I whine. “It’s my day off.” I sit up only long enough to pull the covers back up. “Get Grant to handle it.”
Normally, I would be available for situations like this, but since Grant decided to “learn the ropes,” I’ve been throwing every situation that could possibly go wrong his way.
Is this me submitting? Hell—to—the—nah! This is me trying to show Big Boss Man this job is more than playing dress up. There are lists that need to be checked off. Lists he still has yet to complete, but he still continues to ask for them. Who does that? That like—goes against—every list making rule. It’s numero uno! You can add to a list, but you don’t create a new one until the last one is complete.
“I’m on top of it,” he says.
“I’ve got it all under control,” he confirms.
“Don’t worry, Vegas. I got this.” He smiles.
Each day, he asks for a rundown, and each day, I give him a list only for him to tuck it away in his front pocket. The graveyard where lists go to die. The horror!
“Kid, he’s got it under control.” She yanks the covers completely off this time. Smart move on her part.
“Then why this?” I jump out of bed, stumbling over the heels I kicked off last night when I was too tired to do anything else but face plant into bed—all because of another situation I had to clean up, thanks to Mr. Foster.
“Because it’s your mess, and he needs your help.” Dottie stands there with a garment bag in hand.
I’m confused. He’s the one in charge.
“My fault? He’s the one who wanted to play boss.” I pad over to the kitchen, realizing I’m out of coffee—again.
“Shit.”
“I’ll get’cha your coffee,” Aunt Dottie says as she walks over to the island. “But you gotta help Juju. Got it?”
“That drives me nuts,” I mumble.
Everyone who has been here for more than ten years calls Grant by the little pet name his grandparents called him. God rest their souls. Like seriously, he has to be almost thirty now.
“Tell me why this is my fault again?” I weigh my options.
Dottie lays the bag over the stool and throws her hands on her hips. “Kid, you’re testing my patience.”
Oh snap! I haven’t seen Dottie this irritated since I got into her wig collection and gave them all highlights—rainbow ones—with permanent marker. That was eighteen years ago when I was into Rainbow Brite.
“Someone never approved models for that photo shoot.” Dottie purses her lips and raises a brow.
“Oh shit!” I reach for my phone and pull up my calendar. “I completely forgot about Everyday Bride.”
Aunt Dottie doesn’t say anything. She just narrows her eyes and stares me down.
An idea pops into my head. “I can fix this.” I punch in the number I know by heart, and it rings. “If it’s models we need, Monica will get us some. She knows them all.”
Before Monica can pick up, Aunt Dottie takes my phone and ends the call. “Kid, we don’t have time.”
“What do you mean we don’t have time?” I yank my phone back. “Monica can have someone out here by tomorrow.”
“They’re downstairs right now,” Dottie rasps out. “Waiting on you.”
“Me?” I’m confused.
“Juju saved your sweet ass.” Dottie rounds the island and swats me on my rear. “Now, go shower. You have a dress to model.”
“I do?” My eyes go wide. “Me?”
“Yeah, you.” Dottie shoos me. “Oh! Don’t forget some of that lacy floss stuff you girls wear,” she hollers after me. “You know, from Tori’s Secret.”
Victoria’s, I silently correct her when it hits me. “You mean…”
“You made your bed…” Dottie croaks out.
“Ugh!” I roll my eyes. “Now I have to lie in it. Just great!”
Grant
I have to admit, she almost got me. For the past two weeks, Vegas Manilow has been trying to make my life a living hell with her lists. Every—damn—day, she shows up bright and early with another one, and every—damn—day, I shove it right in my fucking pocket.
I never meant to piss her off, and I sure as hell didn’t plan on running the twenty-four-hour chapel, but the moment she found out I was her boss, I couldn’t help but fuck with her a little. The more I pushed, the sexier she became.
I’m not sure when exactly I reverted back to my middle school ways but being around her brings it out in me. I’m one insult away from showing her how “cute” I think she is. It’s pathetic.
A part of me thinks she did this on purpose—so I would give up, throw in the towel—but then there’s a part that knows how much Vegas loves this place. Her passion was undeniable when we met. She thought I was a runaway groom and was willing to say or do anything to keep me from getting cold feet. That is not a person willing to risk losing an opportunity that could make the One Stop Wedding Shop stand out from the rest of the twenty-four-hour wedding chapels in Sin City.
Either way, accident or not, I wasn’t going to let this slip through the cracks. Being featured in Everyday Bride is a huge compliment. The One Stop Wedding Shop doesn’t just sell a wedding. What my grandparents built was an experience.
So, I saved the day by improvising. Who needs a model groom when you have me? A ruggedly handsome, yet charming man, who just so happens to run a business that rents wedding apparel.
“Mr. Foster?” Kristen, the photog assistant, calls out. “We will be ready in about fifteen minutes.”
“Perfect.” I turn around.
“Oh my!” She clears her throat. “I mean—you’re nice. No—you look very nice. Ugh! I mean—you’re nice too, but also look very handsome, Mr. Foster.” She stumbles over her words.
I chuckle. “Thank you, Kristen.” I take a few steps forward. “The bride will be down shortly.”
And is if on cue, Vegas comes around the corner, taking
my breath away. Lace hugging her body in all the right places. I can’t look away. My eyes follow the soft, flimsy fabric down past the deep V to where it falls at her feet, before dragging them back up and resting on her exposed neck. I swallow the words I want to say and look away. I can’t force my gaze to meet hers, afraid my poker face won’t hold.
“Seriously?” Vegas stops in her tracks. “Is it that bad?”
I did that. I placed the doubt in her head with one simple glance.
Taking a deep breath, I step closer. “You are…”
“Stop right there.” She holds out her hand.
“Vegas, I was just going to say—”
“Please. I don’t need to hear how I screwed up.” She steps to her left and tries to walk around me.
I step with her.
“Grant, please. I’m here,” Vegas picks up a layer of lace, “wearing this stupid gown. I think that’s enough of an apology. Okay?”
This is where I should tell her she’s absolutely gorgeous. Confess she consumes my thoughts day and night. Especially night. That seeing her in that dress makes me want to take her to the nearest honeymoon suite and peel it from her body, inch by inch.
Instead, I reach around her waist and pull her in tight, twirling us to face the camera. “Say cheese.”
“I hate you, Grant Foster.”
Yeah, me too.
At that moment, when his eyes met mine, I felt like Cinderella in my own modern-day fairy tale—until I realized my Prince Charming was still a frog. It would be easier to dislike him if I wasn’t starting to want him. Ugh! He makes me feel things. ALL the things actually. Things I never expected or wanted. This photo shoot was a bad idea. It’s put me in the last place I should be, chest to chest with a man who is already under my skin.
I’ve spent the last two hours in Grant Foster’s arms, and I’m not lying when I say I haven’t enjoyed it. I didn’t. In fact, I hated every moment of it. It was pure torture. That man doesn’t know how to take anything seriously. I may have been the one to originally screw this situation up, but he’s taking this way too far. This spread is going to be the laughing stock of the bridal industry.
