My Big Fat Fake Wedding

by Landish, Lauren

  The rush I receive completing my creation is the perfect antidote for the terrible news I received from Colin and the extra whammy from Mom this morning.

  News I have yet to tell Arch or Abi.

  The wound’s still too fresh, the shock too potent, and telling them right now after just looking at wedding dresses for ten hours, and still failing to find The One, may cause a breakdown.

  Mine or theirs? Maybe both?

  Which I refuse to do.

  Right now, I just need to focus on my work and forget about all the negative things going on in my life. It’s admittedly a bit like an ostrich burying its head in the sand, but it’s the only way I’ll remain sane today. It’s one of the things I love most about my job. When I’m creating homes and spaces that uplift the spirit and inspire, I feel centered and at peace.

  And I badly need to feel both right now.

  I shove my dark thoughts aside and appraise my latest creation with a critical eye.

  Fresh cream-colored paint adorns the walls with matching luxuriously welcoming furniture carefully staged around the room, while vibrant pastel colors provide the perfect contrast against the light-colored decor.

  The accents are just right—blues, pinks, and yellows.

  It gives the room a gorgeous pop.

  It’s young, feminine, and expressive.

  And perfect.

  Except for the fact that it might not be what my client wants.

  “I’m bored,” my client, Lydia Montgomery, said when she hired me for the job. “Surprise me.”

  And that’s all she gave me to go on. No theme ideas. No colors she wanted. No direction.

  No nothing.

  To be clear, a seventy-year-old multi-millionaire heiress is hard to surprise. She’s seen it all, done it all, and from what I can tell, hasn’t liked much of anything in her pampered life.

  Usually, I can figure out things about a person using cues they don’t even know they’re sending. Their clothes, their car, or the rest of the spaces in their home says a lot. But Lydia is a blank slate of black designer clothes, architectural but simple, and a chauffeured car that doesn’t speak to her likes at all. Her whole house has been piecemealed, room by room, by different designers.

  All together, I had nothing but my own instincts to go on.

  Given her attitude and what Archie likes to call ‘permanent resting bitch face,’ I chose to ignore Arch’s suggestion that she needed some dick and instead decided she needed a little warmth and softness in her life to temper her sour disposition. And maybe an update of a generation or two.

  I think the ultra-light and colorful design is just what Ms. Montgomery needs, if only she likes it.

  “How could she not love this?” I ask myself as much as Arch, staring critically at my creation with pride. I so love it. The room just seems so alive and vibrant, compared to the dull, gold, overly ornate decor Lydia had before. “We did a terrific job.”

  Archie dips his chin, his lips pursed. “Let’s be honest. You did a terrific job. I just looked pretty and did what I was told. You know you’re the only one I do that for, right?” His ring-decorated hands on his hips, his tapping boot, and the look of fierceness on his face definitely tell that tale easily.

  I laugh, though he’s basically right. Archie has a lot of personality, blunt and big and take no prisoners. Why he deigns to work for me, I’ll never know, but he certainly never defers to anyone else. Ever.

  Truth be told, I’m terrified Lydia’s going to trash my design. And maybe I shouldn’t have taken a risk with something chic and modern, but my gut said Darth Vader’s sister needed some colorfulness in her life.

  “Normally, I’d say this room is an easy slam-dunk. But that woman is evil incarnate. I mean, all she’s missing is a crapload of Dalmatian puppies and—”

  Right then, the giant double doors to the entryway swing open, accompanied by the sound of high-pitched barking.

  “Speak of the devil,” Arch mutters under his breath. “Bitch-ella has arrived.” I swat at him, but he’s too quick, moving a step away and shooting daggers at me from under his arched and slashed brows. “Don’t even think about it, Boss Lady.”

  Dressed in a black pantsuit, her white hair done up into a fashionable French twist, Lydia Montgomery strolls into the room with a small pup balanced on her arm. It’s a fuzzy white Pomeranian, not a Dalmatian, thankfully, or I probably would’ve lost it and started laughing at the moniker that Arch bestowed upon her. The fluffball isn’t nearly as cute as the movie dogs, either, and it doesn’t know the meaning of be quiet, judging by the chorus of constant yips.

  Beside me, Arch visibly rearranges his posture, standing up straight and placing his hands respectfully in front of his crotch, which looks a bit odd for someone in ripped jeans and a t-shirt, even if they are vintage 80s and designer. Unconsciously, I almost do the same as Lydia stops in front of us with a frown that could curdle milk as she strokes the head of her yapping puppy.

  Damn, you’d think she’s the Queen of England. I don’t know if I should bow, curtsey, or just roll my eyes.

  “Welcome back—” Arch begins to say, and I’m thankful for his attempt at professionalism, but he’s silenced by Lydia’s frosty glare.

  Turning her nose up, Lydia moves away to tour the room, inspecting our work, her militant gaze missing nothing. Her low kitten heels click against the ultra-polished marble floors and somehow manage to sound demanding and ominous.

  When she’s done, she takes a seat on the gorgeous cream-colored couch I picked out and levels a scowl that could melt lead our way. Meanwhile, pup-inator is growling at us like we stole one of his doggie biscuits.

  Arch and I exchange glances, and he mutters under his breath as he begins to slink away. “Okay, you grab all our stuff and I’ll go start the getaway vehicle.”

  Ignoring Arch, I begin blurting out details. “The wall color is Chantilly Lace, the couch is custom in a washed cotton that gives the feel of linen but with better longevity, the art is by . . .” I give her the highlights of the room, making sure she sees the details, though I’m sure her eagle-eyed gaze missed nothing. I think that knowing the pedigree of some of these pieces will make a woman like Lydia Montgomery appreciate them more.

  She doesn’t so much as look my way as I list out information, though her eyes follow my words around the room.

  There’s a lot riding on this design. Lydia told me at the outset that this project was a test to see if she’d like to use me to design several more rooms inside her historic estate. And having her on my reference list would get me other clients automatically. As long as she likes it.

  Lydia’s face morphs into an uncustomary smile in a move that seems almost difficult for her unused facial muscles to pull off, and her words shock me. “It’s absolutely gorgeous, elegantly simple but layered and warm. When would you like to start with the rest of the renovations?”

  And that’s that, I guess. I wouldn’t have minded a bit more effusiveness about my work, but I’ll take the bare-boned praise happily. Woo-hoo for me!

  Twenty minutes later, Arch and I have packed up our work SUV outside and are heading down the road, passing palatial estates and historic mansions. But I don’t see any of them as we celebrate our success.

  “Can you believe that?” Archie asks, using an unused pillow as a headrest. “I really thought we were going to have to make a run for it before she tried to skin us to make a coat as punishment for fucking up her living room. It puts the lotion on . . .” he intones.

  “So did I,” I say, shaking my head. “For the record, I don’t have any fur, though.” I smile, waiting a half-beat for Arch’s comeback, knowing I lobbed him a good opportunity.

  He scoffs and deadpans, “I know. I book your waxing appointments.” He looks pointedly at my crotch. “Never fear. I booked you for a full-body removal before the wedding. Don’t want Colin flossing with your snatch patch. Should I make it a couple’s waxing appointment? Don’t want you choking on hi
s dick nest either.”

  Normally, I’d laugh at that, but my heart stutters at Archie’s mention of the wedding, but I try to let it roll off my back. I won’t let it dim my flashlight of happiness over a job well done.

  Lydia Montgomery is definitely one of those people who are hard to please, and I made her smile with my pure talent.

  Eat your heart out, Colin! Decorating thing, my ass!

  Attempting to stay on topic, I ask, “Did you see her smile? That’s probably the first time she’s smiled in weeks. Maybe months.”

  “No kidding. Her lips stay more puckered than my asshole,” Arch agrees, making kissing sounds with his pursed lips. “And did you feel that ‘bow down, peasant bitch’ aura? I didn’t know whether to curtsey or kiss her ring!”

  I chuckle, slowing down to give an oncoming Bentley the right of way in the narrow street. “She does have a way about her for sure.”

  “Speaking of rings, have you told your family about the wedding date yet?” Arch asks. “Your Papa has to be going mad with anticipation!”

  Ugh.

  I should’ve known this was coming. I just don’t know if I have the strength to talk about it yet.

  I open my mouth to make up some lie when my cell ringtone, Taylor Swift’s Blank Space, goes off and I see a series of texts go across the screen.

  Yay, girly! The wedding invitations are ready!

  Can’t wait for you to see!

  They’re so pretty! Perfect, if I say so myself.

  Damn it. I’d totally forgotten about those damn invitations. They’re totally worthless now, and Abi won’t be happy when I reveal that she did all that work in vain.

  Not that I could have planned for Colin calling off our engagement.

  “Who is that?” Arch asks as I hold in an internal groan. “Your horny fiancé, looking for an after-work booty call? Bow-chicka-wow-wow.”

  But there’s no need to answer him because he dives for my phone and reads the text messages himself. It’s part of his role as my assistant, part of his gig as best friend, but mostly just because he’s nosy.

  “Whoop, whoop!” Archie cheers. “Let’s go see these masterpieces Abi thinks she’s created so I can fix them the way they should’ve been done all along.” He smirks, and I know he’s kidding. Kind of. Maybe. “Let’s go, Bridezilla. Take the 305. It’s faster.”

  Sighing at what’s to come, I head down the highway back toward the city and resignedly mutter, “Yay. Let’s go.”

  * * *

  “Here they are!” Abi chirps, presenting the wedding invitations to me, beautifully embossed peach-colored parchment with white vines lining the sides, interlaced with pink-colored roses.

  Archie, Abi, and I are standing in the back room of her shop, Sweet Pea Boutique, gathered around a work table stacked with beautiful wedding invitations—around three hundred, to be exact—while Abi’s associate, Janey, manages the front of the shop for incoming customers.

  My breath catches in my throat as I peer down at the gorgeously designed invitations. They’re works of art, rich and creamy card stock, lettering that’s flowy without being frilly . . . they’re perfection. “Oh, my God, Abi, these are so beautiful!”

  Abi beams with pride as a breath I didn’t realize she was holding leaves her in a whoosh sound. “Oh, sweetie, I’m so relieved you like them! I know you wanted white on white, but when I saw this color, I knew I had to incorporate it.”

  “You were right,” I say breathlessly, a single tear coursing down my cheek, but not for the reason Abi and Arch probably think it is. “These are fantastic.”

  Archie nods, holding up the invitation to the light, agreeing, “It’s definitely a work of art! Pretty in blushing virgin pink! Not that you’ve been one of those in eons.”

  He laughs at his own joke as I trace a finger over one of the floral designs, feeling like my heart is going to drop through my chest.

  I have to tell Abi and Archie. They’re my best friends, but saying it aloud makes it more real, more final, more ridiculous.

  Abi, who is always perceptive about my moods, suddenly peers at me closely. “Is something wrong, Vi?” She takes my hands, turning me toward her and holding my arms out wide as she scans me from head to toe. I feel her hands squeeze mine, and then her eyes widen as she grips my left hand and pulls it in front of her face. “Wait a minute. Where’s your engagement ring?”

  Even though I knew the question was coming, I freeze as Archie and Abi look at me expectantly.

  Taking a deep breath, I open my mouth to let it all out.

  “I—” Suddenly, a tidal wave of emotion washes over me and I burst into tears. “Colin called off the engagement!” I blurt, sobbing uncontrollably. “We’re not getting married!”

  “Oh, my God, honey,” Abi gasps in horror. “I’m so sorry!”

  Immediately, I’m enveloped in the arms of Archie and Abi as they hold my body totally supported while I try to hold back the sobs that won’t stop coming. For the next several moments, they both coo and soothe me as the tears I’ve held back for the entire day flow out of me like a great river.

  Girl, stop crying over that asshole! You’re gonna scare off Abi’s customers with all this caterwauling!

  The thought is sobering, and after a few more hiccups, I pull myself together enough to tell Archie and Abi that I’m fine. They let me go hesitantly, eyes ping-ponging from each other then back to me in a silent conversation.

  “Did he give a reason?” Abi asks softly, her eyes filled with compassion and fury at seeing me hurt. She’s a good friend, and I know that between her and Archie, Colin would be buried in a shallow grave in the woods outside town and we’d all have airtight alibis at the snap of my fingers. Okay, maybe not that drastic for real, but damn close.

  I dab at the corner of my eyes with the napkin she produces from her purse that’s sitting on a nearby stool, feeling angry with myself for breaking down like this. All day while I worked, I told myself that I’d be strong and I wouldn’t do it. But I guess I’m more hurt about it than I’m willing to admit. “He said we both were so busy and that we’re at different crossroads in our lives . . . and he just wasn’t ready to commit.”

  “That’s code for he wants more pussy,” Archie says confidently, and when Abi scowls at him and throws a backhand to his bicep, he protests, “What? It’s the truth!”

  Abi hisses out of the corner of her mouth like I can’t hear her, “I know that, and you know that, but does Vi look like she wants to hear that right now? Shut-ay your mouth-ay.”

  Archie huffs, his neck swirling. “That’s not remotely how pig Latin works, dear. But message received.” They face me again like they didn’t just have a whole discussion about me right there.

  “But seriously, Vi, that’s a shitty excuse. You deserve a better explanation than some bullshit that doesn’t make any sense.”

  “But you know what?” I say, blowing my nose. “It actually does. When I really think about it, Colin was right. I don’t think we were ever really in love. I don’t know why he proposed, but I just got swept up with the idea of love and marriage and having this big fairy tale wedding. Especially because my Papa . . .”

  My words trail off as a lump forms in my throat.

  Both Arch and Abi give me empathetic looks, knowing how much Papa Stefano means to me.

  Just the thought of telling Papa my engagement is over is almost enough to send me over the brink. He was so looking forward to my wedding and walking me down the aisle.

  Now he probably never will.

  And I know in the deepest, ugliest part of my heart that he was my real reason for rushing with Colin and why I’m not that hurt about losing him, but more about what this all means for Papa. Honestly, it’s probably a good thing Colin stopped the whole thing, but that doesn’t make it any easier to reconcile that I won’t be able to give Papa the one thing he’s holding on for.

  I feel like a bitch for using Colin that way, but I’d been truly blinded by my own dream
s and thought we would be happy. The romanticism of the whole thing was so powerful . . . meeting again, falling in love, the need for a fast development of our relationship. It had felt magical and like my own whirlwind of a Hallmark movie.

  Big mistake. Huge.

  “I understand,” Abi says sadly, understanding my pain.

  Archie reaches over and gives my hand a comforting pat. “Don’t worry honey. Your granddaddy is gonna be just fine. We’re going to find another man who’s going to appreciate you for who you are, and you’ll get married and have the wedding you always dreamed of with your Papa at your side.”

  I quiet at Archie’s words. He means well, but we all know the odds of that happening are damn near zero. There’s no way I’ll be able to find another guy I actually like, build a relationship from the ground up, get engaged with him, and then marry before something horrible happens to Papa.

  This is the real world, not a Reese Witherspoon rom-com. You don’t meet the love of your life and get married over a single weekend, as the shards of my very own fantasy still surrounding me prove quite well.

  “But that’s just the tip of the iceberg.” I sigh. “My mom and Nana went around telling everyone that I was getting married, and cousins I didn’t even know I had are going to fly in from all over the world . . . unless I tell them all to cancel their tickets . . . which I have yet to do.”

  “Holy crap,” Archie mutters.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’m in deep shit unless I can come up with a magical solution.”

  At that exact moment, the entry doors to Sweet Pea’s open with a tinkling bell, and even from the back, I can see the tall man dressed impeccably in custom-tailored slacks and shirt enter. The soft lighting of the floral boutique makes his dark hair shine and throws his chiseled jawline into shadows and highlights, and a Greek god would be jealous of that physique, broad shoulders and a tapered waist atop long legs.

  I recognize him immediately.

  Ross Andrews.

  Abigail’s big brother.

  Abigail’s asshole big brother.