My Big Fat Fake Wedding

by Landish, Lauren

  There must still be something in my eyes, but I shake my head, forcing myself to smile. There’s no way that I’m going to let Violet know the comments my father just made about me and her. “Nothing. Just Dad had some business news. Nothing I can do about it until Monday, though.”

  “Honey!” Mom says, her smile lighting up her face as she comes up. Dad’s words put a pall over her easy delight, though, making me question whether she thinks Violet’s too good for me too. Maybe she’s just this happy because she thinks Vi will finally get me to grow up. “Maria,” she says when she exchanges kisses with Violet’s mom, “it really has been too long. You look . . . you’re going to make a few trophy wives jealous tonight!”

  “Oh, hush,” Maria says, still grinning. “Just make sure you only point me to the single men, okay?”

  “Too bad you can’t show off your torta,” Sofia interjects, grinning. “Best way to a man’s heart is to let him nibble your pie!”

  “Uhh . . . excuse me?” Mom says while I try not to laugh.

  Leave it to Sofia’s blunt craziness to get me out of my head and into the moment. There will be time enough for self-recriminations later. For now, I need to remember that we are mid-show, the flashes of cameras reminding me that everyone’s watching.

  “Mom, this is Violet’s Aunt Sofia,” I say, introducing the two. “She’ll tell it to you like it is, and she’s one of the best cooks I’ve ever met.”

  “Knew Violet picked right,” Sofia says, giving me an almost starry-eyed smile. “Ross, if I were forty years younger—”

  “You’d still be too old for him!” Nana teases, making everyone laugh.

  Mom shows us to our table before someone calls her away for more duties. Pretty soon, all the guests have arrived and dinner is served. I’m encouraged when Mom, Abigail, and Courtney all join us at the same table, although when Dad joins us, his look is best described as stony.

  “They got Taylor Richardson to speak this year,” I tell everyone for distraction, nodding toward the VIP table nearby, where the city’s most famous face sits next to the lieutenant governor and his wife.

  Taylor gets up to make a speech, and while it’s cookie-cutter, pretty much fitting any charity event from ASPCA to the YMCA, he delivers it well, and there’s plenty of applause when he’s done.

  “You know, Morgan, you have quite the son,” Nana says, trying yet again to strike up a conversation with Dad. Unfortunately for her, most of his replies have been grunts or one-word answers, to the point he’s damn near come off as a caveman. “He’s been so kind. And the children he and Violet will have . . . oh, my, you’re going to have to hire security to keep them in line and safe. Did Violet tell you that twins and triplets run in the family?” She winks and laughs, like she’s letting us in on a big family secret.

  Violet half chokes on her white wine, spraying her plate a little as she tries to control herself. “Nana, it’s a bit early for that talk, don’t you think?”

  Dad’s eyes cut to me, hot fire burning in their depths. Once upon a time, that look would’ve terrified me, gotten me to stop doing just about anything in my desire to please him. Now, I throw my arm over the back of Violet’s chair and pull her closer to me. He grunts, which Nana takes as a response to her joke.

  The band strikes up a tune, and I decide maybe a little dancing is just what we need. It’s a lot better than encouraging them to keep on about me and Violet making babies.

  “I’ll save mine until they play Sinatra,” Nana says when I offer her my hand. “Go on, now. Show your woman there some fun.”

  I nod, holding my hand out to Violet, who takes it almost shyly. I chuckle a little when a couple of young men come over to ask Vanessa and Marissa for dances, but I lose track as I pull Violet into my arms and we start to move.

  I make a show of it, doing my best to pull up everything that I can remember from the social dancing classes Mom insisted I take in junior high school, what I can think of from being forced to watch DWTS with Abi, and whatever my mind can come up with to distract Violet from the tension in the air.

  I twirl her, I swing her, and we practically parade around the dance floor as the bandleader plays some up-tempo jazzy music, downshifting only when I’ve got Violet leaned back, her hair thrown back and her body stretched out in my arms. “Now that’s how you finish a dance,” I say against the skin of her neck before pressing a soft kiss there to test her pulse. It’s beating almost as fast as mine.

  “Whoa,” Violet says, smiling and a bit hazy-eyed as I straighten her up and pull her closer for a slower song, a sultry instrumental version of Waiting For A Girl Like You by Foreigner. “Look at you with all the moves.”

  I drop my voice, whispering hotly in her ear. “I’ll show you some moves when we get home.” Flirting with her is easy, comfortable ground, and desire works its way through me in a flash.

  Violet chuckles ruefully. “Even if it means twins? Or triplets?”

  “Let them enjoy their fantasy. I’ve got a few of my own, too,” I tell her, remembering my earlier plans to lean her over the dining table in this dress. “They’ll talk either way.”

  “Except for your dad,” Violet answers, biting her lip. My flirtiness drops away as she says, “The way he was with my family . . . it was damn near hostile.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry. I swear it’s not about them, though. It’s me,” I try to explain. But Violet looks unconvinced.

  “Baby girl, mind if I cut in?” Maria asks her daughter. “You know, for some practice for the reception?”

  “Of course, Mom,” Violet says. “I think I need a drink, anyway.”

  Maria and I start to dance, and as we do, she gives me a smile. “You’re doing pretty well, amico.”

  “Friends now, are we?” I tease. “Should I start calling you Madre?”

  “Only if you want my high heel in your butt,” Maria says with a laugh. “But seriously . . . I’m no fool, Ross. I can see your father doesn’t approve. I got that look a lot of times after I got pregnant, people thinking they could judge me when they couldn’t.”

  These Russo women are killing me tonight with their perceptiveness.

  I repeat the same thing I just told Violet. “It’s not about you or Violet. It’s about me. Dad doesn’t think I’m good enough for her, not the other way around.”

  It’s hard to say, and probably a stupid thing to say to your future-mother-in-law, but it seems fitting to tell her the truth about this, if nothing else.

  Maria purses her lips, looking at me in surprise, and then her eyes glance over to where my dad and mom are swaying on the floor. When she looks back at me, I feel like a guilty man about to hear his sentence from the harshest judge in the county. “I had my doubts. It was so fast, and I remember her rants about that ‘annoying boy’. But I see the way you look at Violet and the way she looks at you. For her to find love and be happy is all I’ve ever wanted for my daughter, Ross. And I believe you are the right man for her. It’s all going to be okay. Eventually, he will see what I do.”

  “Thanks, Maria.”

  The dance ends, and Maria steps back, punching me in the chest and grinning. “But that’s for calling her Chicken Legs for all those years.”

  There’s a tapping at the microphone, and I look up to see Mom and Dad at the main podium with the lieutenant governor’s wife, Delilah, who’s the MC tonight. “I hate to interrupt the dancing, folks,” she says, grinning the newscasters’ smile that got her on cable news commentary quite a lot in her pre-lady-who-lunches days, “but I just had such amazing news.”

  “I think we should have a seat,” Maria says, looking around at the clearing floor, and I nod. We head back to the table where Violet’s already waiting, and I sit down next to her, taking her hand and holding it on my thigh.

  “As most of you know, this is Morgan and Kimberly Andrews,” Delilah continues, “our hosts tonight. But in addition to offering their lovely manor for tonight’s festivities, Morgan just approached me and sai
d he’s making a hundred-thousand-dollar donation to the Gala Fund!”

  The applause is huge, and even I’m shocked enough to clap as people rise to their feet for a standing ovation and Dad is passed the microphone. “Thank you, Delilah,” Dad says, his most professional smile on his face. “Honestly, I spent all night feeling the need to say thank you. This organization does such great work for our community, and I’m so proud to be a part of that.”

  His eyes find mine in the crowd. “Can I let you in on a secret confession as well?” Delilah nods like a bobblehead, and I swear she leans forward far enough that she’s in danger of faceplanting. Dad takes Mom’s hand and she smiles. “I had an ulterior motive for wanting the microphone for a moment tonight. You see, my oldest child, my only son, recently got engaged, and their timeline didn’t allow for the usual engagement announcements, wedding showers, and whatnot. So . . . surprise, multi-purpose party! Seriously, though, we just wanted to brag for a moment.”

  The applause sounds out again, smaller this time, but interested eyes turn to me and Violet before going back to Dad.

  What is he doing? Why is he calling me out like this?

  “We weren’t sure he was ever going to grow up,” Dad says lightly, and chuckles sprinkle through the garden. “But the power of a good woman is a miraculous thing. Welcome to the family, Violet. He’s your problem now.” Dad raises his glass with a big smile, and everyone cheers, thinking the toast is meant to be a silly roast between a loving father and son.

  I don’t realize how hard I’m clenching Violet’s hand until she lays her other hand over mine and taps me. I let her hand go abruptly, and we pick up our glasses, saluting with fake smiles, and then drink. Violet takes a small sip. I toss the whole thing back in one go, even though it’s champagne.

  “You okay?” she asks quietly.

  “Yeah, just unexpected,” I say in the understatement of the century. “I’m not sure what his play is with that, but there’s a reason. There’s always a reason.”

  Delilah takes the microphone back and raises her glass our way. “Congratulations, Ross and Violet.”

  Looking back over the audience, she confides, “Kimberly spilled the beans to me about the upcoming nuptials and the quick timeline, and I felt called to help you two have the wedding day of your dreams. As many of you know, I’m the chairperson for the City Philharmonic, who have played so beautifully this evening.” She holds up a hand, gesturing to the group of strings players off to the side of the dining area, and everyone claps politely. “So I called in a favor or two, and my husband, John, and I would like to offer a wedding gift to the bride and groom. We’ve secured a strings ensemble to play at your wedding.” Delilah is so pleased with herself that she grins hugely, so big and open-mouthed that I can see her back teeth.

  The crowd gasps, and I can sense Violet’s jerk of response.

  What? Oh, shit, that’s so nice, but so overwhelmingly not needed. And what are we talking, here? Like a small quartet or the whole string section of the City Philharmonic?

  But Delilah’s not done. “I also talked to my friends at KMBP.” She pauses dramatically to let everyone remember her days on the daily news. “And they offered a crew to do your videography. Personal, of course, not for the news.”

  “Seriously? A news crew following us around all day?” Violet sounds as horrified as I feel.

  But somehow, I stand and pull her up beside me, a fake smile plastered on my face because I’ve been trained my whole life for weird shit like this and know that mission one is to save face gracefully. I squeeze Violet’s hand until she smiles too. “My goodness, Delilah. That is so generous.” I want to refuse it. Fuck, how can I get out of this? One look at Dad tells me the bottom line on the situation and I straighten my spine. “Thank you so much. We’d be delighted to accept.”

  Chapter 18

  Violet—Sunday—6 Days Until the Wedding

  “And in society news over the weekend, the normally mundane Community Freedom Gala was shaken up last night as, apparently, love was in the air in addition to charitable goodwill.”

  The video then cuts to Ross and me dancing as the reporter does a voiceover.

  “That’s right, ladies. Playboy bachelor, Ross Andrews, is apparently off the market. Aww.” Her sadness and smile are both as fake as her bottle-blonde hair. “He’s been snatched up by up and coming local interior designer, Violet Russo, according to Morgan Andrews, the father of the groom-to-be. It seems everyone was feeling the love, too. Check out the generous support Mr. Andrews, Lieutenant Governor John Border, and Mrs. Delilah Border gave at the evening’s festivities.”

  The video cuts again to clips of Morgan’s donation to the Gala Fund, and the offer for the orchestra and camera crew, before cutting back to the anchor in the studio. “So with the nuptials less than a week away, many, many eyes will be watching to see if this Cinderella story really can have a happily ever after.”

  I hit the Pause button on my laptop and close the clip. I’ve seen it before. It premiered on the Sunday Local Wrap-Up first thing this morning, and Ross’s Google alert had notified him that his name was in the press again, but it seems that the clip’s gone a little viral since someone dubbed I Had The Time Of My Life from Dirty Dancing over it.

  Archie sent it to me an hour ago, excitedly proclaiming that it had ten thousand views. The counter in the corner says it’s at more than triple that now, though more than a handful of those views are mine.

  The bathroom door opens, and a naked Ross comes swaggering back into the bedroom “Vi, stop torturing yourself and don’t watch it again.”

  Firstly, he looks good. Downright lickable, in fact. But I can’t even focus on the amazing specimen of man in front of me because . . .

  Secondly, our engagement and rush-order wedding are splashed all over the news, we’ve got a who-knows-how-big orchestra slated to play, a news crew coming, my cousins are singing, more family showing up any day now, and I don’t have a dress.

  Oh, yeah, and it’s all fake.

  “What are we going to do?” I say, shaking my head. “I thought this would be easy, just a quiet ceremony and we’d be all set. This is nuts.” My eyes bore into him. He has to see that, right? Maybe we should cancel it? But that would do more harm than good at this point, I think.

  “Violet, have you met your family? I mean, really? You thought you were going to have some quiet little countryside wedding, and it’d all be idyllic and sweet. And most importantly, under your control.” His tone is even, but the sarcasm is heavily implied and virtually dripping from his raised brows.

  I freeze. God, I hate that he knows me so well sometimes. True confession—I love it at other times. This is not one of those times. Right now, I want to pretend that this over-the-top craziness is all someone else’s fault and that something, anything, can be done about it.

  I cross my arms but glare when Ross looks newly intrigued at the way it pushes my breasts up. I’m as naked as Ross is, but we’d collapsed last night when we got home, both of us quietly letting the wild roller coaster of the evening play out on repeat in our minds.

  Remembering one of the earlier oddities of the evening, I ask him, “What was really up with your dad? I know it wasn’t a work thing he wanted to talk to you about. It was about us, wasn’t it? Did you know he was going to make that speech?”

  Ross shakes his head and sits down on the side of the bed. His elbows on his knees, he buries his hands into his hair and growls. “No, I definitely did not know he was planning that. Maybe I should’ve seen it coming, though? He definitely increased the pressure on us and put a big old target on our backs with the press. Not sure how he thinks that’s going to play out in his favor.”

  I’m quiet, just waiting for Ross to decide whether he wants to tell me about his private conversation with his dad. I know it must’ve been important or it wouldn’t still be eating at him.

  After a long minute where I can virtually see his mind tracing steps and possible outcome
s, I almost tease him about calling me a control freak. But before I can say a word, he finally speaks. “He doesn’t think I’m good enough for you.”

  It takes a moment for the words to sink in. “You mean he doesn’t think I’m good enough for you,” I say, making the obvious correction.

  Ross huffs a humorless laugh, “No, really. He basically told me that you’ve always been a lovely girl, hardworking and honest, and that he and Mom love you. I, on the other hand, am an immature asshole of a brat who fucks up everything in my personal life to the point where my only redeeming quality is my work. He basically said that I had to be paying you or blackmailing you or something because there’s no way you’d actually like me, much less love me, just for me.”

  My jaw drops. That’s not at all what I was expecting to hear.

  I scoot over to sit behind Ross, my butt on my heels with my legs bent beneath me. I scratch lazy circles along his back, tracing each muscle. “I am so sorry. That’s ridiculous.”

  He shudders beneath my hands. “It was definitely not the conversation I was expecting to have with him.”

  “What did he say? Like word for word. Maybe you misunderstood or something? Because the obvious outlier here is me, not you. I mean, my family brought a cheesecake to a catered gala affair, and then Sofia basically propositioned the lieutenant governor.”

  Ross looks at me, horror and humor in equal measure. “She did not.”

  I nod vehemently, “Oh, yes, she did. Told him he was ‘quite handsome for a man of his age’ and then offered to teach him a few things she’d bet he’s never tried. When he politely declined, she tried to play it off that she was going to teach him pinochle, but we all know she’s shit for card games.”

  “Oh, my God, how did I miss that? I needed that laugh last night.” He starts to chuckle a little. “Hell, I need that laugh now.”

  I laugh too, hesitantly, before dipping my toe into the deep water of his relationship with his dad. “Look, Ross, I don’t know what it is your dad wants from you or sees in you, but to me, you’re a . . .” I pause, narrowing my eyes at him, “I want you to know how much it pains me to say this, but you’re a . . . good guy.”