My Big Fat Fake Wedding

by Landish, Lauren

  He’s probably right. But I can’t kill my sister until after the wedding, even if she is turning into a brilliantly evil ‘villain’. For now, we need her, and if green tuxedos are what Vi would want, then green tuxedoes, it is.

  “Okay, I guess we’re in,” I answer for both Kaede and myself.

  Mason nods, gesturing to the platform for me to stand for measurements. “If you would, Ross.”

  I step up and Mason gets to work, efficient and graceful as he stretches his tape measure from my waist to the floor, talking the whole time in reassuring tones about having the custom pieces completed in plenty of time for a customer like me. Pretty sure it’s not me, per se, but rather my last name and the media coverage his work is going to get, but whatever makes it happen is fine by me.

  “Oh, just one more thing,” Abi says, clicking away on her phone. She doesn’t even glance up as she drops a bomb. “Don’t tell Violet. It’s a surprise.”

  I chuckle, and Mason ‘accidentally’ sticks me with a pin. “Be still, please.”

  “Abi, I can’t not tell her. It’s our wedding, for fuck’s sake.”

  “This is a good surprise, Ross. She told me I had free reign with the flowers, and everything else is based on those. Don’t stress her out any more than she already is. Do you know she still doesn’t have a dress? The wedding is in five days!” Her voice pitches a little high at the end, scaring all three of the men in the room.

  Kaede begs me with his eyes to go along and save us from the impending explosion of a pissed-off Abigail Andrews.

  I’m not sure about this, but Abi does have a point. Violet has so much on her plate, and it’s not like the color of my tuxedo is some major thing. All eyes are going to be on her, the beautiful bride. I’ll just show up and look pretty, as Abi said.

  “Okay, we won’t tell Violet.”

  Abi nods and makes a few clicks on her phone.

  “Next order of business, your groomsmen.”

  I look to Kaede, who holds his hands wide again, his eyes telling me he’s innocent of whatever shit Abi is about to say he did. ‘Fraidy cat asshole, scared of my sister. “What about him?”

  “He’s fine. I mean that Violet has both me and Archie standing up, and you only have Kaede. No offense, but you need more. Who else do you want to stand with you so that it’s even?”

  I quickly flip through college buddies and work friends in my head. I even consider that once upon a time, I’d dreamed of having my dad stand up with me when I finally got married. That’s definitely not happening.

  I shrug. “I don’t know. It’s pretty last-minute to hit up some guy from college, right?” I hold my hand up to my ear, mimicking a phone. “Hey, buddy, haven’t seen you in years. Wanna be a groomsman?”

  Mason snorts. “You’d be surprised. I’ve heard worse.”

  Abi smiles that grin that tells me she’s already worked out the solution to this too and was just baby stepping me to it. “Who?”

  “Courtney! It’s perfect! Me and Archie on one side and Kaede and Courtney on the other. It’ll look balanced, and really, she’s your next best friend . . . after Kaede, me, and Violet, of course.”

  I twist my lips, “Is that weird to have my sister as a groomsman? I mean, groomswoman? I mean, groomsperson?” I shake my head, not knowing the proper term but figuring it doesn’t matter right now.

  “Uh, no weirder than the rest of this circus,” Abi answers cryptically. But when she lifts her chin to the window of the shop, my gut drops.

  Culture vultures.

  Or at least that’s what my mom has always called them in the privacy of our home. She wouldn’t dare say something so crude in public.

  There’s a small group of paparazzi outside on the sidewalk, their cameras shoved up against the glass as they try to get a shot of me. I’ve never understood this. I’m no one important, so why can’t they just leave me alone?

  Kaede gets up to chase them away, but it’s a pointless and futile mission. They’ll just circle around the block and be right back, ready to follow us to our cars with flashbulbs going off so quickly that they could induce a seizure.

  Abi goes back to boss-mode. “Court’s your best bet. Both personally close to you, and I know it’d mean something to her, especially since it’d be in poor taste to have two-thirds of the Andrews children up there and one sitting in the front row.” I hadn’t considered that, but Abi’s right. “Plus, I can get her in for dress measurements today so that it’d be ready for Saturday.”

  Nodding, I tell Abi, “Okay, I’ll talk to her as soon as I get to the office. Anything else?”

  She scans her phone, clicking away, and then looks up at me. “Nope, mission accomplished for today. I’m off to meet with Violet next.”

  I stop her. “Abs?’

  She turns back. “Yeah?”

  “Thank you for everything. Is the shop okay while you’re doing all of this? I know how hard you work, and I don’t want to mess that up with this.”

  I mean to imply the fake wedding, but with everything feeling so real right now, it doesn’t sound right.

  Abi smiles. “Everything’s fine. Janey is helping out more, and she’s loving the publicity we’re getting for doing The Wedding of Ross Andrews and Violet Russo.” She moves her hands through the air like she’s reading off a marquee of lights, which I’m afraid to mention lest she decide that’s a good idea. “And I’m happy to help, Brother, with anything you need, even if it’s a kick in the pants to get your head out of your ass.”

  Something about the way she says it makes me think Abi knows I’m feeling some very real emotions for Violet, but at least in this, she’s letting me find my own way. For now.

  * * *

  “Hey, Court, thanks for coming down,” I say as my youngest sister sits down across from me.

  I’ll admit it. I should’ve gone to her office, but I’m a chicken shit who didn’t relish the idea of going toe-to-toe with my dad today. And since Courtney office is right outside Dad’s, I took the coward’s way out and asked her to come to me.

  “No problem. What’s up?” she asks casually, but I can see the weariness in her eyes. I wonder what Dad’s been saying to her about me, about Violet, about us. But I don’t ask because I feel like I already know the answer.

  “About the wedding on Saturday . . . Violet has Abi and Archie standing up with her as bridesmaids. Bridespeople?” I shake my head, again unsure of the correct verbiage, but it still doesn’t matter. “And Kaede is standing up with me. I was wondering if you would stand up there with me too. As a . . . groomsperson?”

  I smile, thinking I finally got it right.

  Courtney frowns. “Ross, I need to ask you something, just between you and me. I swear it won’t go any further than these four walls. Sister to brother, okay?”

  I smile, trying to tease her a bit because I’m scared of what she’s about to say. “That’s what Mom and Dad said when they brought you home from the hospital. ‘Here’s your sister, Rossie! Isn’t she adorable?’ Honestly, I thought you looked like a wrinkly old man, but look at you now!”

  Her lips don’t so much as twitch. “I know you and Abi are hiding something from me. What is it? It’s about the wedding, isn’t it? This about-face with Violet out of nowhere . . . I just don’t get it.”

  “I love her, Court. That’s it.”

  She doesn’t look convinced, but I don’t care at this point. Fact is, three days ago I struggled to even say the ‘L-word.’ I’d say married, committed, together, or some other poetic dance-around.

  Now, though . . . even I’m not sure if my feelings are true or fake. I just know my feelings for Violet have grown.

  “Dad is furious with you,” Courtney finally says. “And I feel like I’m being ripped in half. Because I understand his point. This is so out of character for you, and the timing is just too fucking convenient, Ross.”

  Her turn of phrase is an obvious kindness, a softening of Dad’s version of ‘immature brat’.


  “So, what’s the ripped in half part?”

  Courtney blushes a little, and she looks down before meeting my eyes once again. “Because I want to believe that my brother cannot seriously be pulling everyone’s chain and playing with a nice girl like Violet’s feelings. So I’m trying to give you the benefit of the doubt. But it’s damn hard.”

  I consider telling her the truth for a moment, wanting to trust that in the same way I’ve grown up, she has too. And that she wouldn’t go running to Mom and Dad the same way she once would.

  But I can’t take the risk. Not with Violet at stake.

  So I just repeat my earlier words. “I love her, Courtney.”

  She smiles. “Okay, then yes. I’ll be your groomsperson.” She tilts her head. “Is that even a word?”

  I shrug. “No idea. Thanks, though.”

  Chapter 20

  Violet—Monday—5 Days Until the Wedding

  “Hey, Honey, did you see the news?”

  I groan, wishing there was a way to not see the news. “Yes, Mom. Archie made sure that I got a full-on replay of it in stereo as soon as I got to work this morning.”

  Maybe it’s the phone connection, maybe it’s just Mom’s excitement, but she doesn’t hear the frustration in my voice. Instead, I wince as she squeals like she did at her first Marky Mark concert way back in the day, which she demonstrates every time his songs come on the radio, much to the displeasure of my ears and any surrounding dogs’ hearing. “My baby’s having a dream wedding! Like the princess I always knew you were.”

  I don’t bother correcting her that I’m so far from a princess, it’s comical. We grew up struggling, and even now that we’re all comfortable financially, I’m not a fussy, prissy type. Nope, not a princess, Mom.

  But she’s still talking as I’m having a mental dissection of Princess vs. Violet. I don’t compare to Diana, Caroline, Kate, Cinderella . . . wait, that last one’s not real. “I’m so happy for you, and I gotta say, the triplets are furiously practicing their asses off. They know this’ll be huge exposure for them!”

  “Mom, about that. With the orchestra and all—”

  “Oh, don’t worry, honey. Vanessa called the orchestra this morning,” Mom says gleefully. “She explained it all to them, and get this . . . the director’s really big into cross-genre stuff. His comment to ‘Nessa was that if Guns N’ Roses, Queen, and Toni Braxton can do songs with symphonies, then why not do the same for your wedding? The girls are already over there talking songs and arrangements. It’s going to be great!”

  Shit . . . what next, pyro and laser lights?

  I pinch myself as punishment for even thinking that, not wanting to tempt the universe into delivering that level of craziness.

  I hear a commotion outside the office, and I look out to see a small group of paparazzi surrounding a man who’s marching with a purpose as he pushes a rack of garment bags. Seems my next dress appointment is here.

  I open the door and yell out, “Please leave him alone.” Thankfully, I managed to hold the phone away from my ear so I didn’t deafen my mother with my shout.

  The paps turn toward my voice and I think, for one second, that they’re going to comply. Instead, their cameras all point at me and start clicking away as they call out questions.

  “Where are you going for the honeymoon?”

  “Are you marrying Ross for his money?”

  “When’s the baby due?”

  “How’d you snag the city’s hottest bachelor?”

  “You still haven’t found a dress?”

  “Ugh, no comment. No comment,” I tell the vultures. To the stone-faced bridal assistant, I wave a hand, hurrying him. “Come on before they eat you alive.” He tosses a withering look over his shoulder like there might actually be zombie monsters coming after him but that he’d gladly take them on.

  Putting the phone back to my ear, I say, “Mom, you there? This is crazy. I’ve worked with clients who have paparazzi following them everywhere, but it’s never been me. How do celebrities do this? I just want to be left alone.”

  “Oh, hush!” Mom crows, giggling. “Just sit back and take it all in. Use it to your advantage.”

  That might be wise advice if I had any idea how to do that. As it is, I just feel like the increased visibility is going to come back and bite me in the ass because there’s no way we can pull off a fake wedding with their constant scrutiny and sneaking around.

  “I’ll try, Mom. I need to go, though. I’ve got dress trying-on to do.”

  We hang up and I turn to the bridal assistant who’s been waiting patiently.

  He sticks out his hand. “Weston Worthington, Ms. Russo. Considering our timeline, are you ready to get to it?” I like him instantly, all business and professional, not a word said or a care given about the circus outside my office.

  “Yes, that’d be perfect.”

  “If you’re comfortable, perhaps you can change into your foundational garments and let me evaluate your shape. I find that to be most efficient so that we can focus on gowns that will flatter you personally.”

  I know an order when I hear one, so I turn to head back into my office, which we’ve been using as a makeshift dressing room. “Certainly. If you wouldn’t mind, could you close the curtains? They’re one-way visibility, but I don’t want to risk anyone getting a shot of me in my underwear.”

  I swear I see Weston’s lips twitch like he’s holding back a laugh. See? Obviously, not a princess, and barely fit for polite company with this sassy mouth.

  I strip and wiggle into the bodysuit I’ve been using as my mainstay for the wedding gowns. It’s nothing crazy like the Spanx that almost killed me under my red gala dress. This set is more smoothing than compression, so it’s comfortable and all one piece, which makes it easy.

  I open the door slowly, making sure the front room is fluorescent-lit only before coming out in what equates to a flesh-toned colored swimsuit. Archie’s droll voice greets me. “That one. You should absolutely wear that and nothing else.” He points my way, making a spinning motion, which I answer with a middle finger.

  I know he’s exhausted with doing all the dress shopping and wedding stuff on top of our full schedule of actual work. He’s been a saint, doing so much at Mrs. Montgomery’s while we both keep all the juggling balls in the air. I did at least get Ross’s couch ordered yesterday, making the most of our ‘lazy’ Sunday by working diligently on my laptop all afternoon.

  Abi interjects, apparently having arrived with Archie while I was changing. “Okay, let’s get to work. Snap, snap, people.”

  She’s in boss mode, which makes me worry she’s got too much on her plate with all she’s doing to help with the wedding, but then she smiles at me and I can see the joy she’s taking in planning this. I know she loves working with flowers, but I think she really loves weddings.

  Weston walks a full circle around me, then holds my arms out wide in a T-shape and eyes my chest, waist, and hips critically. He doesn’t seem deterred by my rather curvy figure but rather seems to be visually measuring me. I’d bet he’d be able to get with a quarter-inch if he guessed my measurements.

  “Okay, let’s begin,” he says, letting my arms go and turning to his rack of bagged garments. Like a magician, he opens one and pulls out a white fluff of fabric. “This one will highlight your small waist and give adequate support for your breasts. The bottom is a full ballgown silhouette, perfect for the grandeur of the church.”

  It looks like a stunningly bedazzled cupcake, but at this point, I’m willing to try anything.

  Weston helps me into the gown, and I turn, facing the large mirror leaning against the wall. It is beautiful and dramatic, but it doesn’t feel right. Weston can see it on my face and quickly suggests that we move on.

  I like that he’s not offended by my lack of gushing because I know he’s worked hard to hand-select these gowns for me. He just pulls out the next, and then another. And then one more.

  None of them are it.

/>   “If you’d not been so picky before, we wouldn’t be dealing with this now,” Archie mutters, but he smiles when I look at him. “I’m sure you’ll find something.” His tone implies that’s not remotely true at all, and we both know it.

  Weston opens a bag, shoving it aside, but something catches my eye. “Oh, my God, that’s it!” I exclaim.

  Three sets of eyes follow my pointing finger.

  Weston hums. “If you’d like to try it on, ma’am, then of course. However, I will caution you that it’s a silhouette designed for a willowier body type.” He eyes my full breasts with concern.

  I clap and say definitively, “I want to try it.”

  He pulls it out of the bag with a flourish. It’s beautiful, with a flared crystal-encrusted skirt and a pinched waist, but best of all, lace shoulders and sleeves that will let me look both sexy and classy. “It’s called The Fairy Tale, an inspired blend of Kate Middleton’s dress and Grace Kelly’s iconic gown.” Weston’s voice is wistful, as if this gown is his favorite too.

  Hesitantly, he helps me step into the gown and then slowly, he pulls it up my thighs. I slip my arms into the delicate sleeves and he fastens the tiny buttons at my back.

  I turn to look in the mirror. It’s . . . not perfect, I think with a sigh. But I so wanted it to be. My face falls.

  “I thought this was it, but I look like a sausage stuffed into a too-small casing. And my boobs are flatter than pancakes.” I can feel the tears hot in my eyes. I haven’t cried in so long, it seems, not truly. Not since Papa’s last spell, but this dress not fitting me the way I want it to has done me in.

  Weston hops to my side, biting his lip. “Perhaps something could be done?” He looks me up and down. “Your foundational garments are not compression. They make significantly more powerful pieces that could help because you are not that far off from it fitting properly. But unfortunately, there’s no room in the seams to get added inches.” He’s being kind by saying I’m not far off, but it’s a good size, maybe more, too small.