Bossy Bride: Emma and Jesse (Bossy Brothers Book 4)

by JA Huss

  We finish getting dressed and we’re just about to walk back out into Sven’s office when I point to the bathroom. “You might want to check your makeup, Ems. The wind kinda messed it up.”

  “Oh, fuck it. I don’t care. It can wait until we get to the jet.”

  As soon as we exit the dressing room Sven is on his feet with hands in the air. “I’m really sorry about the glitch up in the air. We’d like to make it up to you. No charge for this package. It’s on us. I’ve already called up Fingers and told him about the mix-up. He’s sending Vinnie over right now to make things right and get you another wedding set up pronto.”

  “Forget it,” I say. “We’re done. We’ve got our own jet somewhere in this airport. We’re heading over there to wait for our pilot to show up.”

  “But… Vinnie!” Sven calls after us.

  We ignore him.

  I hold the office door open for Emma and we saunter out to go find the Bright Berry Beach jet.

  It takes a good while to find our way over to the charter area where they schedule flights in and out for private jets. And even though I know damn well that Jessica chick never came over here to find our charter, I keep my eyes peeled for her anyway. I’m really not in the mood to deal with the minions of Fingers. I just want to board Emma’s plane, relax in a soft leather chair, take a nap in the jet bedroom, and hopefully fuck my future wife.

  But here’s the thing. When you walk into a jet club wearing pirate outfits, they tend to not take you seriously.

  “I swear to God, I am Emma Dumas.”

  The check-in woman eyeballs my almost-wife with suspicion. Pirate clothes aside, everything about us right now screams chaos. And she is having none of it.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m going to need some form of ID.” Her Southern accent sounds sweet, but it’s laced with disbelief.

  “We lost our IDs at the Treasure Island pirate show. Why the hell else would we be dressed like pirates if we weren’t in the freaking show?”

  “Ma’am, I understand what you’re saying. But people dress like pirates for all sorts of reasons. And regardless of what they are, we still require ID to gain access to the jets.”

  “It’s my jet. I’m Emma Dumas. I’m one-fourth owner of Bright Berry Beach cosmetics. The freaking plane is black with ‘Bright Berry Beach’ written across the fuselage in screaming pink letters! It’s. My. Jet!”

  “And yet,” the skeptical woman says, “you cannot prove that.”

  “Just look me up online! And this”—Emma pushes me in front of her—“this is Jesse Boston! All you have to do is one internet search and you’ll see we’re telling the truth! Now search us!”

  The woman blinks at Emma, then presses her lips together and begins typing on her computer. She looks at the screen. Then us. Then the screen again. Then us.

  “Well?” Emma is out of patience.

  “I see some resemblance.”

  “Some—” Emma takes a deep breath. “Are you, or are you not, going to tell me where my freaking jet is located?”

  “Fine. It’s in hangar seventeen C. But it’s not scheduled to fly out today, so there’s two other jets in front of it at the moment so—”

  “We’re not leaving. We just want to go on board and wait for our butler to finish his poker game.”

  “Then there you go. Hangar seventeen is right out those doors and to the left.” She flips her hand off towards the door.

  “Thank you!” Emma exclaims. Then she sucks in a deep breath, takes my hand, and says, “Let’s go.”

  I wait until we’re outside before I say, “God. I love it when you’re bossy.”

  She shakes her head and huffs out a laugh. “Jesus Christ. This day is… just…”

  “Yeah,” I agree. We need some jet time for sure.

  Hangar seventeen isn’t just outside and to the left though. I mean, technically it is. But we have to weave our way through parked jets and other hangars before we finally find it almost a quarter mile away.

  And that’s when we realize mistake number one.

  “Hmm…” Emma is tapping her chin with her forefinger. “How do you open the door?”

  I throw up my hands and walk over to the front wheel, then precariously take a seat on top of the tire. “No fuckin’ clue, babe.”

  She turns to me. “We did not come this far to be locked out of our own jet.”

  “Didn’t we though?” I laugh. I can’t help it.

  “Surely there’s a way to open the door and pull down the stairs?”

  I shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “Look. It can’t be that hard. This is the handle, right?”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s locked. I’m also pretty sure Miles is the one with the key.”

  “But maybe… see? There’s this little button. I think I’ve seen Miles open the door with this button.” She presses the button.

  Nothing happens.

  “OK, so maybe there’s a trick with the handle and the button?”

  I sigh. I’m actually kinda sore from all that rope-swinging and sword-fighting. But I get up and walk over to it because I really do want to just go inside and collapse. I study the side of the plane, trying to work out the meaning of the button and the handle.

  Then I glance over at the jet in front of ours and notice there’s some writing on the door. And sure enough, when I walk over to it, there are instructions. Instructions which have been conveniently left off of Emma’s jet because it’s got that fancy custom black paint job.

  “Hold the button and turn the handle at the same time,” I call to Emma.

  She does that and then squeals with delight. “We did it!”

  “Thank God.”

  She slowly lowers the small set of airstairs and we use the last of our energy to climb them and enter the front cabin.

  Then we look at each other and realize mistake number two.

  “We don’t have power,” she says. Because the engines aren’t on.

  I just laugh. Fuck it. I take her hand, drag her back to the bedroom, and we collapse onto the mattress.

  I don’t even care about power. At least we now have a home base away from the crazy world of Fingers’ Fantasy Vegas Weddings. And even though I would really like to tackle my almost-bride and take all her clothes off, the next thing I know she’s blissfully asleep.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN - EMMA

  I’m in the middle of the most delicious dream.

  My wedding, the way I imagined it. Not this crazy Vegas adventure. Not my mother’s Krakken version of the big day. Mine. All mine.

  In this version of Emma and Jesse’s Christmas Eve Wedding Fantasy everything is dreamy and surreal and no one is stressed or disappointed and nothing goes wrong.

  All our family members are there. My parents, my brothers—hell, even my childhood dog is there. And Jesse’s brothers and almost-sister-and-brother-in-laws.

  The dress is amazing. A tight, form-fitting mermaid dress that hugs all my curves and makes Jesse look at me hungrily. He’s dressed up like a billionaire bad boy in a black tux, his hair just a little bit disheveled, just enough to look sexy but not unkempt. And his smile—God, his smile as I make my way towards him is something worth memorizing. Something to be treasured. Something I wish I could capture in a bottle and save for a dark day.

  I have a long train being held up by little flower-girl Maisy as I walk down the aisle and my dad is beaming at me as he guides me up the steps and hands me off to Jesse at the altar.

  My stomach is filled with happy jitters. My heart is beating fast, but it’s not a thump-thump, thump-thump, like the sound effects in a horror movie. It’s like the hoofbeats of a galloping horse on the beach where the surf meets the sand. A powerful but soft beat. A strong but smooth rhythm.

  My father kisses me on the cheek as Jesse takes my hand, his eyes locked on mine like there is no one else in this church. No one else even alive on this planet.

  We turn to the priest and that jittery f
eeling inside me subsides. Like all the things that control fear and nervousness decide once and for all that none of that matters anymore.

  My love has been found. My heart is whole. My life is complete.

  “Dearly beloved,” the priest begins. “We are gathered here today for the shotgun wedding of Emma Dumas and Jesse Boston.”

  Wait.

  What?

  “Is everybody ready?”

  I put up a hand. “Hold on.” I look over my shoulder and see my father holding a gun, pointing it directly at Jesse’s back.

  He winks at me. “Don’t worry, princess. He’ll make good.”

  “What? Dad? What are you doing?”

  “Emma?”

  I look at Jesse. “What’s going on? I’m not pregnant! This isn’t a shotgun wedding! It’s the dream wedding, remember?”

  “Emma?”

  “No.” I stomp my foot. And when I look down at it, it’s not my pretty silver heels encrusted with rhinestones, but the freaking white leather pirate boots. “Where did these come from?”

  “Emma?”

  I whirl around, stare at my family, gaze homing in on Karen. Kraken fuckin’ Karen. Why is she here? “You did this, didn’t you? Why are you here? Why are you trying to ruin my life?”

  “Emma?”

  “What?”

  “Wake up, babe. Someone’s here to talk to us.”

  I roll over and groan. “No… I’m in the middle of the best dream.”

  “Emma. Babe. One of the Thumbs is here to talk to us.”

  My eyes fly open and I sit up.

  Well, that’s not quite accurate. One eye seems to be stuck together. I reach up to rub it and realize it’s being held shut by a sticky fake eyelash. But out of the good, all-the-way-open eye, I see a man. “Oh, no.” I flop back down and cover my face with a pillow. “Go away.”

  “Emma,” Jesse says, sitting down on the mattress next to me. “Vinnie says we can have a bonus wedding to make up for the ones that went wrong.”

  “Nope. Nope. I’m not doing it. The pirate people stole our stuff. We have no clothes, no wallet, no purse, no phones—”

  “I’m positive all those things were put away for safekeeping, Miss Dumas,” this Vinnie guy says. “We will make sure your clothes and items are all returned.”

  But I’m not done complaining yet. “My feet hurt, this make-up feels like it’s going to take a year to wash off, I don’t have a dress, and… yeah. No. I’m over it.”

  “He promises that this one will be perfect, Ems.”

  I peek out from under the pillow and see Jesse’s handsome, hopeful face. This makes me weak and I relent. A little.

  I throw the pillow off me and sit back up. I look at the man standing in the doorway of the jet bedroom. He’s a tall, slim man with broad shoulders. Youngish. Maybe late thirties. Handsome in a I-work-for-a-guy-called-Fingers kind of way. And wearing a very expensive and tailored—but a little too shiny—gray Italian suit.

  I point my finger at him. “They were all supposed to be perfect. At least… they were not all supposed to be complete disasters! What’s it going to be this time? Drive-through wedding chapel? Mmm? And when we get there, they hand us fries and say, ‘Sorry. We’re all out of weddings?’”

  The man folds his hands in front of his waist and smiles at me. Not a toothy grin that personifies the shame he should feel at how badly his boss has ruined our day. But not a placating she’s-a-bossy-bridezilla-and-I’m-gonna-placate-her smile, either.

  Something in between.

  “The Shotgun Wedding, ma’am.”

  And then my dream comes back to me and I scowl at him. “Shotgun Wedding, huh?”

  “It’s our biggest, most elaborate fantasy wedding. Picture huge Italian family. Tables and tables of homemade food. A cake seven tiers tall. And the dress. Oh, the dress…”

  “My dress?”

  “Uhh…” He pauses. “No. Your dress is… not quite ready.”

  “Not quite ready? For fuck’s sake! The mean little Russian lady said it was gonna take twenty minutes eight hours ago!”

  He presses his hands forward in the air in a placating manner. “I understand that. Stasia was a little… let’s say, overconfident in her sewing abilities this morning. But we’re offering up something better. We’ve already tailored it to your exact specifications. And no, we hired a special seamstress to handle this one. This is a special Italian wedding dress.”

  I picture every stereotypical Italian wedding I’ve ever seen in the movies or on TV. “So it’s… poofy?”

  His mouth falls into a frown. But not a sad frown. Because his head is doing that little bob thing. The this-or-that bob, I like to call it. Maybe, maybe not, that bob is saying. Which means yes, it’s poofy.

  “It’s a little bit poofy,” he concedes. “But… everything in the Shotgun Wedding package is big. With a capital B. Very over the top. Something you’ll remember for the rest of your life, trust me. The chapel is…” He spreads his arms wide. “Gorgeous. Stained-glass windows. Polished-wood pews. Marble floors and painted ceilings. And the people, Miss Dumas. By the time this wedding is over you’ll wish these people were your people. That’s how convincing they are. Fingers will even throw in the extended family for free. You get sisters-in-law, you get brothers-in-law, you get two sets of grandparents, twelve nieces and nephews all dressed for Italian wedding success.”

  “OK. Hold on.” I put up a hand because my brain needs to play catch-up. “So you’re saying we get a big, fat, Italian wedding filled with a fake family?”

  “Not fake, ma’am. They are a real Italian family. Two, in fact. Bride’s family and the groom’s family. Most of them don’t even speak English. Hell, one set of grandparents are straight from Sicily just last summer.”

  I glance at Jesse. “You really think this is a good idea?”

  He shrugs with his shoulders. “We are stuck here until Miles and Christopher show back up. We might as well give it another shot.”

  I peel the fake eyelash off my eyeball, then look down at myself. This stupid pirate dress. The stupid boots. My hair is probably flattened against my head like a helmet from the skull cap and a tangled mess from the skydiving. I sigh. “There’s no hope for me today. I’m a complete disaster! Why would I want to get married like this?”

  But Vinnie is on it. “We have a spa experience set up at the church, Miss Dumas. You can clean up in a luxurious bubble bath with professional hair and make-up afterward. And your bridesmaids are all color-coordinated. You did choose yellow and peach for your flowers, correct?”

  “I did.”

  “We have that all ready. The whole color scheme is gorgeous. All you have to do is show up, put the dress on, and be the bride you always pictured yourself being.”

  “Hmm.” None of this is what I pictured when I fantasized about my wedding. I don’t want a fake family, even if they are real. I want my family. “I don’t know, Jesse. Maybe this whole thing was a bad idea? Maybe we should just accept the fact that we are wedding failures and go home and let my mother do it her way?”

  “Karen Krakken,” Jesse says. “Do you really want Karen Krakken as your bridesmaid?”

  I sigh.

  “We have a photographer, Miss Dumas.” Vinnie dangles this in front of me like it’s a dog treat.

  I narrow my eyes at him. “That’s what the pirate wedding guy said. And he was lying about everything.”

  Vinnie does the head-bob thing again. “The Pick Three is… more of a budget package. A buffet. I believe that word was mentioned when it was explained to you?”

  “It was,” Jesse admits.

  “The Shotgun Wedding is the real deal. We don’t do these on the spur of the moment. They take months to plan.”

  “So let me guess,” I say, the cynic inside me still not convinced. “We’re going to take someone’s place? We’re going to be Jack and Elaine for this one? Not Jesse and Emma?”

  “No,” Vinnie says, again pressing his hands forward
in the air. Like he wants to ward off all my well-founded suspicions. “I promise. This one is just for you. Fingers has really gone above and beyond to make sure this one goes off without a hitch.”

  I look at Jesse. “We’re stuck here, babe. We might as well let Fingers make it up to us.”

  I sigh. “Fine. But this one had better go as planned or I’m… I’m going to… well, I don’t really know what I’ll do.” I point my finger at Vinnie. “But I will do something, mister. You can bet on that.”

  “You have my word, Miss Dumas. This one will go exactly as planned.”

  Vinnie insists that I do not have to clean up before we leave, but I stop at the restroom in the jet lounge anyway and am horrified when I look in the mirror.

  Not only do I look like a clown who just went skydiving and then slept on said makeup, my hair is a catastrophe. No wonder that jet lounge lady didn’t want to tell me where my jet was! I’m a freak! At this point I don’t even care about the wedding. The bath and professional make-up and hair seems like a fair deal for ruining three marriage ceremonies.

  But I start to get hopeful that the fourth time might be the charm when, after cleaning up a little in the jet lounge, Vinnie leads us over to a proper limo and not a sparkly purple Fingermobile.

  “This is more like it,” Jesse says, opening the back door and waiting for me to get in.

  “Much better,” I agree, sliding in across the soft leather seat. “I might still look like a ragged pirate wench, but the princess package is coming. I can feel it.”

  He chuckles, sliding in next to me. Then the driver closes the door.

  “Wait,” I say, putting up a hand. “Where did Vinnie disappear to?”

  Jesse turns and looks around through the windows. But nope. No Vinnie. Then he shrugs and settles back into the seat, putting his arm around me. “He’s just the coordinator. We don’t want him to ride with us anyway.”

  “Yeah, but every single wedding coordinator so far has also pulled this little disappearing act.”

  Jesse squeezes my shoulder. “This one will be different. I’m pretty sure Fingers is thinking about all the bad publicity coming his way if Emma Dumas starts telling the world how he cheated us out of our wedding day.”