My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

I’d know because Cole went to school with Ross, and between that elite small circle of a network and my working relationship with their top-notch wedding planner, Beth, I managed to get this contract.

And I will not blow this opportunity.

Because it’s not just a wedding. Besides the big day, this is an entire Event, with a huge three-foot-tall, blinking neon, capital E, starting with tonight’s dinner. It’s being held here in the city as a way of introducing the bride and groom’s families before we all travel for the ceremony and festivities.

Yeah, travel. Because of course, the wedding is a destination one, taking place on Aruba’s famed coast at the famous five-star Casa Del Mario resort, with an RSVP list filled to the brim with the rich, famous, and political elite. Alongside an orchestra, a custom choreographed fireworks display, and other live entertainment, People magazine will also be present to film what is being called THE wedding of the decade.

It’s a lot of pressure, amplified by needing to ship everything to the resort and make arrangements on site daily for the various lead-up events to the big ceremony and reception.

In other words, I can’t fuck up tonight’s dinner. This is my last at-home opportunity to show Claire what I can do and that I have her event well in hand.

I shouldn’t worry this much. I’m excellent at what I do, I have lists of my lists to be prepared for any eventuality, and Claire has been nothing but accepting of my ideas, but anxiety rushes through me despite all those reassurances.

The shop phone rings, and I hear Samantha, my front desk assistant, answer. “SweetPea Boutique, how may I help make today beautiful?” I can hear the smile in her voice, but then, more dryly, she follows up with, “Oh. Of course. We’ll be ready.”

“Abi!” she yells a second later. Hopefully, she hung up first or whoever was on the phone is probably deaf now.

I hiss, “What?”

Samantha runs to the back, eyes wild and bouncing around the space. “Shit! Clean up, clean up! Quick!” She sounds a bit manic as she shoves cut leaves into a trash can and dumps my tumbler of water onto a nearby plant.

Whatever’s got her riled up, she still cares for the plants. She’s probably the most talented green thumb I’ve met since Edward, able to nurse plants back from near-death and make them bloom full and lush. That’s why I hired her, for her botany degree, but thankfully, she’s great with customers too and can handle watching the shop when Janey and I go to Aruba to work the wedding. But right now, she’s in a tailspin heading for a crash landing.

I step in front of her, placing my hands on her shoulders to stop her from swirling the drain. “Samantha. What’s happening?”

She blinks, coming out of her stupor, and swallows, looking back at the phone on the counter. “That was . . . that was one of Claire’s people. She’s coming. In ten minutes.”

I don’t get it. That’s totally expected. They’re supposed to be picking up the arrangements for tonight’s dinner, so why is Samantha freaking out?

“Okay. They’re picking up the flowers. We’re ready. They’re done.”

She shakes her head, her blonde hair swishing wildly. “No, no . . . she’s coming. Claire is coming!”

What she’s actually saying sinks in and my gut drops. “What?” I shriek. “Why?”

Don’t get me wrong, Claire is quite lovely, down to earth even, and she was perfectly kind the few times I met her in person to get approvals for the floral plan, but there’s no reason for her to be coming to a simple pick-up mere hours before a dinner where she’ll be the guest of honor and hostess with the mostest.

She should be doing a Get Ready With Me video for her followers or a meditation photo shoot with the sunset. Not picking up flowers like a courier or personal assistant.

“I don’t know,” Samantha says, answering the questions I already forgot I asked. “It was one of her people on the phone. An assistant, I guess? She said Claire is coming, in person, and has an update on the wedding that she wants to deliver in person.” She blinks and then needlessly says one more time, “In. Person. Abi. Claire Johnson is coming here.”

I guess Samantha is more of a fan that I realized.

“No autograph hounding. You hear me? We’ll behave like she’s any other customer.” My words have the force of an order, and she throws me a poorly formed salute. “Good. Now clean up!”

Despite my words, I start scurrying around frantically too. Samantha and Janey follow suit, clearing off tables, gently tossing loose flowers into the buckets in the cooler, and shoving the leftover donuts from this morning into the trash. At least it smells amazing in here. No fake air fresheners needed. We’ve got all-natural floral scents wafting around and blending beautifully.