My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

“Hey!” I hear from behind me.

I look back and see Emily glaring at me, red with fury. I’m sure she thinks I’m getting this special privilege because of my last name. But nope, this is all Lorenzo. And really . . . why does it even matter?

Once upon a time, I would’ve smugly waved at her. I’m not innocent in our battle over the years. But now, I just sigh and turn back to the boat, letting Lorenzo help me in.

The rehearsal dinner is in . . . seven hours, and we have at least twelve hours’ worth of work, according to our minute-by-minute game plan.Chapter 17AbiAt the level of society Claire and Cole inhabit, a rehearsal dinner isn’t a quick ceremony walkthrough followed by foot-long sandwiches before heading home to get a good night’s sleep type of deal.

Tonight is a full-blown event before the actual Big Event.

As soon as Augie docks the boat, Lorenzo presses a quick kiss to my lips and then we’re off and running—him to the kitchen, and Janey and me to the cooler and workroom.

Our list comes in handy, giving us a plan of attack.

Table centerpieces . . . check.

Mock bouquet . . . check.

Single bird of paradise stems for bridesmaids . . . check, freshly stolen from the greenhouse.

Various other small arrangements for the different stations . . . check.

By the hair on our chinny-chin-chins—not that we actually have any—we pull it off. Speaking of hair, my thick mane looks like I’ve stuck my finger in a light socket . . . twice . . . after last night’s sea air and today’s whiplash of work. I take a quick moment to refasten my messy bun and give Janey a look. “Ready?”

She pulls the list out of her cleavage, where she’s apparently storing it for safekeeping and easy access, and scans it quickly. “Done to the dun-dun-da-dunnnn,” she sings to the wedding march tune.

Gathering everything on the carts, I glance around the workroom one more time to make sure we have everything we need from here to go up to the ballroom. Stage two of prep starts now.

And I’m already exhausted after not sleeping at all last night. After this, I have every plan of falling into bed with Lorenzo, snuggling right up close to his warm body, laying my head on his bare chest . . . and sleeping for days. Or until my early morning alarm tomorrow to get ready for the wedding.

But before I can fade into a few hours of blissful rest, I have to get through this.

“Make sure everything is perfect,” I tell Janey upstairs in the ballroom as we set up arrangements on the center of each table.

“Duh,” she sasses back. “I figured you’d want me to fuck stuff up. No?”

The lady setting out plates laughs at our banter.

There’s a whole crew prepping for tonight, and we all work together in a coordinated dance to get everything ready. The decorators have draped purple and hot pink glitter tulle around the room, giving it a tropical tent appearance, the lighting crew has added sparkly candelabras to the tablescape which highlight the orange and pink flower arrangements perfectly, and the tables are set with white china and gold flatware.

We’re ready and everything looks beautiful, right up until Meredith rolls in and brings a thundercloud of doom with her.

“People, people . . . no.” She goes around the room, nitpicking this and that. She touches one of my arrangements, flicking at a bloom, and I nearly come unglued and karate chop her hand off.

The only reason Meredith keeps both hands is Janey’s quick thinking when she grabs me around the shoulders. It probably looks friendly, but she’s hissing in my ear. “Don’t you fucking dare, Abs. Fix. Your. Face! You can read every murderous thought you’re having like a neon sign.”

I try. I’m not known for my resting bitch face. That’s Courtney. I’m usually the Andrews who always has a sunny smile for everyone, but Meredith irks the shit out of me. She pushes buttons I never even knew I had.

“Masquerade theme,” Meredith draws out as though teaching the words to kindergarteners who don’t speak English.

Wait, is masquerade even English? I have no idea, and why am I thinking of it now?

“Not Mardi Gras, for heaven’s sake! Remove the beads.” As she barks orders, she grabs the offending strands of beads from the middle of the table and forces them into the hand of the nearest worker. “The last thing we need is the press getting photos of the bride and groom with ‘show your tits’ beads draped around their necks.”

I stifle a laugh that Meredith Wildeman even knows the word tits, much less said it aloud. I’m not the only one fighting the laugh either, because suddenly, everyone is face-down or giving Meredith their back as we bustle around to get things up to her standards without getting called out for laughing at her.