My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

He comes, explosively filling my mouth with rope after rope of thick, creamy cum that I swallow down hungrily, reflexively not letting a single drop spill out of my lips.

“Cazzo, mia rosa,” he mutters on a jagged exhale.

I wipe at my lips, dainty as can be, like the society-bred woman I am . . . who just sucked off a guy in a dark hallway, I think with a smile. Rising, I find Lorenzo’s lips and give him a quick kiss. “I need to get back out there. I’ve been gone too long.”

He growls. “No, I want to taste you too.”

Even though he can’t see me, I shake my head. “Later. Tonight.”

He catches me in his hands, cupping my face. “I’ll hold you to that, Abigail,” he vows before kissing me deeply.

“I’ll go out first. Give it a minute so we don’t look suspicious, and then you can come out too.”

I feel his chuckle, his chest jumping beneath my palms. “Why does it sound like you’ve done this before?”

“A girl never reveals her secrets,” I tease.

Truthfully, I’ve never done anything like this. Oh, I’ve made out in closets, but when you’re a stupid teenager and come out after Seven Minutes in Heaven, everyone cheers and asks you how it was. I definitely do not think that would be the case at this party. And full disclosure, it was awful as a teen, all unsure and awkward and never more than some over-the-clothes petting.

Blowing Lorenzo at a rehearsal dinner, in contrast, was awesome.

I straighten my clothes, even remembering to smooth my hair back a bit from Lorenzo’s ruffling fingers, before quietly and slowly opening the door back into the ballroom.

I’m still behind the glittery tulle, a black-dressed shadow in a shadowy room, when I hear something that stops me in my tracks.

“I can’t talk now. She’s right here,” Cole says. Peering through the haze of the fabric, I can see he’s got his phone pressed to his ear. A dark thought goes through me and settles like a stone in my stomach.

It’s not so much what he’s said but the secretive way he said it and the way he’s looking over to Claire like he’s making sure she’s blissfully unaware of his conversation.

No, don’t jump to conclusions, Abi. There’s no use in doing that.

“Yeah, I’ll call you back later after she goes to sleep. I love you, too.”

And with that, Cole hangs up the phone and walks off to rejoin the party.

Uhm, excuse me . . . what? The? Fuck? He loves who?

Because his bride to be is standing a few feet away, smiling and laughing as she talks to an old lady, and the only other person I could think of that he’d be saying ‘I love you’ to is his mom, and she’s on the dance floor with his dad.

Shit.Chapter 18LorenzoI’m ready for today.

I’ve been ready for a long time. Taking this last-minute opportunity to come to Aruba to be a guest chef for the wedding of the year had sounded like an escape from a bad situation at Avanti. But since I’ve arrived, it’s been a dream come true. Maybe even better than a dream.

Cooking alongside Esmar and his crew, I’ve learned so much—about the flavors of the island, the creativity he’s honed over decades as a chef, and his own congenial style of running a kitchen, which is so different from others I’ve worked for who felt that yelling and insults were the best way to command respect. Esmar, on the other hand, is welcoming and generous, even friendly with his team.

I’m thankful for that because it’s allowed me the freedom to make several meals and dishes over this week, for Claire’s events and even for dinner services. It’s been a true culinary gift I am thankful to have received.

And tonight is the proverbial cherry on top.

I’m running the kitchen for the wedding, even Esmar taking orders from me.

“This is your show, Chef, what you were hand-selected and flown in to do. Show us what you’ve got,” he’d said.

And I am.

“Henri, more lime on the albacore crudo,” I order.

“Yes, Chef,” he answers as he grabs another fresh lime and begins juicing for his life.

I step to the pasta workstation, double-checking that my instructions are being followed correctly. Letting go of that duty had been difficult. It’s the one thing that always makes me feel at home, like I’m honoring all the lessons taught in the steamy kitchens of Positano. But I can’t be locked down in one place. I see that Gilberto, for all his craziness, is hyper-focused on his dough. “Good. Steady hands make for consistent noodles.”

“Steady, Chef,” he repeats with a smile.

I look around in delight, seeing dishes I designed being crafted with care. I’ve stuck to my roots, the foundation of Italian cooking that lives and breathes in my soul, but added touches of the island to honor our beautiful locale.