My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

“Hmm, it is good to have close friends and family on a trip like this,” she declares. “I’m glad you’ve gotten on so well with the other staff.”

I can see it now. The picture she’s painting . . .

One of a grand opportunity to work the wedding of the year in paradise. One where Abigail and I spend the week fucking off, taking yoga and sunset cruises, and neglecting our work. One where, regardless of the food or the flowers, Meredith can deem them inadequate and sell the storyline that if we had only focused on what we were supposed to, things could’ve been so much better.

How does she even know that Abigail and I have been spending time together? Does that even matter?

Before I can respond to our verbal warfare, Esmar comes up. “Chef, you are needed at the pasta station. Urgente!”

Fuck! What has Gilberto gotten up to now?

I don’t bother excusing myself from Meredith. I simply walk away to handle my work, exactly as I’m supposed to do. That’s what a chef does—no matter what’s happening, service must go on.

“Ugh, this is why I need you here!” Esmar rants loudly as we walk down the line, though now I can see that he is smiling so it can’t be that bad. “I can’t wait for you to help me corral this madness!”

He slaps me on the back, and I help Gilberto, having forgotten all about Meredith and her threats.Chapter 19AbiBouquet? Check, and looking gorgeous, if I do say so myself.

Row cappers? Check. Janey’s a boss and already has them installed on the final white chair lining the aisle.

Petals for the flower girls to toss, boutonnieres, and bridesmaid’s bouquets? Check, check, and checkity-check.

“I think,” I say before unleashing a bone-cracking yawn that leaves me wondering just where I could have built up that much tension in my jaw, “that we’re looking good.”

“Good?” Janey snaps. “I’m pretty sure you mean things are looking Modern Wedding cover ready,” she declares, holding her hands up in a square like a photographer framing her shot.

I can’t help but smile as I look around the beach setup. The archway that will frame Claire and Cole as they say their vows is probably the most beautiful thing I’ve ever created. Claire requested a wooden frame and white curtains to blow in the sea breeze but then left the details to me. “Just make it dreamy.”

I feel like there are degrees of dreams.

. . . a wish, which is a quick shorthand of a thought and grows into . . .

. . . a fantasy, which is layered with textures and details that make you want to live inside it, and if you’re fortunate, it can become . . .

. . . a reality.

That’s what I’ve done here, brought Claire’s vague description of romance and magic to life with lush blooms and greenery. The Andean Lupine flowers are the cherry on the sundae.

I laugh as Janey continues her faux-photographer act and I pose as though I’m a model on a gorgeous set. “You’re right. We’re the best.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” a voice says behind me. Meredith was probably trying to frighten me, knowing her, but I’m so exhausted that I honestly wouldn’t jump if Jason Voorhees came wading out of the Caribbean right now.

“The ceremony site’s good to go,” I assure Meredith, who sniffs in that way she has that sounds like she’s got a dry congestion but really means We’ll see. I wait for a few tense minutes as she looks around and comes over, nodding curtly.

“I suppose the ceremony site looks up to standard,” she concedes with an icy eye roll. Oh, not a full one—that’s way too low-brow for someone like Meredith Wildeman—but rather a side-eye roll that throws more shade than a hundred-year-old redwood tree. “Now, how does the reception space look?”

“We’re on it and running to schedule. It’ll be ready in time.”

“It had better be.” Meredith is giving it her all to be her usual snooty, bitchy self, but when she turns to walk back inside, I can’t help but see that she’s barefoot.

Guess those red-soled heels don’t work in the sand? Honestly, I’m surprised she has feet and not hooves like the demon she is. She stomps nevertheless, aiming for intimidating but looking more like a wobbly-legged drunk who can’t hold a straight line.

Janey and I hold off on our giggles until she enters the back doors of the resort, but when our eyes meet, we’re done for and the laughter erupts out of us like champagne. “Oh, my God, she’s the worst,” Janey declares.

“Shh,” I chastise her, not wanting to tempt fate that Meredith might overhear. Even though Janey is absolutely correct.

Meredith is the worst.

But she’s gone off to make someone else’s life hell for now, so we move on to the ballroom, taking advantage of her absence to work without her harsh oversight.