A Billionaire for Christmas

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.”