Brown-Eyed Girl (Travises 4)

The Judith Lord segment was elegant and dignified, exactly what I hoped mine would be like. Judith, a long-established grande dame of the business, possessed a fondant-over-steel composure that I admired immensely. The reporter asked her a few easy questions, the interview cut to a shot of Judith and a client browsing through a row of wedding dresses and another showing them enjoying wedding cake samples, with Mozart playing in the background.

All semblance of dignity vanished, however, as soon as my segment started. The music changed to a manic comic-opera piece. “Why are they playing that?” I asked in surprised distaste.

At the same time, Tank exclaimed, “Hey, I like that song. It’s the one from the Bugs Bunny cartoon with the barber chairs.”

“Otherwise known as Rossini’s overture to The Barber of Seville,” Steven said dryly.

The reporter’s voice-over started. “In the elite world of Texas society weddings, Avery Crosslin has been aggressively building a client list with her take-no-prisoners style —”

“Aggressive?” I protested.

“That’s not a bad word,” Steven said.

“Not for a man. But it’s bad when they say it about a woman.”

“Come here, Avery,” Joe murmured. He was half sitting on an arm of the sofa, while Sofia and the rest of the studio team clustered in front of the television.

I went to him, and he slid an arm around my hip. “Am I aggressive?” I asked with a frown.

“’Course not,” he replied soothingly, at the same time that everyone else in the room said in unison, “Yes.”

In the month since Joe and I had started sleeping together, we had grown closer at a rate that would have alarmed me if I’d allowed myself enough time to really think about it. Instead I stayed busy planning two small weddings as well as the Warner extravaganza. Every day was filled with work. My nights, however, belonged to Joe. Time moved at different pace when I was with him, the hours blazing by at light speed. I always dreaded the shock of the alarm clock in the morning, when we had to go our separate ways.

Joe was a physical man, demanding in bed, endlessly patient and creative. I was never quite certain what to expect from him. Sometimes he was playful and spontaneous, ravishing me against the kitchen counter or on the stairs, doing exactly as he pleased despite my outraged modesty. Other times he would make me lie completely still while he caressed and teased endlessly, his hands so skilled and gentle that it drove me wild. Afterwards we had long, lazy conversations in the darkness, in which I confided things that I would probably regret later. But I couldn’t seem to hold anything back with Joe. His attention was like some damned addictive drug that was impossible to kick.

Understanding me far too well, Joe gave my hip a comforting pat as I frowned at the TV. There I was on camera, stressing the importance of maintaining a strict timeline for the wedding day events.

Sofia turned briefly from the television and grinned at me over her shoulder. “You look great on TV,” she said.

“Your personality is larger than life,” Ree-Ann added.

“So is my ass,” I muttered as the television-me walked away and the camera focused on my backside.

Joe, who would tolerate no criticism of my posterior, discreetly pinched my rear. “Hush,” he whispered.

For the next four minutes, I watched with growing dismay as my professional image was demolished by quick-cut editing and whimsical music. I looked like a screwball comedy actress as I repositioned microphones, adjusted flower arrangements, and went out to the street to direct traffic so the photographer could get a shot of the wedding party outside the church.

The camera showed me talking to a groomsman who had insisted on wearing a cowboy hat with his tux. He was clutching his hat as if fearing I might rip it from him. As I argued and gestured, Coco stared up at the obstinate groomsman with a grumpy expression, her front paws flopping up and down in perfect timing to the opera music.

Everyone in the room chuckled. “They weren’t supposed to film me with Coco,” I said with a scowl. “I made that clear. I only brought her because the pet hotel didn’t have room that day.”

They cut back to the interview. “You’ve said that part of your job is to prepare for the unexpected,” the reporter said. “How exactly do you do that?”

“I try to think in terms of worst-case scenarios,” I replied. “Unexpected weather, vendor mistakes, technical difficulties…”

“Technical difficulties such as…”

“Oh, it could be anything. Issues with the dance floor, problems with zippers or buttons… even an off-center ornament on the wedding cake.”

I was shown walking into the reception site kitchen, which had been declared off-limits to the camera crew. But someone had followed me with a head-cam.

“I didn’t say anyone could film me with a head-cam,” I protested. “They didn’t do that to Judith Lord!”

Everyone shushed me again.

On the TV screen, I approached two deliverymen who were settling a four-tiered wedding cake on the counter. I told them they had brought it inside too soon – the cake was supposed to stay in the refrigerated truck or the buttercream would melt.

“No one told us,” one of them replied.

“I’m telling you. Take it back to the truck and —” My eyes widened as the heavy wedding cake topper began to slide and tilt. I reached up and leaned forward to catch it before it could damage all four tiers on the way down.