3. Lacey
CHAPTER 3
LACEY
I arrive at the rehearsal dinner in a formfitting little black dress with spaghetti straps. My nerves are so frayed, my skin is itching. I normally would dress a little less sexy, a little more professional, but I’m on fumes over here. I need every tool I’ve got to feel powerful, together, and hot enough to pound the heart out of the father of the bride if I need to.
Fuck his Barbie wife.
Fuck his lies.
I went all in for tonight, and I don’t regret my choice of spike heels. At least…not yet.
The bride and groom aren’t due to arrive for another hour, but since the entire family is staying on the Lantana estate for the weekend, various elderly aunts and uncles arrive early to the dining space.
My hospitality staff of eighteen is already in place. The tables are extravagantly set with bright yellow and orange flowers, pale yellow water goblets, and lots of vibrant fresh greens. Perfectly caramelized Portuguese egg custard tarts are displayed on tall, tiered crystal cake displays beside petit fours wrapped in pale yellow mini cupcake papers, our chef’s elegant take on the Welsh tea cake. These touches, the menu that honors both sides of the family’s heritage, are just part of what makes the Lantana so special.
If I weren’t dreading everything about this wedding, I’d feel the same pride I always do at the beautiful work we do.But tonight, the only thing I can feel is dread. Well, that, and some simmering resentment, plus a side portion of good old-fashioned rage. I cannot believe I have to see the man who lied to my face while holding my body, loving me in every way I thought a man could, and doing it for months. And because I value my job more than just about anything in my life, I couldn’t quit when I found out that the man I’d been fucked over by would be walking his little girl down our aisle.
Even though I ended things with Dylan months ago, I still can’t help beating myself up for being too stupid to see the truth. I mean, weren’t there signs? Aren’t there always with married men?
I really should have known. I really should have trusted less and verified more. Dylan Acosta was a filthy, filthy liar, but me? I was starry-eyed and stupid, through and through. Me and my Ken doll dreams, be damned. And now, I just have to get through this weekend. If I can do that, I will never, ever have to see Dirtbag Dylan again.
I suck in a breath and suck in my gut, telling myself I can manage my emotions. With any luck, Dylan will be so consumed with his very much alive and breathing wife, his daughter, and his soon-to-be son-in-law, he will barely even notice I’m here.
If I’m really lucky, he might even pretend not to know me. Which is exactly what a man with half a brain and even a sliver of conscience would do.
I survey the activity from the far corner of the room, where an elegant white marble bar is lit by soft Edison bulbs and string lights. My hair is loose tonight, the collarbone-length cut razor-sharp and smooth. I peek at my blood-red lipstick in the mirror behind the bar until the bartenders hustle in carrying trays of condiments and interrupt my view.
I adjust the tiny earpiece and receiver clipped to my dress and click the button to answer a question from the head of housekeeping through a discreet walkie-talkie. The last hour before the event begins is basically controlled chaos, with me troubleshooting everything from a clogged toilet in the men’s room to a missing picture frame that the couple wants the wedding party to sign.
By the time the villa fills with guests, I’m already exhausted, and the night hasn’t even begun.
As I stand near the bar, keeping watch on the servers, how the guests are responding to the food, and generally monitoring my headset for questions from any of my staff, a large, dark shape lingers near the entrance to the room.
Eagle.
Always discreet, hovering in the background and keeping an eye on the activities.
I’m just finishing a call from the front desk about a guest who wants to check in but didn’t reserve a room, when a well-dressed man lightly clears his throat in front of me.
“Lacey.” He says my name in a tone he has no business using at my place of employment, then leans in to kiss my cheek as if we’re in France and not Florida. I resist the temptation to roll my eyes. Dylan fucking Acosta. The father of the bride and the shittiest of shitty liars. His smile is deep and warm and totally phony. “You look stunning, as always. Maybe even more so than I remember. And I have very fond memories .”
I compose my face into an expressionless mask, refusing to give him even a fake smile. “Congratulations, Dylan,” I tell him. “I hope you have a wonderful weekend. If you’ll excuse me, I’m working.”I turn to leave, but he stops me with a hand on my elbow.
The look I give that hand should shred every bit of his cocky confidence. It seems to work, as he has the good sense to remove his hand from my skin, and his face falls for just a moment. What the hell. Did he expect I’d be happy to see him?
“Lacey, I…”
I lost fourteen months of my life to this dirtbag. That is a tiny fraction of the time he has been married to the mother of his children. And still, fourteen freaking months is a long time to live a lie. A very long time to string someone along, only to stomp on their heart. I’m not about to put myself under his heel again.
“Dylan,” I say, lowering my voice in warning. “This weekend is about giving your daughter and her fiancé a fantasy. If you say or do anything to piss me off, I will give your family something to remember this weekend by.” I smooth the dark purple pocket square that peeks from his jacket pocket, like I’m doing it to be nice. I’m not. I lean in very close and look him dead in the eyes. “Don’t give me even the slightest reason to make a scene. It won’t be a pleasant one.”
I turn away from him and storm toward the kitchen, feeling an intense stare following me.
Once I’m in the kitchen, I huff a massive sigh and curse under my breath. My heart is pounding in my chest, but not because I’m happy to see him. I’m so, so mad at myself for being an idiot.
I square my shoulders and look over the kitchen stations from the doorway like I have a reason to be here other than calming myself down.
The kitchen is a frenzy of activity. Courses being plated, the familiar sounds of steam and sizzling, bubbling pots and chefs calling orders. It’s reassuring. Business as usual. Everything here is under control. Unlike my body—and apparently, my heart as well.
I pull in a breath, the scents of garlic and potatoes and roasted beef soothing me. This is good. What we do here is good. I love this job, even if love can’t always be trusted and if people are sometimes shit.
I’m an event planner, and I have an event to run. A once-in-a-lifetime beautiful event.
When I head back into the villa, I keep one eye peeled for Dylan. I need to know where he is at all times so I can stay the fuck away.
I’m so fixated on finding Dylan, I don’t see Eagle. But I feel him when a tattooed hand hovers at my elbow, close but not touching me. Suddenly, that bedroom voice is growling against my ear.
“You good?” he asks. “You peeled outta here so fast, you practically burned tire tracks into the floor.”
He towers a good three inches above me, and I’m five-eleven in my heels. Without meaning to, without even realizing what I’m doing, I lean against his side. It’s a momentary move, the clean, pressed black dress shirt he wears just skimming my bare arm. At our contact, electricity dances along my skin, hitting me like a glass of ice water to the face. I realize what I’m doing and step away from him.
“Sorry. Yeah. I’m good.” I scurry away from him, feeling like a billiard ball bouncing across a pool table and banking off not one but two men I’m trying to avoid.
Tonight is so not the night to lust after the biker. No night is the night for that, but tonight, especially. With Dirtbag Dylan in my peripheral vision and Eagle glaring down the guests, I glance at my watch to check the time.
Shit.
Three more hours of this torture to go.
By the time the rehearsal dinner is over, I feel like a deflated volleyball. Dylan’s tried two more times to corner me.
First, at the dessert table, where I swear he offered to feed me an egg custard until I threatened to smash it in his face. And since that didn’t convince him to behave, he chased me down a second time at the bar when I was trying to order a soda. I was desperate for a hit of sugar and caffeine until I smelled Dylan’s expensive cologne way too close for comfort. I whirled away, still thirsty and thoroughly pissed.
If he tries even one more thing, I am gonna make good on my threat to make a scene. We have two more days ahead of us, and I can’t helicopter through it. I just hope that when the big event happens, he’ll be too busy doing what he should be doing as the father of the bride to harass me.
I can’t let one shitty man cost me my job. So, I’ve done my level best to glare, stare, and beware of him most of the night.
And thank God, this night is officially over.
Once the meals are cleared and the guests are finishing off coffee and dessert, I step outside for a breath of fresh air. My work here is almost done, so I click the button on my walkie-talkie and let the head of hospitality and the kitchen manager know I’m taking a ten-minute break.
It’s nearly ten o’clock, and the lights over the koi pond reflect on the smooth surface like floating stars. I lean my elbows against the railing and let my eyes flutter closed. Everything about this night has been exhausting, as I expected it would be.
For the event staff, it’s our chance to meet the guests closest to the bride and groom, to understand any unusual requests or limitations the family might have, and to note any changes we might need to make so the wedding itself goes more smoothly. I did all that and managed to ping-pong my way past Dylan, who seemed to be everywhere and constantly too close. I deserve a hot bubble bath and a massage.
I bend a knee and lift one heel out of my shoe to give my toes a rest, when I feel a hand snake along my waist.
“Fuck, you look beautiful tonight. I can hardly keep my eyes off you.”
I stiffen and spin to confront Dylan, moving so fast, I step completely out of my shoe. Wobbling on one heel, I put up a hand to push the man an arm’s length distance away from me.
“What the hell did I tell you?” I seethe. “Don’t you have an ounce of respect?”
My words come out hot and fast—and so loud, I am afraid I shouted them. But at this point, screw this jerk. If Botox Barbie finds out he is a cheater at their daughter’s wedding, that is so not my problem.
I stab a finger toward his chest. “Can you try to keep it in your fucking pants while your wife is literally right across the room? Your not-at-all-dead wife, I might add,” I hiss.
Dylan’s expression goes from suggestive to shocked. “You don’t have to be such a bitch,” he says, reaching for my hand and pulling me close. “I don’t know what your problem is, Lacey. I was simply paying you a compliment. I’m a guest of this establishment, and I would expect you to act with the courtesy the Lantana is known for.”
“My issue, Dylan, is you,” I say, tugging my hand away from his. Once, his touch felt welcoming, but now, I feel nothing but cold fury. “I told you to stay the hell away from me, but you won’t stop. And, yes, you are a guest at this establishment. Nothing more, not to me. So, I’d appreciate if you’d act like a guest and not some horny teenager who can’t help following me around and making inappropriate little comments.”
He doesn’t loosen his grip on my wrist. In fact, he tightens it, and I wince at the burn against my skin.“You want to talk about inappropriate, Lacey?”
He’s baiting me. I have no idea what he thinks I might have done that’s inappropriate, but I have a feeling I’m about to hear it.
“Is this how you dress for all your rehearsal dinners? Fucking tits practically falling out of your dress. Fuck-me heels? You’re trying to tell me this little show you’re putting on isn’t all about me?”
“You’re not doing this to me right now,” I insist, trying to wrestle my arm away without tipping over on the one high heel I’m still wearing. “This is my place of business. I work here,” I bite out. “Your daughter and future-son-in-law are fifty feet away. Your entire family. What I wear and how I conduct myself is my business, not yours.” I try to appeal to any shred of decency this man might have. That’s a big if, though, as he confirms when he threatens me right to my face.
“It is your place of business, and unless you want to find yourself looking for a new job, I’d suggest you stop being such a fucking tease and be a little fucking cordial with your guests. Especially one who’s paying the kind of money I am for a prestige experience here.”
Prestige experience? I am about to tell him exactly the kind of prestige experience he deserves when someone steps up behind him, and the words die on my lips.
“Mr. Acosta.”
The boom of the voice hits Dylan like a kick to the back of the knees. I see him flinch, first looking pissed at the intrusion, but then, as he turns and faces the angry mountain that is Eagle’s chest, I can see Dylan’s shoulders sag in his expensive suit.
“Is there a problem, friend?” Dylan’s voice is tight. He sounds like an entitled prick who’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and yet he still thinks it deserves to be there.
Eagle twirls his index finger in the air, motioning to the empty garden. “Listen good, Mr. Acosta. First, you ain’t my friend. But you are one of the guests, and from what I can see, you’re a pretty important guest, as far as the bride and groom are concerned. Now, I wouldn’t normally risk embarrassing one of Lantana’s guests, let alone the father of the bride, so I hope like hell I’m mistaken.”
He takes a step closer to Dylan, and I can see past Dylan’s shoulders that Eagle’s nostrils are flared, his teeth bared like an animal ready to bite.
“I hope I didn’t just see you lay hands on Ms. Mercer. I’d be real wrong if I thought there was anything funny going on out here, wouldn’t I?” Eagle crosses his thick arms over his chest and cocks his chin. “Tell me I’m wrong, sir, because I’d hate to have to break one of your more important bones the night before you’re supposed to walk your baby girl down the aisle.”