Chapter 17
ABI
At the level of society Claire and Cole inhabit, a rehearsal dinner isn’t a quick ceremony walkthrough followed by foot-long sandwiches before heading home to get a good night’s sleep type of deal.
Tonight is a full-blown event before the actual Big Event.
As soon as Augie docks the boat, Lorenzo presses a quick kiss to my lips and then we’re off and running—him to the kitchen, and Janey and me to the cooler and workroom.
Our list comes in handy, giving us a plan of attack.
Table centerpieces . . . check.
Mock bouquet . . . check.
Single bird of paradise stems for bridesmaids . . . check, freshly stolen from the greenhouse.
Various other small arrangements for the different stations . . . check.
By the hair on our chinny-chin-chins—not that we actually have any—we pull it off.
Speaking of hair, my thick mane looks like I’ve stuck my finger in a light socket .
. . twice . . . after last night’s sea air and today’s whiplash of work.
I take a quick moment to refasten my messy bun and give Janey a look. “Ready?”
She pulls the list out of her cleavage, where she’s apparently storing it for safekeeping and easy access, and scans it quickly. “Done to the dun-dun-da-dunnnn,” she sings to the wedding march tune.
Gathering everything on the carts, I glance around the workroom one more time to make sure we have everything we need from here to go up to the ballroom. Stage two of prep starts now.
And I’m already exhausted after not sleeping at all last night.
After this, I have every plan of falling into bed with Lorenzo, snuggling right up close to his warm body, laying my head on his bare chest .
. . and sleeping for days. Or until my early morning alarm tomorrow to get ready for the wedding.
But before I can fade into a few hours of blissful rest, I have to get through this.
“Make sure everything is perfect,” I tell Janey upstairs in the ballroom as we set up arrangements on the center of each table.
“Duh,” she sasses back. “I figured you’d want me to fuck stuff up. No?”
The lady setting out plates laughs at our banter.
There’s a whole crew prepping for tonight, and we all work together in a coordinated dance to get everything ready.
The decorators have draped purple and hot pink glitter tulle around the room, giving it a tropical tent appearance, the lighting crew has added sparkly candelabras to the tablescape which highlight the orange and pink flower arrangements perfectly, and the tables are set with white china and gold flatware.
We’re ready and everything looks beautiful, right up until Meredith rolls in and brings a thundercloud of doom with her.
“People, people . . . no.” She goes around the room, nitpicking this and that. She touches one of my arrangements, flicking at a bloom, and I nearly come unglued and karate chop her hand off.
The only reason Meredith keeps both hands is Janey’s quick thinking when she grabs me around the shoulders. It probably looks friendly, but she’s hissing in my ear. “Don’t you fucking dare, Abs. Fix. Your. Face! You can read every murderous thought you’re having like a neon sign.”
I try. I’m not known for my resting bitch face. That’s Courtney. I’m usually the Andrews who always has a sunny smile for everyone, but Meredith irks the shit out of me. She pushes buttons I never even knew I had.
“Masquerade theme,” Meredith draws out as though teaching the words to kindergarteners who don’t speak English.
Wait, is masquerade even English? I have no idea, and why am I thinking of it now?
“Not Mardi Gras, for heaven’s sake! Remove the beads.
” As she barks orders, she grabs the offending strands of beads from the middle of the table and forces them into the hand of the nearest worker.
“The last thing we need is the press getting photos of the bride and groom with ‘show your tits’ beads draped around their necks.”
I stifle a laugh that Meredith Wildeman even knows the word tits, much less said it aloud.
I’m not the only one fighting the laugh either, because suddenly, everyone is face-down or giving Meredith their back as we bustle around to get things up to her standards without getting called out for laughing at her.
I try to imagine Meredith at a New Orleans Mardi Gras celebration, riding down Bourbon Street on a big float, and just can’t do it. She looks out of place enough in this ballroom with its luxury masquerade décor.
“Flower girl, the sweetheart table . . . fix it.”
“On it,” I say, not correcting her. She’s stressed to the nth degree. I can see that and understand it, but seriously, does it take that much to simply call me Abi? Hell, I’d take one of those bitchy ‘Miss Andrews’ sneers at this point.
I putz with the sweetheart table, not fixing anything because nothing is actually wrong with the beautiful setup, and then the doors open.
Claire and Cole come in, looking happy, tan, and beaming with love.
Claire has on a white gauzy dress with tiny seed pearls along the bodice that give it a vintage and romantic vibe.
Cole has on a khaki linen suit with an untucked white button-up shirt beneath.
Both are barefoot. For some reason, that’s what makes the whole image perfect.
Like they’re more real with no shoes on.
Claire exclaims as they come into the ballroom. “Oh, my gosh! It’s gorgeous!” Her hands cover her wide-open mouth and a second later, she’s tearing up. “It’s everything I imagined.”
That moment right there is why I love what I do. I soak it up, letting it erase all the craziness of today. Hell, of the whole week. Claire’s happy tears simply wash it all away.
“Wildeman’s orders,” Janey says as she hands me a black mask. It’s Zorro style, just large enough to cover my eye sockets but still let me see.
I look around to find all the staff wearing black masks to go with their black head to toe uniforms. Typically, the dark clothing helps us disappear into the background, as staff isn’t meant to be seen at an event like this. But the masks make us even more anonymous.
I see Claire and Cole donning white masks and the guests putting on various colors and laughing along with Claire’s fun masquerade idea. It does actually change the mood to one that seems more mysterious and exciting.
Standing off to the side out of the way, I watch as everyone mingles and finds their seats. And then dinner begins.
But this isn’t any old dinner. Not for this crowd.
The door to the kitchen opens, and I expect to see the waiters beginning service. And they do, except the whole line of servers is following a woman in a full ball-gown dress of purple and pink with a painted face and a feathery mask, who’s twirling sticks with lit sparklers on the ends.
The crowd gasps in delight and applauds the woman’s exciting spectacle. The photographer runs in front of the sweetheart table as the firework-twirling woman stands behind Claire and Cole to take photos.
At the end of the line of waiters, Lorenzo comes out, looking sharp and suave in full black with a mask of his own.
Even his chef jacket is black tonight. There might be major hoopla happening in the ballroom, like literal fire, but Lorenzo is still what draws my eye.
He’s captivating, and I’m not the only one who notices.
But somehow, though there is a roomful of gorgeous women all clad in fancy dresses and shiny baubles giving him appraising looks and I’m hidden away to blend in, his eyes find me easily.
His smile is everything and over too fast when he turns to face Claire and Cole to explain the first course.
Each course is the same—some new visual spectacle, servers, and then Lorenzo. I live for the moment he walks through those doors and his eyes find mine, promising heat and more.
After dessert, the party really gets started and the DJ plays tunes designed to get everyone on the dance floor.
The Cupid Shuffle might be old and cheesy, but everyone from the twenty-somethings to Grandma and Grandpa can step to the left and right when they’re told to.
And I’ve never seen old folks get down as when Cole’s parents break it down to Let Me Clear My Throat.
As Claire and Cole enjoy the night before their wedding, partying and doing it up big with their families, I feel a presence looming beside me. I turn to see Lorenzo, his chef jacket now absent, but he’s still dressed in head to toe black, including his mask.
“Mia rosa,” he murmurs. “I thought about you all day, worried you wouldn’t get everything completed, but it all looks beautiful. Not as lovely as you, of course,” he says with a heated smirk. Even with the mask, I can see his eyes trace down my body.
To be fair, I’m not dressed for seduction. Slim black pants, a black blouse, and black flats aren’t exactly a sexy, flirty look. But his gaze sees right through the plain clothes, almost like he can see my bare skin beneath.
I smile that even with everything he had going on, he thought of me.
I confide, “I kept asking Janey if she thought you were okay. I even offered to run to the kitchen to get us some food just so I could check on you.” I shake my head sadly, chuckling at the memory.
“She told me no and shoved a protein bar in my hand. Told me to eat that if I was hungry.”
Lorenzo’s laugh is warm, washing over me. It’s only been hours since I’ve been with him, but I’ve missed him. I want to know everything about his day, how the kitchen was when he showed up, if he feels proud of his work, but first . . . I need to know what he tastes like again.
As though he can read the turn of my thoughts, his eyes go dark, nearly the color of the mask that surrounds them. Suddenly, the mask that had seemed itchy and weird feels naughty and the anonymity freeing.