Chapter 8
MANDY
I’d been awake since four-thirty in the morning, which was honestly late for a wedding day.
My team and I had been going nonstop, checking and rechecking every detail.
The chapel was perfect—white roses cascading down the aisle with custom pew markers with Victoria and Bud’s monogram.
I had worked for weeks to get the lighting just right.
It was soft enough to make everyone look like they’d been touched by an angel.
None of the garish LEDs. It looked like candlelight. Everyone looked good in candlelight.
My assistant, Zoey, had texted me photos of the flowers, the napkins, and every other detail. I trusted her. Trust but verify, but I knew it was all good.
“Coffee,” Zoey said and handed me a cup.
It was my third one for the day and it would not be my last.
“Any problems?” I asked.
There were always problems. That’s what we did. We solved problems. It didn’t matter how much we planned, little things always popped up. That’s what we got paid the big bucks to do. When things went off the rails, we got everything back on track.
Zoey stopped to adjust the ribbon on one of the flower arrangements. The tiniest details mattered.
“We’re good here,” I said. “Let’s go to the ballroom.”
“Car’s waiting,” she said.
The hotel ballroom was technically within walking distance. Most of the guests would make the walk, but I was not interested in walking in the hundred and ten degree desert heat. No thanks.
We slid into the car. Zoey handed me my tablet with the checklist we always went through.
We arrived at the hotel with the garish casino noise.
It was next to impossible to go anywhere without the sound of a slot machine.
But fortunately, the ballroom was so far removed from the casino floor that you’d never know you were in Vegas.
This wasn’t the Vegas of drunk bachelorette parties and nickel slots.
This was the Vegas of people who could drop a million dollars on a poker hand and not blink.
Tourists all saw the flashing lights and massive drinks. The ass cheeks of the women all trying to get people to come see their shows. That was Vegas out front. I was catering to the Vegas where the rich and famous played.
The noise fell away as we followed the signs to Ballroom A.
The ballroom was stunning. Forty-foot ceilings with crystal chandeliers.
Floor-to-ceiling windows that had been covered with blackout drapes—not for ambiance but to keep the cameras attached to drones from getting the money shot.
Paparazzi had already tried three times to get aerial shots during setup.
Security had chased them off, but we weren’t taking chances.
I was pissed about the need for the blackout drapes because I wanted the space to feel open, but that wasn’t going to happen.
It was one of those last-minute changes.
It still worked. It would still be gorgeous.
We had secured no less than a million tiny lights that were placed in front of the drapes.
Now, it looked like a fairy room or something from space.
The bride hadn’t seen it yet, but they paid me the big bucks to make the decisions.
I walked the perimeter of the room, mentally checking off details.
Each of the thirty tables was set with custom Bernardaud china, Baccarat crystal, and centerpieces of white orchids and pale pink peonies that had been flown in.
The dance floor gleamed. The band was setting up on the stage, their equipment list longer than most people’s grocery lists.
“Mandy.”
I turned to find John, head of security, approaching.
He had an earpiece with a little cord at the back of his head that made him look like a Secret Service agent.
We had worked together many times. I had hired his security firm the first time about six months ago.
He was professional and damn good at his job.
High-profile events like celebrity weddings required the best.
The intimidating scowl on his face told me we had trouble. John was six-five, built like he could bench-press a small car, and took his job very seriously.
I loved him.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“We’ve got the perimeter locked down,” he said with disgust.
“What happened?”
“I caught two young ladies trying to pass themselves off as part of the catering staff,” he muttered. “Did they really think we wouldn’t check?”
“Lucky for us, they don’t sound like master criminals,” I said with a laugh. “Everything else good?”
He nodded. “No one gets in without credentials. We’ve got two guys on the kitchen entrance. The catering staff has all been vetted and badged.” He handed me a small, laminated card on a lanyard. “Your plus-one. You said he’s arriving this afternoon?”
I took the badge, looking at the name printed on it. Briggs Blackwell. “Yeah. He should be here by two.”
“I’ll make sure he gets through.”
“You can’t miss him,” I said with a shake of my head. “He’s almost as serious as you.”
“Then we’ll get along just fine,” the man said.
“Thanks, John.”
He nodded and walked away, already speaking into his radio about something. I clipped the badge to my clipboard and continued my rounds.
The florist was putting finishing touches on the centerpieces.
The lighting designer was adjusting spots.
The cake, a seven-tier masterpiece that belonged in a museum, had been delivered and was being carefully positioned on its own dedicated table with a spotlight that made it look like it was glowing.
The damn thing had an actual water feature.
The things money could buy never ceased to amaze me.
Everything was perfect. Everything was on schedule. I was in the groove. I didn’t just plan events—I created experiences, unique and tailored to each individual client. I made sure that every single detail, from the temperature of the room to the timing of the speeches, was flawless.
Bud Nelson was a tech billionaire who’d made his fortune in cryptocurrency before most people knew what Bitcoin was.
Victoria Knox had won Wimbledon twice and was currently ranked number three in the world.
Their guest list read like a who’s who of Silicon Valley and professional sports.
There were a few celebrities that were on the list, but mostly, it was just money.
CEOs and hedge fund managers that most people didn’t know existed.
I had coordinated security clearances for two sitting senators and at least a dozen people whose net worth exceeded the GDP of small countries.
This wedding would be in magazines. The images from the photographers would be approved by me before they were posted on social media. People would be talking about it for months.
And it was going to be perfect because I didn’t do anything less than perfect.
By noon, I was satisfied that everything was running like a well-oiled machine.
The ceremony would start at three. Cocktail hour at four-thirty.
Dinner at six. Dancing until ten, and then the couple and their closest friends would move to the club they’d rented out for the afterparty.
That part wasn’t my problem, thank God. I’d be done at ten and could finally collapse.
On wedding days, I was certain it was the equivalent of running a marathon.
It always took me a few days to recover.
I had to wear heels because there was an image I had to keep up.
I had tried every “comfortable” heel on the planet and I had to call bullshit.
None of them were comfortable. Some pinched less than others, but they all sucked and my feet hated me.
I headed back to my hotel room, which was thankfully in the same building. That was intentional. I had an entire emergency kit stashed in my room. Everything from basic bandages, to boob tape and smelling salts.
I let myself into my room, kicked off my sensible flats, and immediately started stripping out of my work clothes. I’d been in black pants and a simple blouse all morning—comfortable, professional.
But for the actual wedding? I needed to look like I belonged among the guests. That meant breaking out the good stuff. I had slowly been beefing up my wardrobe with designer pieces.
I’d brought three dress options for tonight because I was nothing if not prepared. I pulled them out of the garment bag and laid them on the bed, considering each one.
The first was a classic black cocktail dress. Safe. Elegant. Boring.
The second was a deep green that would look stunning with my hair and eyes. But it was a little too attention-grabbing, and I didn’t want to outshine anyone. I was there to blend.
The third was a blush pink midi dress with a subtle shimmer in the fabric.
It had a fitted bodice and a flowing skirt.
The ruching worked to give me an hourglass shape while gently hiding the extra me around the waist. I loved pink.
All shades of pink. It was feminine and classy and I just felt pretty in the color.
Pink it was.
I jumped in the shower, taking exactly ten minutes to wash off the morning’s stress.
Then I dried my hair, curling it into soft waves that I pinned back on one side with a crystal clip.
Makeup took another fifteen minutes—foundation, contour, a smoky eye that wasn’t too dramatic, and a nude lip that wouldn’t transfer. It was all about blending in.
And maybe a little bit about looking nice for a certain blue-eyed jerk.
I slipped into the dress, zipped it up, and turned to look at myself in the mirror.
Not bad, Carter.
I looked polished. Professional. Like I belonged at a billionaire’s wedding, not like I was the one making sure the napkins were folded correctly.
I slipped on a pair of nude heels that added three inches to my height.
They were in the comfortable category but I’d still be anxious for my fluffy socks by the end of the night.
I grabbed my clutch that also served as another emergency kit.
Lipstick, breath mints, and a small sewing kit.
I checked to make sure the Tide pen was in there as well. The essentials.
I checked my watch. The ceremony would start in an hour. I needed to check in with the bride and make sure everyone was sober and present. It was Vegas after all. I could not deal with a drunk bridal party.
I took another look in the mirror. I never cared this much about how I looked but today was different. I was nervous about seeing Briggs again.
It was ridiculous. This was a professional arrangement. He was here to observe. It wasn’t personal. He wasn’t watching me. He was watching what I did.
But it felt personal.
The man was gorgeous. Objectively, undeniably, frustratingly gorgeous.
Even hungover and rumpled at breakfast yesterday, he’d been the kind of good-looking that made my brain short-circuit.
Those blue eyes. That jawline. The man was unfairly attractive, like the gene assembly line stalled and he got an extra dose of handsome.
I was not interested in Briggs Blackwell for his personality. His personality sucked. I was sure there was probably a sense of humor in there somewhere, but I hadn’t seen it.
Didn’t stop me from wanting to look pretty so he’d notice.
I’d chosen the pink dress because it was flattering.
Because it showed off my figure without being inappropriate.
I knew I looked damn good in it, and some petty part of me wanted Briggs Blackwell to see exactly what he’d insulted in that conference room.
I wanted him to see me in my element, commanding a room full of powerful people while making everything look effortless even though it was the result of months of planning and coordination.
I wanted him to know that I was really fucking good at my job.
And if he happened to notice that I looked really fucking good while doing it? Well, that was just a bonus.
I texted Zara to confirm she was at the chapel. She responded immediately with a thumbs-up emoji and a photo of the bride looking absolutely stunning in her Vera Wang gown.
Perfect.
It was all going well. Getting the bride dressed and down the aisle on time was half the battle.