The Wedding Game

by Quinn, Meghan

  Yeesh.

  “Got it,” I whisper, the guilt now consuming me. Cohen’s right: we don’t go behind each other’s backs. We’ve always been honest about everything. I may have had good intentions, but Cohen has every right to be angry. “I’m sorry I tampered with your trust. It won’t happen again.”

  “Better not.” He straightens up and sighs. With a roll of his eyes, he pulls me into a hug, and I revel in the feel of his protective arms around me. “The only other reason I’m doing this is because I truly want to see you shine. You’ve worked so hard to get to where you are—it’s about time you get a little acclaim.”

  “That’s not why—”

  “I know.” He kisses the top of my head. “I know, Luna. It’s just an added bonus.”

  After a few more seconds of hugging, Declan says, “So, are we doing this?”

  We both turn to Cohen. Despite his scowl, I think I can detect a shimmer of excitement in his eyes. “We’re doing this.”

  I pump my fist in the air. “Those other couples can eat my glitter dust!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ALEC

  What the hell have I gotten myself into?

  Three seconds after walking on set, I immediately realized I’d made a colossal mistake.

  Centered in the large space are three workstations, decked out in crafting supplies, all organized and displayed like a kitschy version of the most elaborate workbench ever created. Each station contains two industrial-size packing tables with smooth wooden surfaces, three stools, what I can only assume is a vision board—kill me now—and multiple crates, stashing away God knows what.

  Along the outer edge of the three-walled set are designated sections for what seem like the important aspects of a wedding: invitations, venues, and centerpieces. Every section contains a variety of tools, supplies, and products. My stomach drops, and I get the feeling that this is going to be more cutthroat than I imagined.

  And of course, the colors are kick-you-in-the-dick bright, with white tables, parquet floors in teal, pink, and purple, and aqua walls. Who let a teenager design this set?

  Easy to say that this is not my scene. Nothing about it screams I belong here, and definitely not in my dark-wash jeans and black T-shirt. Thad, on the other hand, is wearing a goddamn linen shirt because in his words, he won’t “sweat as much with a breezy fabric.”

  He looks like a jackass.

  In a matter of seconds, I’ve come up with at least five excuses that could get me out of this, all very viable.

  Client just called, arbitration has been moved to a Saturday. Got to go.

  Forgot to pay my taxi driver, and the meter’s still running.

  Ate some funky shrimp last night, need a bathroom, stat.

  *Cough* *Cough* Picked up malaria at the bar last night, don’t think I’ll make it.

  Made a mistake, really don’t want to be here, peace.

  The last one is the truth, but malaria is looking like a viable option right about now.

  The idea of losing what little freedom I have left in my life to making bouquets and helping my brother prance around with tulle really doesn’t feel appealing in the slightest. Not to mention feeling completely out of my element and having to be recorded while creating an event I don’t necessarily believe in.

  Typical divorce lawyer, hates marriage; I get it. I’m a walking cliché, but I have yet to be exposed to a positive, healthy relationship to prove my thoughts otherwise.

  I’m sure Thad and Naomi have a wonderful relationship, but I guess we’ll find out once it’s put through the wringer for the next two months.

  “You’re so tense—relax,” Thad says, walking up next to me, a sandwich in hand. Is that . . . bologna? Talking with his mouth full, he continues, “Go hit up the craft services table. They have fucking gummy worms, man. I know where I’ll be when we’re taking five.” He taps my arm and points to his pocket. “Already stuffed some in my jeans. They’re free, bro.”

  Jesus Christ.

  Naomi walks up holding a sandwich as well and smiles. “Can’t have deli meat because of the baby, but I stacked this guy with cheese and mustard, and it’s truly wonderful. Their bread is so crunchy on the outside.”

  “But heaven on the inside,” Thad finishes for her. “Never had anything like it.”

  “I might ask them where they get it.” Naomi examines her sandwich—it’s overflowing with so much cheese that it actually makes me want to throw up in my mouth.

  So much cheese . . .

  “I should ask about this bologna.”

  “And this cheese.”

  Thad wiggles his brows. “And the gummy worms.”

  “Probably all from Costco,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  “I sure as hell hope so,” Thad says. “With the baby coming along, Daddy Dearest is going to roll in with a membership and buy his weight in diapers.” Thad nudges me. “Did you hear me call myself Daddy Dearest? That was funny.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  Thad studies me. “Your blood sugar must be low. You’re quite irritated right now. Why don’t you ask a PA for some coffee or something? Liven yourself up. We have a long day of filming.”

  Don’t I fucking know it.

  The schedule was delivered via email this past week, and I nearly called Thad up and told him I wasn’t coming. We’ll be subjected to filming on every weekend over the course of two months. The weekdays are for us—how kind—Saturdays are for challenges, and Sundays are for confessionals. We are required to show up for both days. Weddings are the last weekend, all in a row—Friday, Saturday, and Sunday—and the results of the winner will be filmed a few weeks later, since there’s a delay in filming when the show airs.

  Every weekend we will be presented with a challenge that will either give us opportunities to earn more money for the weddings or decide what kind of decor or design will be incorporated into them. Honestly, I skimmed over that section, not the slightest bit interested. All I could focus on was the fact that my weekends had just been snatched away from me for the summer.

  I rub my eyes and let out a long sigh. “Yeah, coffee.” With that, I leave them to their sandwiches and pocket-lint gummy worms, looking for a PA to help me.

  The set is bustling with people, everyone walking around, a job to do. Contestants were told to mill about until called upon. Well, I haven’t seen any other contestants, nor have I seen any of the judges or the host Lucas was drooling over.

  There is zero direction. There is no schedule for the day. Not one single person is controlling the chaos or communicating the agenda, and I’m the only one who seems to care.

  Irritation boiling up inside me, I decide to visit the craft table for some coffee. And, I would like to add, it’s incredibly strange that Naomi and Thad are eating sandwiches at eight in the morning, especially since when I walk up to the table, it’s full of breakfast items.

  Spotting the coffee carafe, I snag a paper cup, place it under the faucet, and pull down on the lever. Nothing comes out.

  You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. No coffee? Not that I really need it to survive, but there’s no reason it should be empty, not with this many people walking around. I scan the room and spot a coffee station across from me. Thank God.

  I go to that carafe, place my cup underneath, and pull down on the handle. Empty again.

  Seriously?

  “Jesus,” I mutter, whipping around to the first person who passes me. “Hey, are you going to refill the coffee?”

  The girl stumbles back, her long black hair floating over her shoulders as her dark eyes widen at me.

  “I . . .”

  I thrust the cup at her. “Coffee, please. If you’re going to make me get here at seven and then wait around for an hour and a half, the least you can do is get me coffee.”

  “That’s not my job,” she says, trying to hand the cup back to me.

  “Don’t care. Coffee . . . please.” When she doesn’t move, I grow angrier and lean in so our face
s are only a foot apart. “I’m not above reporting you. I said please, so find me some coffee. Thank you.”

  Her lips twist to the side as her eyes search mine, fear and anger lacing them before she turns away. “Right away . . . ,” she says before mumbling something under her breath that I can’t quite hear and speeding away. I drag my hand over my face—I just took out my irritation on an innocent PA. Ten bucks says when she returns, there’s something foreign in my coffee.

  I’m not in a good frame of mind for this. Crafting, being creative, using my hands to make things . . . yeah, not in my wheelhouse.

  Need someone for a debate? I’m your guy.

  Need someone to stick up for you, research the facts, and make a valid argument? Look no further.

  But wedding invites? Tiered cakes? Wedding playlists? Hell . . . I should have walked away when I had the chance.

  Fucking Thad and his guilt trip.

  Fingers pressed into my brow, I make my way back to where Thad and Naomi are finishing off their sandwiches and talking to two men. When Thad spots me, he says, “Alec, get over here—I want you to meet Declan and Cohen.” Then his eyes narrow as I approach. “What happened to taming the beast with some coffee?”

  “Don’t get me started,” I mutter as I turn to the two men. Both tall, both fit, both looking just as terrified as me.

  “Cohen, Declan, this is my brother, Alec. Alec, this is Cohen and Declan, one of the couples we’re competing against.”

  Couple? Ahh hell. Hate to admit it, but there is no way we’re going to stand a chance against what I can only describe as a dark, short-haired Thor and an Asian Clark Kent. I love my brother, but he has nothing on these two, especially when his fiancée is chowing down on a triple-decker cheese sandwich and has mustard on her chin.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say, giving them both a handshake. I stick my hands in my pockets. “Either of you creative?”

  Declan adjusts his glasses. “Cohen is a carpenter, and his sister is our secret weapon. What about you?”

  “Well . . . we know how to tie our shoes, so at least we have that going for us,” I say, dread spreading through me at the thought of two months of weekends washed away . . . for nothing.

  Thad knocks me in the stomach, buckling me over slightly. “We can do more than just tie our shoes—we are multitalented.”

  At bullshitting.

  “Naomi has quite the eye for design.”

  “Love bright colors,” Naomi chimes in, mustard still on her chin.

  So the set must be quite appealing to her.

  “And I am an excellent baker,” Thad says. “Just the other day I made a batch of scones that would have had Queen Elizabeth herself kissing my knuckles in appreciation.”

  What is he talking about? I’ve had his scones before—they could crack a tooth if you’re not careful.

  “And Alec here . . . well, he’s our ringer. A lawyer by day, but a regular old Martha Stewart, minus Snoop Dogg, at night.”

  Wow, where the hell is that coming from? Sure, I can make a pot roast in the slow cooker and fold a fitted sheet properly, but that’s the extent of my Martha Stewart abilities.

  “We are quite the team to worry about,” Thad adds.

  “That’s so great. I’m excited to see what you guys come up with,” Declan says as Cohen stares at the ground. The quiet type, it seems. “I’m here to help, but Luna and Cohen are the ones who are going to lead the team.”

  “Luna, that’s a pretty name,” Naomi says, finally wiping the mustard off her chin. At least we have that going for us now—all three with clean chins.

  “Speaking of which, there you are,” Declan says as a cup of coffee is thrust toward me, spilling over the side and onto my shoe.

  “Luna,” Cohen lightly scolds, but the boldness in her eyes doesn’t waver as she looks up at me.

  Fuuuuuck . . . not a PA.

  Nope, the girl with the raven-black hair and dark eyes is my competition.

  “Here you go, Master. Added some cream and sugar and something extra special.” She winks, and I inwardly cringe, wondering what that “extra-special” thing could be. “Is there anything else you would like me to get you, Your Majesty?” Wow, she doesn’t hold back at all, which only makes the situation worse as four pairs of eyes stare at me, the most intimidating being her brother’s.

  “Uhh . . . ,” I say, at a loss for words.

  “Because if you need something else, you’ll need to make your demands now before we start filming. I can’t possibly do two things at once, despite what you might think. So, any more requests?” Hands on her hips, she taps her foot.

  At the challenge in her gaze, I attempt to laugh it off with a joke that falls completely flat. “Homemade doughnuts tomorrow morning, delivered straight to me, hot and fresh from the fryer. Thanks.” Her eyes narrow, and with a whip of her head, she grabs Cohen’s and Declan’s hands and drags them away.

  Yeah, probably not the best thing to say to an already-angry girl, someone I’ll be seeing every weekend for the next two months. Apparently she doesn’t quite get my humor.

  “Why the hell did you piss her off?” Thad asks, smacking my arm again once they’re out of earshot. “She doesn’t seem like someone you should piss off. She actually looks like she could see straight through your soul and use it to take you down.” He looks off toward the group, clustered around a workbench and clearly talking about me—they keep glancing over their shoulders in my direction. “And I don’t know about you, but I would rather be friends with the competition, not enemies. Did you see the muscles on Cohen? What if we need him to lift something? And Declan, he looked like he knew his numbers. He tried to be modest, but I bet you anything that dude knows how to budget, down to the last penny. That was really stupid of you, Alec. Really fucking stupid. You put us at a disadvantage already. And why ask her for coffee? Clearly she’s not a PA.”

  I drag my hand down my face. “Shut the fuck up, Thad.”

  “I think this is it,” a female voice says from behind us. “Are you one of the families competing in The Wedding Game?” I turn to find three women standing side by side: two girls in their late twenties, one blonde with deep-blue eyes, one brunette with deep-brown eyes, and an older woman who looks just like the taller blonde.

  Oh hell.

  A lesbian couple.

  We’re toast.

  Team Hernandez

  Contestants: Luciana, Amanda, and Helen—the overbearing mother with an unbelievably loud opinion on pretty much everything (shoes, workstations, lighting, the nose on the cameraman). You name it, she has an opinion.

  Experience: Amanda is a personal trainer. Luciana owns and operates her own doggy day spa. Helen is skilled in telling everyone how things should be.

  Notes: Nauseatingly kind, always smiling, and have admitted more than once to wearing matching pajamas to bed . . . because they can.

  Team Rossi

  Contestants: Cohen, Declan, and Luna—the scowling sister who has a hard time laughing off an awkward encounter.

  Experience: Declan is a public schoolteacher with secret budgeting skills (hearsay), Cohen is a carpenter with a well-honed death glare, and Luna is a jack of all trades, master of everything (at least that’s what she said in her intro).

  Notes: There is no doubt in anyone’s mind who’s going to win. Not just from experience but from the terrifying look of determination and competitiveness in Luna Rossi’s midnight eyes.

  Team Baxter

  Contestants: Thad, Naomi, and Alec—the saddest-looking trio.

  Experience: Zero. (Unless bullshitting about being the next Martha Stewart and having a “keen sense” of what’s trending counts.)

  Notes: What kind of lies were transcribed on the application in order to be picked to participate? Team has a penchant for mistaking fellow contestants as coffee runners and hides gummy worms in pockets.

  “And cut. Great intros, everyone. Thank you. Take five, and then we’ll get started with the first ch
allenge,” the director, Diane DeBoss, says. I look up from my notes on the competition as Diane removes her headphones and grabs Mary DIY, the host who is also one of the judges. The teams are at their respective workbenches, and four sets of cameras move around, setting up for the next take while Diane and Mary DIY make their way to their respective chairs to go over the script.

  Mary DIY made quite the entrance when she arrived on set: dropping her robe to the floor, fluffing her blonde locks, and cinching her hands at her waist while adjusting the belt of her dress.

  I have to admit, she’s gorgeous, but not very welcoming. In my opinion, a good host would have come up to each team, introduced herself, and then gotten to know us—or at least our names. But Mary walked on set right before we began, plastered on a smile, and introduced each team to the cameras. Now she’s wearing the aforementioned robe that she haphazardly tossed to the ground, and she’s getting her hands rubbed down while Diane talks to her about her perfect angle.

  Christ, it’s not like she’s a movie star. It’s a crafty wedding show, for fuck’s sake.

  “Stare longer. Maybe you won’t look as creepy,” Thad says next to me.

  “She’s a diva,” I say, pulling my gaze away.

  “A diva with beautiful hair,” Naomi cuts in. “Do you think she has extensions?”

  “Easily,” Thad says. “I spend enough time with executives’ wives to know what extensions look like, and she has them.”

  “Wow, a talent you should have listed in our intro—might have boosted our self-esteem a little more,” I say sarcastically.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Thad asks.

  I lower my voice. “Look around. We’re clearly the underdogs, with no chance of winning.”

  “What?” Thad actually looks shocked. “That’s not true. We have a strong team. A very strong team. If you’d accepted my invite to dinner last night, you would have marveled at the talents we were able to write down on paper, and you would have taken part in our wedding action plan. But you missed out, and now you’re questioning me?” He points to his chest and shakes his head. “Participation in all activities is key, Alec. But if I must reiterate, we are quick, we’re fierce, and we have a fourth member.” Thad rubs Naomi’s belly. “Baby Baxter is on duty.”