So take that, Meredith! Check, check, checkity check.
“Excellent,” Meredith says evilly. “I’ll need to add a simple assignment to your daily list, then, since you’re so caught up.” She’s daring me to argue, but there’s no need. I can tackle whatever she’s going to throw at me. “Claire and Cole have a lunch photo shoot. We’ll need a centerpiece for the table, nothing obnoxious,” she warns, as if that’s ever a risk with my arrangements, “but rather something romantic and tropical. I’m sure you can do something that will be serviceable.”
Of course, I can. And it’ll be a hell of a lot more than ‘serviceable’.
Meeting adjourned, Janey and I make our way to the floral cooler. But as we round the corner, I’m greeted by a horrible sight—a man in dirty coveralls with a toolbox at his feet. But he’s not the awful thing.
The worse sight is the open door of the cooler and the rapidly wilting and dying flowers!
Hundreds of roses, orchids, baby’s breath, daisies . . . and those are just the ‘regular’ flowers. There are also special-order ranunculus and dahlias that are irreplaceable.
Tears threaten to spill over, some of sadness and some of anger. Both are hotly burning my eyes.
“What happened?!” I yell as my hands fist at my sides. “It was fine yesterday!”
The old guy grins with a shrug. “That’s how breakdowns work. One minute, they’re fine. The next, they aren’t. Cooler compressor blew.” He scratches at his oily hair. “Just installed it a month ago.”
“Ugh! Now what do I do?” Lamenting the situation isn’t useful, but starting to figure out a solution definitely is. To the mechanic, I’m all business. “My flowers are dying or already dead. First, is there another cooler we can use?”
He shakes his head sadly.
“Move then,” I tell him, helping him get the hell out of my way. When he steps out of the doorway, I slam the door shut. “Need to keep it as cool as possible inside. And I need a technician here, pronto. Like genie-poof him here right now.” I blink hard and jerk my head like I can make help magically appear.
Nothing happens.
“I’ve got a fella on the way,” the man says helpfully.
“Good. I need . . . I need . . .” My roll of sensible action falls to pieces and the tears flow over. “Damn it! I need to go back twenty-four hours and stop this from happening.” Mania is setting in, my mind swirling out of control.
No! This can’t be happening!
I imagine Claire’s tearful sadness as she cries out, ‘I trusted you, Abi!’ And Meredith’s glee as I prove her right that I can’t handle this.
Janey grabs my shoulders, shaking sense back into me. “You’re losing it, Abs. Focus! Now what?”
I point a finger at the maintenance man. “I’m going to handle this, but I need the manager here when I get back.” I point to the floor between us to indicate where I expect the manager to be.
The mechanic holds his hands up fearfully. “That’s above my paygrade, lady. I can’t just get the manager down here.” He throws his voice as though that’s a crazy suggestion.
An evil thought occurs to me, and I use it now, though I won’t actually do it. “You heard about the Kennedy-Johnson wedding? You heard about the Bitch Boss who’s planning the whole thing?” He nods and my case is made for me. “Get him here.”
“C’mon,” I tell Janey. Grabbing clippers, I growl out, “There are flowers all over this island. I’m going double-oh-seven, with a license to steal some flowers from the grounds.”
Janey’s eyes widen and then she smiles, “Doo-doo-do-do, doo-doo-do-do, dododoooo!” The James Bond theme song says she’s on board with my outlandish idea.
We run along the path, despite the common sense to not run with scissors. But there are too many people and the plants near the walkway are too plain. I need something more, something better.
We diverge off, heading into the thicker greenery of a garden area. A greenhouse!
Yes! There’s got to be something in here that I can use for this arrangement.
Unless it’s drugs? Oh, God, what if I go in here looking to steal a flower only to get caught up in a drug ring hothouse?
I shake my head. This is not an episode of Law & Order.
“Cover me,” I hiss to Janey.
“What?” she says too loudly, and I slap my hand over her mouth.
A tree rustles, and we duck down behind the greenhouse. I freeze, looking left and right while keeping my head perfectly still and hoping the whites of my eyes don’t give our position away. The lady leaving the greenhouse doesn’t notice us as she walks right past our hideout to head back toward the resort.
“Almost busted!” I whisper.
“Abs, you’re losing it,” Janey warns. “Why don’t we use the flowers in the cooler for the photo shoot today? Might as well get something good out of them before they die.”
“I am not using half-dead, wilted flowers on a photo shoot for Claire Johnson’s wedding,” I whisper-yell as if that should be perfectly obvious. “Come on.”
I might be truly losing it a little, but Janey comes with me. Ride or die, she’s down for whatever I need.
We slip into the greenhouse, letting the door close quietly behind us.
“It’s beautiful,” I gasp. The greenhouse is a labor of love, full of plants and flowers of every kind, from tiny buds to full-grown examples. I could spend hours in here examining each and every one. But I don’t have time for that. “Spread out. Find something we can use.”
Janey and I work through the space with no rhyme or reason, but she whistles. I glare at her, a finger pressed to my lips. She glares right back and mouths, “I sound like a bird.”
Oh. That was actually really smart. I shoot a look of apology, and she holds up her hands at the flowers beside her in a ta-da motion.
They’re perfect! Birds of paradise, vibrant orange and blue, and exactly what I need to represent an island feel. I use the clippers to trim a few and then mouth, “Run for it!”
Janey and I sneak out, keeping watch for the lady of the greenhouse, but we make it back without incident. With moments to spare, we grab a clear vase and I arrange the flowers quickly and carefully so I don’t damage their delicate blooms.
“What do you think?” I ask Janey. “Is it too simple?”
She walks around it to look from different angles. “No, it’s perfect. The simplicity is what makes the shape and color shine.”
“Let’s go,” I say, grabbing the vase and scurrying as fast as I can to make it to the luncheon on time.
I walk into the private dining room where Meredith directed me to bring the arrangement. “May I?” I ask the photographer.
“Oh!” she exclaims delightedly. “It’s beautiful! Definitely speaks to an island love story. Set them on the table. Make any adjustments you’d like so they're angled toward the camera.” She points to the tripod with a large camera attached.
Meredith approaches the photographer and they begin talking. Meredith’s lips are pressed together in a frown, her nose crinkled as if she’s smelled a ripe fart. She’s unimpressed with my arrangement. That much is obvious.
“You may go, Miss Andrews. The flowers are simple, to say the least. I do hope the luncheon centerpieces will be more to standards, not a whacked off flower in a vase.”
Grr. Don’t kill her.
Maybe kill her just a little bit.
For both of our protection, I spin in place to leave, but Claire passes me on her way in for the shoot. She’s wearing a white dress, more formal than I would’ve expected, but she looks stunning.
I get a twisted satisfaction when I overhear Claire behind me as she sees the set, “Everything is so gorgeous! Gah, let me just do a few selfies and do a live feed before we get started with the actual shoot, ’kay?”
Such is the life of a celebrity. I can’t fault her, though. She seems to really care about her followers and enjoy talking with them. She’s the real deal.
&nbs
p; “Hey, Abi!” Claire calls after me.
Thinking I’m about to get slammed for the arrangement, I turn back slowly. “Yes?”
“Do you have any more of these?” She points to the birds of paradise. “I’d love to put one in my hair for a few shots, but I wouldn’t dream of messing with your work.”
“I do have a few extra. Let me go grab them. I’ll be right back,” I promise with a no-big-deal smile.
Uh, looks like Janey and I have another Mission Impossible stunt to pull off.
Back by the cooler, the maintenance man is standing with another man. Based on his khaki, island-weight suit, this must be the manager. Judging by his pinched face, he’s not any happier to be dealing with me than I am with him.
“Miss Andrews, I’m told you requested my presence.”
He thinks I’m some sweet, flaky girl he can intimidate. But he couldn’t be more wrong. I’m an Andrews through and through, and if I can handle Meredith and do whatever it takes to get that arrangement where it needed to be, on time, I can sure as hell deal with a manager who’s majorly fucked up.
“I made sure last week that I’d have all the flowers I need for the Johnson-Kennedy wedding. My first morning here, and I find that your equipment failure has caused me to lose a large portion of them. Now, I don’t care if you have to call the owner, or the other resorts, or every flower shop on this island, or even get them air-flighted on a charter plane from the next island over. You are going to have those flowers replaced by the end of the day because I am not going to fuck around for the next few days trying to scrape bouquets together on the fly.”
The truth is, I will likely do that too. But getting flowers to the island was a long and difficult process with customs, so what’s already here is going to have to work. I just need them from their scattered locations to one central cooler so I can see what I’m working with.
“Miss, I’m sure this is stressful, but please calm down,” the manager says, trying to regain control, but his condescension is heavy as he mansplains, “I assure you that we’ll make this right. But by tonight is impossible. You must be reasonable.” He tacks on an awkward laugh, as though my request for flowers might as well be a temper tantrum over wanting a mythical unicorn with a rainbow mane that eats sugar and shits cotton candy.
My voice goes cold as ice, my tone threatening death. Not his, but his business’s, which might be even worse. “I think you’ll find that I am extremely reasonable, decidedly more so than Meredith Wildeman. Currently, she has not been informed of your failure, of Casa del Mario’s failure, to provide a satisfactory venue as outlined in your legally binding contract. Mr. Kennedy and Miss Johnson are also currently blissfully unaware that their pending nuptials might include none of their carefully selected flowers because of your issue. I would hate for them to lose faith in your resort, especially seeing as how high-profile this wedding is.” I look to the cooler with a sad frown.
The manager knows he’s backed into a corner. I am his kindest option to deal with. And to be clear, I’m not nice nor naïve. I will do whatever is necessary to make this right for my client. Even if it’s taking a wheelbarrow down to that greenhouse and chopping every last bloom at the root.
Sorry, Edward! I know better now, but desperate times . . . desperate measures, you know?
He sighs. “I will get as many flowers as I possibly can.” I raise my brows, silently demanding more. “They’ll be here by this afternoon.”
“Thank you.” I nod agreement to his terms. “And the cooler repaired or I’ll be taking over one of your restaurant’s refrigerators.”
“You can’t!” he balks.
If I could shoot daggers from my eyeballs, he’d be a dead man right where he’s standing.
“Very well. It will be repaired within the day.”
Janey waits until we make it to the elevator before she busts up laughing. “Oh, my God! I thought he was gonna piss himself when you went all Godzilla Rampage on his ass. Precise slice and dice!” she exclaims, slashing through the air with a flurry of sharp karate chops. “That was awesome, Miss Andrews!” She mimics the manager who thought he could walk all over me but got smashed in our game of chicken.
It was. But it shouldn’t have happened to begin with. And now, I’m way too busy to go kayaking with Lorenzo.
Last night, I was mad at him for saying yes to that without asking me, but once he explained, I’d gotten on board. Now, I’m disappointed to miss it, though I could definitely do without another dose of Emily.
“I’ll have to cancel on Lorenzo. We had plans this afternoon, but I have to focus on this. It’s too important.”
Janey shakes her head, determined. “Hell no, you’re not canceling. Yeah, this sucks and has the potential to be a serious clusterfuck, but you can’t do anything about it in the next few hours. The manager’s working and I’ll be working, so go and enjoy. I insist. You deserve this.”
“No way,” I argue. “Don’t be ridiculous. This is priority.”
Janey throws her arm around my shoulder and whispers in my ear.
“The highest priority you should have is knocking the rust off your pussy. It’s been a long time since you’ve gotten any or even had any fun. Go, Abs. I can handle this, and I’ll call you if I can’t. Girl Scout promise.” She holds up her hand, obviously never having been a Girl Scout. If anything, she looks like she’s about to testify in her own defense, which her next words make me worry about. “Plus, I think I’m going to visit that greenhouse again to see if I can swipe a few more blooms. If you’re with me, we might both get arrested. But if you’re out on the water with witnesses when it happens, you’ll have plausible deniability.”
“Janey.”
“Don’t worry, I got this. Just go get an alibi . . . and some dick, and let me take care of the rest.”
“If you’re sure?”
In answer, she rips the tablet from my hands and starts going down the list herself. After a second, she looks up. “You’re still here?”
Fine, I get it. I’m leaving. Just one last thing . . .
I kiss Janey’s cheek. “You’re the best, girl. Remind me to give you a raise when we get home.”
She laughs, knowing that there’s no way I can do that but perfectly willing to stay where she is with me.
Chapter 8
Lorenzo
Esmar’s voice rises and falls with the perfection of a trained tenor, and I shake my head in amazement. The man hasn’t stopped for nearly an hour, his powerful voice belting out classic opera like he’s singing pop in the shower. And he hasn’t missed a single note even as he preps for tonight’s dinner.
“Hey, Esmar, think we can change from cruel fate to something happier?” I ask.
“Ooh, challenge throwdown!” Gilberto cheers.
Esmar laughs. “You might be sorry, but you asked for it. You speak French?” I have no idea what he’s talking about, but the entire kitchen staff is looking from Esmar to me with knowing smiles.
“A bit,” I hedge. The multicultural kitchen here probably has speakers of at least fifteen languages, and though Italian is my first language, my travels through Europe have taught me the basics of a few more.
I might be in trouble. But I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else than in this kitchen right now. After Meredith’s meeting this morning, I contemplated how best to spend my day. I don’t have any meals to cook for the wedding guests today because the resort kitchens are handling that as pre-planned, and though the beach called to me, I don’t want to burn before we kayak this afternoon. I might be olive complected, but the sun here is fierce and unforgiving. So Esmar’s kitchen is where I headed, wanting to watch him, learn from him, taste his food, and learn his soul, as he put it.
Hours later, I’m having a blast and feeling right at home. Until Esmar starts singing a new song, one created from his own imagination . . .
Oh, pretty lady with skin so pale,
Let my work my fingers in your dough,
I won�
��t fail. I’ll knead you back and forth,
Up and down all night. And when you are perfectly
Al dente, my sauce will set you right!
Every verse gets more hilarious, bawdier, and more explicit. Finally, I have to give up, setting down my knife before I cut myself. It’s the signal for the end of the song, and everyone cheers Esmar as I hold my belly, laughing hard and trying not to pass out because I can’t breathe.
“Congratulations, you lasted longer than most!” someone calls over, laughing themselves. “But those lines at the end, about her garlic knot and bathing it in butter . . . priceless!”
“How in the world did you come up with that?” I ask Esmar.
He shrugs, his knife never stopping as he cuts thin slices of jicama. “I’ve traveled some as well. A French chef I worked with would create lyrics to entertain us, and it became a fun way to greet new staff here.”
“You mean to haze them?” I say with a smile, still chuckling inside.
“You say to-mah-to, I say to-may-to,” he replies easily.
And we continue to work together through the lunch service, enjoying each other’s company and showing off a bit. Though for chefs, showing off is how we teach, how we learn.
As service wraps up, Esmar dismisses me. “Mashi danke. Thank you, Chef, but I must kick you out of my kitchen now. You are in paradise. Go enjoy the island.”
I take advantage of the offer, quickly washing up and heading back to Abigail’s room. Our room.
I like the sound of that. Fuck, she was stunning this morning—her thick hair a tangled mess from tossing and turning all night, her eyes bleary with sleep, and her nightgown too thin to disguise her pearled nipples. And her blatant desire and enjoyment of my body.
I enjoyed seeing her that way, a peek behind the bluster she puts on and defenses she wears like sparkly distractions.
I find the room empty and a small worry takes root. Is she going to stand me up?
My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon Page 11