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My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

Page 22

by Lauren Landish


  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.

  “Come with me, Abigail.” An order, but a request all the same. If I brush him off and claim that disappearing in the middle of an event is unprofessional, he’ll agree and wait for later. But I don’t want to wait.

  I scan the room out of habit, noting that everything looks impeccable. The arrangements are holding their shapes, the tablescapes are lovely even after the dishes have been cleared, and everyone is having a great time.

  I nod and let Lorenzo lead me out of the main ballroom with a guiding hand on my lower back. He draws me to a dark corner, pulling the glittery tulle back and gesturing for me to go ahead. What I find is a door
way hidden in shadows by the lighting and fabric overlay.

  “We’ll have to be quick and quiet,” I whisper, knowing he can’t see me because I can’t see him.

  He uses my voice to find me in the dark, his lips landing on mine with precise aim. Our bodies mold together, our hands touching and exploring in the dark.

  And I’m struck by the most brilliant idea I’ve ever had. I take charge, pushing him back against the wall. “Abigail?” He chuckles in surprise.

  But I’m about to surprise him a hell of a lot more.

  I let my hands trace his chest, my nails scraping at the ridges of his abs through his shirt until I find his belt. Undoing it and then his pants, I free his cock.

  He moans as I take him in hand, giving his hard length a few strokes. And then I drop to my knees in front of him. I let my hands guide his length to my mouth and lay a few sweet kisses to his crown.

  I close my eyes even though I’m blind in the dark and encircle his cock with my wet, warm mouth. Up and down, I move slowly and methodically to coat him in saliva and lap up the precum at his tip.

  “Oh, fuck,” he groans as his hands twine into my hair. He doesn’t guide me, though, simply letting me work him, and it’s like he needs to touch me to believe this is real and not a figment of his imagination, a dark fantasy of a faceless mouth sucking him off with a party still loudly raging an unlocked door away.

  This is so dangerous, and yet I’ve never been more turned on. I enjoy giving Lorenzo pleasure and feel a thrill at the muffled grunts and curses he’s muttering as he tries to stay quiet.

  I hum against his skin, “Mmm . . . my poor Lorenzo.” I pull back and use my hands for a moment as I tease him, whispering, “It feels so good. You want to be loud, but you know we might be heard. And how would it look for the chef to be found mouth-fucking the florist?”

  “Ugh,” he growls, his hips pushing forward to slide his cock in my tight-fisted grip. “You’re torturing me,” he hisses. “You’ll pay for this, mia rosa. Now, suck me.”

  He’s on the edge. I can hear it in the tight, strangled words and feel it as his balls pull up tight against my fist. I don’t tease anymore. I swallow his cock as deeply as I can, letting it bump into my throat. I hear a thump from above and realize he’s thrown his head back to the wall in pleasure. I imagine the cords of his neck straining, his teeth gritted. And so I stop, returning to light licks along his tip until he’s trembling beneath me.

  With a smile, I suck him down once again until I find a rhythm that pushes him higher and higher, moaning around his thickness. My eyes are closed tight, stars shooting across my vision, and I remind myself to breathe. Inhaling his musky, manly scent makes me desperate for more. I want him, all of him. So this time, when his breath catches in his lungs, his hands bury into my hair, and he thrusts into my throat, I take it all.

  He comes, explosively filling my mouth with rope after rope of thick, creamy cum that I swallow down hungrily, reflexively not letting a single drop spill out of my lips.

  “Cazzo, mia rosa,” he mutters on a jagged exhale.

  I wipe at my lips, dainty as can be, like the society-bred woman I am . . . who just sucked off a guy in a dark hallway, I think with a smile. Rising, I find Lorenzo’s lips and give him a quick kiss. “I need to get back out there. I’ve been gone too long.”

  He growls. “No, I want to taste you too.”

  Even though he can’t see me, I shake my head. “Later. Tonight.”

  He catches me in his hands, cupping my face. “I’ll hold you to that, Abigail,” he vows before kissing me deeply.

  “I’ll go out first. Give it a minute so we don’t look suspicious, and then you can come out too.”

  I feel his chuckle, his chest jumping beneath my palms. “Why does it sound like you’ve done this before?”

  “A girl never reveals her secrets,” I tease.

  Truthfully, I’ve never done anything like this. Oh, I’ve made out in closets, but when you’re a stupid teenager and come out after Seven Minutes in Heaven, everyone cheers and asks you how it was. I definitely do not think that would be the case at this party. And full disclosure, it was awful as a teen, all unsure and awkward and never more than some over-the-clothes petting.

  Blowing Lorenzo at a rehearsal dinner, in contrast, was awesome.

  I straighten my clothes, even remembering to smooth my hair back a bit from Lorenzo’s ruffling fingers, before quietly and slowly opening the door back into the ballroom.

  I’m still behind the glittery tulle, a black-dressed shadow in a shadowy room, when I hear something that stops me in my tracks.

  “I can’t talk now. She’s right here,” Cole says. Peering through the haze of the fabric, I can see he’s got his phone pressed to his ear. A dark thought goes through me and settles like a stone in my stomach.

  It’s not so much what he’s said but the secretive way he said it and the way he’s looking over to Claire like he’s making sure she’s blissfully unaware of his conversation.

  No, don’t jump to conclusions, Abi. There’s no use in doing that.

  “Yeah, I’ll call you back later after she goes to sleep. I love you, too.”

  And with that, Cole hangs up the phone and walks off to rejoin the party.

  Uhm, excuse me . . . what? The? Fuck? He loves who?

  Because his bride to be is standing a few feet away, smiling and laughing as she talks to an old lady, and the only other person I could think of that he’d be saying ‘I love you’ to is his mom, and she’s on the dance floor with his dad.

  Shit.

  Chapter 18

  Lorenzo

  I’m ready for today.

  I’ve been ready for a long time. Taking this last-minute opportunity to come to Aruba to be a guest chef for the wedding of the year had sounded like an escape from a bad situation at Avanti. But since I’ve arrived, it’s been a dream come true. Maybe even better than a dream.

  Cooking alongside Esmar and his crew, I’ve learned so much—about the flavors of the island, the creativity he’s honed over decades as a chef, and his own congenial style of running a kitchen, which is so different from others I’ve worked for who felt that yelling and insults were the best way to command respect. Esmar, on the other hand, is welcoming and generous, even friendly with his team.

  I’m thankful for that because it’s allowed me the freedom to make several meals and dishes over this week, for Claire’s events and even for dinner services. It’s been a true culinary gift I am thankful to have received.

  And tonight is the proverbial cherry on top.

  I’m running the kitchen for the wedding, even Esmar taking orders from me.

  “This is your show, Chef, what you were hand-selected and flown in to do. Show us what you’ve got,” he’d said.

  And I am.

  “Henri, more lime on the albacore crudo,” I order.

  “Yes, Chef,” he answers as he grabs another fresh lime and begins juicing for his life.

  I step to the pasta workstation, double-checking that my instructions are being followed correctly. Letting go of that duty had been difficult. It’s the one thing that always makes me feel at home, like I’m honoring all the lessons taught in the steamy kitchens of Positano. But I can’t be locked down in one place. I see that Gilberto, for all his craziness, is hyper-focused on his dough. “Good. Steady hands make for consistent noodles.”

  “Steady, Chef,” he repeats with a smile.

  I look around in delight, seeing dishes I designed being crafted with care. I’ve stuck to my roots, the foundation of Italian cooking that lives and breathes in my soul, but added touches of the island to honor our beautiful locale.

  Finding myself next to Esmar, I whisper, “I don’t want to jinx things, but it seems as though this is all going well, yes?”

  He smiles and touches the wooden spoon sitting next to him. I do the same to banish any bad luck my words might’ve conjured.

  “You are a thoughtful chef, Lorenzo.
You should not be surprised that prep is going well.”

  His praise means a lot to me. “Thank you, Chef.”

  He scans the room, double-checking on his crew before tilting his head toward the dry storage. Silently, I follow him to the semi-private area, sure that he’s going to impart some knowledge or give me some feedback on something I can do better.

  “Have you enjoyed your short time here on the island, Chef Toscani?” Esmar says formally.

  “Absolutely,” I answer instantly.

  The truth is, I have. More than I had anticipated.

  The time in the kitchen has been amazing, but also, the time exploring the island with Abigail has been unexpected and powerful. It feels like I have this full, vibrant life where I never know what to expect—are the papayas ripe to make Aruban hot sauce this morning? Will Gilberto show up on time or will Henri have to drag him out of some random guest’s bed to get him to the line, where he’ll regale us with tales that I’m certain are more embellishment than truth? Am I playing along with some honeymoon scheme by making eyes at Abigail? What shocking craziness will come out of Abigail’s mouth when the two of us talk for hours after the sun has long since disappeared below the horizon?

  It feels like every moment is full of possibility.

  Esmar nods, a wide smile showing his white teeth. “Good, good. I know you travel frequently, a man who always wanders but is never lost, you are.” He makes it sound fanciful and romantic to live out of a duffle bag so small it can attach to my motorcycle. “So I know I cannot keep you locked down. But I would like to offer a position for however long you’d like it. A week, a month, six? I would be honored if you would work alongside me.”

  I’m shocked. I’m honored. I’m excited. I’m . . . terrified.

  “Wow, I don’t . . . I don’t know what to say,” I stutter. “Uh, first, thank you, of course. Thank you, truly. But . . .”

  And that’s where I get stuck.

  This is how so many of my opportunities have come up over the years—a friend of a friend recommending me or a chef coming through a restaurant that I’m working at, or even my hearing of a chef I’d like to learn from and approaching them directly. It’s always been a buzzing thrill of ‘what if?’

 

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