I guess I should just go ahead and get this over with. Maybe Z’s reaction will be tempered since Topaz and Nacho are here.
“We’re celebrating because I am officially off the market!” I hold up my left hand so that he can see my diamond.
“Huh,” Zane says impassively as if I just told him something totally trivial like there was a ten percent chance of rain tonight. “Nice ring. Looks like Eduardo went all out. Man, I could really use a beer.” He starts swiveling his head around. “Which one of these waitresses is ours?”
Topaz points out the petite blonde who’s taking care of us, and Z signals her over to the table. He orders a Corona while I stew about his indifferent response to my big, life-changing announcement.
“Huh.” That’s it? Where was the shock and surprise everyone else exhibited when I told them? I’m one of Zane’s closest friends for Cristo’s sake, and this is a huge deal. I’m getting married—me, the woman who can’t commit to a cell phone carrier (I change plans every time another company offers me a better deal) much less a man; me, the woman who’s always said that marriage is for people who have no imagination; me, the woman who thinks the concept of happily ever after is a crock of mierda. Zane should be questioning this, especially since he hasn’t been in on my scheme to find a rich husband all along like Topaz and Nacho have. He should be concerned that I’m acting reckless, he should want to protect me, he should give a damn about my future. Wait, wasn’t I worried before that he was going to give me grief about marrying Eduardo, but now I’m upset that he doesn’t seem to care? What the hell, Izzy? I toss back the rest of the champagne in my glass and pour myself another.
“So, have you set a date yet?” Nacho wonders.
“What?” I’m still thinking about Zane and his irksome non-reaction, so I don’t readily comprehend Nacho’s question.
“Your wedding. When’s it going to be?”
“Oh, uh . . .” My eyes slant sideways to see what Z’s doing, and I’m further incensed to find him sitting in a relaxed position, staring out at the water, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. Knowing him, he’s composing photos in his head. The waterway does look beautiful at night, all lit up on either side, with sleek boats cruising by. I never realized it before, but this is a pretty romantic spot. I should bring Eduardo here sometime. “. . . spring—March, maybe April. I hate waiting that long, but I guess we need time to plan and Pilar’s having her baby in September, which will take her out of commission for a while, then there’s the holidays followed by winter.” If Eduardo’s mother hadn’t ganged up with mine to veto my destination wedding idea, we could get married somewhere tropical and I’m sure our guests would have enjoyed a getaway to a warm climate in the dead of winter, but nooooooo, both ladies insisted the wedding take place in a church here in Miami. I couldn’t fight two of them, so I gave in and now they can duke it out over which of their houses of worship gets to host the ceremony.
“A spring wedding will be beautiful!” Topaz enthuses.
“I’m counting on you to be a bridesmaid. There needs to be another hot, young chick in the wedding party besides me. No matter what dress I put Ana in, she’s going to look like a frump, and Pilar will probably still be carrying baby weight.” Maybe I’ll get her tri-weekly sessions with a personal trainer as a baby gift. It’s not like her new kid won’t already have enough stuff, and Pilar will need someone to beat all that blubber off of her. I think it took her a full year to shed the LBs when she had Gabi, and she’s five years older now, which means her metabolism has slowed down even more.
Topaz squeals with excitement. “I’d love to! This is going to be so much fun!”
The waitress returns with Zane’s beer, leaning over his shoulder and flashing some boobage when she sets it down in front of him. He grins at her and offers his thanks, which makes her titter and blush.
“How’s that dynamite shrimp coming?” In an irritated tone, I remind her of the appetizer I ordered earlier.
“It should probably be ready. I’ll have to check with the kitchen,” she says, but doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to go because she’s still making googly eyes at Zane.
“Please do. I hate it when shrimp sits out and gets rubbery, then I have to send it back.” I level a pointed look at her and that sends her scampering away.
“So, who’s going to do your makeup for the big day?” Nacho bats his eyelashes at me, which appear to have mascara on them. (I assume that’s to balance out the guyliner.)
“I don’t know,” I reply, playing dumb. “I hadn’t really thought about it. Can you recommend someone good?”
Nacho lobs a roll from the bread basket at me, and I laugh. “Of course, I want you to do my face on my wedding day. No one does better bridal makeup. Will you give me a friends and family discount?”
“Actually, I was thinking I would jack up my fee since you’re rolling in it now.” With a mischievous wink, he grabs the Veuve Clicquot and refills his flute, which empties the bottle. “Ooopsie, all gone. Guess we’ll have to get another one.”
There are only five glasses of champagne in a bottle? What a rip! I’m debating whether we should stick with bubbly for the rest of the night, or switch to less pricey mojitos when our waitress shows up with two plates of spice-encrusted shrimp topped with scallions and a Sriracha mayo dipping sauce on the side. I decide to go for broke and tell her to bring us another bottle of Veuve Clicquot, a request I have to repeat because she is once again trying to eye-bang Zane. No tip for her!
I note that Z’s cheeks are a little flushed when Blondie leaves, so I think he’s enjoying her attention, which is annoying. First, he’s totally blasé about my engagement news, and now he’s getting his flirt on with some rando serving wench. This is my night; he needs to be focusing on me!
Placing my hand on his bare forearm, I say, “I know this is super corny, but Eduardo’s mom wants us to get some engagement pictures taken by a professional so that she can send one of them in with the announcement to the paper and to family members all over the world. Would you be up for that?”
Zane shrugs. “If that’s what you want. I do have one condition, though.” He reaches forward to grab a shrimp, which makes my hand slide off his arm.
“And that is?”
His eyes lock on mine. “You set Eduardo straight about me being, well, straight. I’m not going to play along with this fiction you created for him about me being gay so that he won’t be threatened by our friendship.”
“Already done!” I assert perkily. “I mean, kind of. I’ve dropped a few comments about you having relationships with women when the mood strikes you, so now he thinks you’re bi.”
“Izzy!” he groans with exasperation.
“Come on, Z! I met you halfway, didn’t I? And the bi thing is plausible because creative types like you are experimental and into alternative lifestyles. To be honest, I think that being bisexual makes you a lot more interesting. Am I right?” I query my other friends.
“Definitely,” Nacho concurs while dunking his shrimp in some sauce. “For a guy, being a hundred percent hetero is so twentieth century. Oooo, you should tell Eduardo that Zane is bi and polyamorous. That would really make him hip and happening.”
“Yeah, I don’t think Z could pull off polyamorous. Could you see him picking up a guy and a girl at a club and taking them back to his place for a threesome?”
Topaz shakes her head. “There wouldn’t be enough room for three people on that dinky, blow-up bed of his.”
Nacho and I chortle. The three of us never get tired of ragging on Zane about the twin-sized air mattress that sits in the corner of his one-room apartment, usually unmade. It’s barely a step up from a sleeping bag.
“My air mattress accommodates two people very nicely, just ask any of my former girlfriends.” Zane pops a shrimp in his mouth, and his lips pucker at the spice in the seasoning. “So, where do you wanna do it, Iz?”
Since we’ve been discussing where Zane sleeps (and does o
ther things with people he’s romantically involved with), his question makes my mind go to a very naughty place. “The engagement photo shoot?” There’s a quiver in my voice when I request confirmation of what he’s referring to.
Zane gives me a weird look. “Yeah, I’m assuming you wanna do it outside somewhere.”
Torrid images of the two of us engaged in al fresco sex flash through my head, and I can feel heat creeping up my neck. Stop talking about doing it, Zane!
“Definitely. Eduardo’s mother is really high on the idea of us doing it at Vizcaya.” Dammit, now I’m saying “doing it,” too!
The waitress appears with our second bottle of champagne, which is an interruption I welcome this time around. As soon as she gets the bottle open, I hold out my glass so that she can top it off, then take a very generous swig, trying to cool myself down so that this dumb flush won’t climb up to my cheeks.
“Vizcaya is a beautiful place to shoot, but . . .,” Zane trails off, grimacing. “Don’t you want a backdrop for your photos that will be more reflective of your personality?”
“Yeah, I don’t see it either.” Dropping a shrimp tail onto his plate, Nacho plucks a new crustacean off one of the platters in the center of the table. “I’ve done a lot of weddings at Vizcaya, and with the estate’s Italian Renaissance architecture, plus its fancy gardens with all the stone statues and fountains, the place has got a real old-world, elegant feel to it, which works for a bride who’s more conservative, but you’re a cool, modern girl who doesn’t play by the rules. So, no funciona.”
“In case you’ve both forgotten, I’m a model, which means I can adapt to my surroundings. We’re doing these pictures for Maria, who’s all about class and tradition, so that’s what I’m going to give her a big buttload of.”
Zane still looks skeptical. “All right then, you and Eduardo decide when you’d like to do the shoot and I’ll make the arrangements. It’s better if we go during the week when there are fewer people on the grounds, but be aware that Vizcaya is closed on Tuesdays. Plan on about an hour for the session. Be sure to coordinate your outfit with Eduardo’s so that the colors and styles are complementary. No prints or bright colors, and I suggest you dial this,” he makes a circular motion with his hand in front of me, “down a few notches.”
“No, duh, I would never wear red for an engagement photo.” I wish I could because the tomato color of this romper I have on looks amazing with my dark hair and skin.
“He’s not just talking about the color, chica. Do you own anything that’s not short, tight, low-cut, and/or skin-baring?” Nacho’s eyebrow lifts inquisitively.
Okay, so what I’m currently wearing does barely cover my butt cheeks and it has a plunging neckline that emphasizes my cleavage along with drop sleeves that expose my shoulders, but it’s not like this romper is representative of my entire wardrobe. There’s got to be some modest apparel in my closet somewhere, like maybe shoved in the back. “I have to have something to wear when I go to church with my family, don’t I?”
“The last time your mother forced you to attend mass, you went braless in a cropped halter top and wore a maxi skirt with a slit up the front that went almost all the way up to your hoo-haa, and that was on Christmas Eve,” Topaz reminds me.
I snicker, remembering the horrified look on Mamá’s face when I showed up in the hallowed halls of St. Patrick’s in that get-up. “I was making a statement, and my mother heard me loud and clear. She hasn’t made me go to church since then, so it worked.”
“Maybe we should go shopping and buy you a pretty, new dress for the engagement photos,” Topaz suggests.
Before I can tell her that I’m totally on board with this idea (a great excuse to use that platinum AmEx!), Zane’s phone buzzes. He checks the incoming text message, types a quick reply, then sticks the device back in the pocket of his ripped jeans. “It’s been fun, guys, but I’ve gotta bail,” he announces, pushing his chair back and rising to his feet.
“What? No! You can’t leave!” I grab his arm with both hands and pull him back down into his seat. “We’re making a night of it. I was just about to order dulce de leche crème brûlée for everybody, then I thought we could go next door to the lounge, listen to the DJ spin some tunes, and smoke a hookah.”
“Since when do any of us smoke?”
“Doesn’t hurt to try something new. I’ve heard that you can get a nice, little buzz from shisha.” I wiggle my eyebrows at him.
“I’m in!” Nacho declares, which doesn’t surprise me because he’s always up for an adventure. He was the only one of our group who would go Aquajetting with me when I worked an event for the company and they gave me some free vouchers.
“Me, too!” Topaz supports my plan, although it’s a good bet that she’ll chicken out of the hookah-smoking.
“Come on, Z! Don’t be a party pooper.”
“Sorry, Iz, but you didn’t tell me there was anything special going on tonight. So, I made plans to meet Sybil at the gallery. She’s opening a new exhibit next week and she wanted my opinion on some things.”
“And she had to get this opinion after-hours when it’ll just be the two of you all alone in the gallery?”
Nacho smiles knowingly. “I’ve got you covered, mi amigo,” he says as he reaches inside his salmon-colored linen blazer. He extracts two foil wrappers, then tosses them down on the table.
“Ew, no!” I slide the condoms back over to Nacho so fast it’s like we’re playing air hockey.
“Z does not need those. Sybil is way too old for him, and she’s married to boot. You do remember that, right?” My eyes burn into Zane’s.
“Of course, I do, and for the fiftieth time, my relationship with Sybil is purely professional.”
I snort, crossing my arms over my chest. “If you really believe that, then you are in for a rude awakening when you show up at that gallery tonight to find mood lighting and let’s-get-it-on music playing. She’ll probably have a bottle of Chardonnay open, too, since that’s the drink of choice for horny housewives.”
“You’re nuts, you know that,” Zane says with a bemused, but affectionate, smile, “but I appreciate you worrying about me.” Leaning forward, he cups my face in his hand and gives me a kiss on the cheek.
“Text me later,” I tell him as he stands to leave, then grumble, “if Sybil doesn’t have you tied to her headboard,” when he’s walking away from the table.
Resting his chin on his hand and narrowing his eyes at me, Nacho says, “Hmmmm . . .”
“What?” I bite back crankily, picking up a shrimp to give myself something to do.
“You appear to be very bothered by the thought of Zane spending time with this Sybil woman. If I didn’t know better and you weren’t newly engaged to another man, I might think you’re jealous.”
Is that what this clenched, queasy feeling in my gut is? I figured it was just indigestion from the combo of spicy seafood and alcohol. I guess I should have known better since the Alvarez stomach of steel can withstand a lot more than that. But why would I be jealous of Zane and that cougar? I’ve never been a victim of the green-eyed monster before, especially not in regards to Zane and he’s had plenty of girlfriends over the years. Not that Sybil qualifies as a girlfriend; she’s just a Botox-filled succubus who wants to suck the life force out of Zane via his wang.
“No jealousy here. I’m just concerned because Z seems to have blinders on when it comes to Sybil and I don’t want to see him end up in a bad situation.”
“Zane’s a big boy; he can take care of himself.”
“Maybe,” I reply noncommittally as I toss aside my uneaten shrimp. I really don’t want to talk (or think) about this anymore because it’s all very disconcerting. “Why don’t we order that crème brûlée? I’m jonesin’ for something sweet.”
CHAPTER 23
“Eduardo, hands on Izzy’s hips. Izzy, place your left hand over his, then turn toward him and touch his jaw with your fingertips. Tenderly, please, you’re not sque
ezing melons at the supermarket. Now, stare into each other’s eyes. Give me a three-quarter profile, Iz.”
Having posed us just so, Zane starts snapping pictures. I can see him in my peripheral vision, switching up the angles and his body positions every few frames. He stands, he squats down, he moves in closer, then steps back, all the while giving us instructions. “Think about what it was that made you fall for each other . . . Think about how you felt the night you got engaged . . . Think about your wedding day and how excited you are to spend the rest of your lives together . . .”
Hmmmm, why did I “fall” for Eduardo? First and foremost, he’s great-looking. Call me shallow, but that’s pretty damn important. Also, he’s an incredibly sharp dresser. I love this snug, v-neck silk sweater he’s wearing. The color (lavender) isn’t one that many men could pull off, but it looks gorgeous with his dark hair and olive-toned skin. He’s got the sleeves of the sweater pushed up so that his bare forearms are exposed, which is super sexy. And he’s paired the sweater with a pair of light gray trousers that are perfectly tailored to show off his nice butt and muscular legs. What else? Oh, his money! How could I forget about that? If Eduardo were broke, I certainly wouldn’t be marrying him. I would have just had fun with him for a few weeks, then moved on, which has been my M.O. for most of my dating life. It’s definitely Eduardo’s money, power, and prestige that won me over, which makes me materialistic on top of being shallow, I suppose. Oh, well, at least I own it.
“Okay, you two, back up a little bit so that you’re standing in the white block on the floor in front of that archway.” Z gestures at one of the green metal structures that provides an unobstructed view from Vizcaya’s tea house out to the water of the Biscayne Bay. It’s basically like a big picture window without the glass.
We do as Zane asks, but before we can get into position, Eduardo’s phone dings with an incoming text. “I need to check this,” he tells me as he reaches for his phone, which is in the back pocket of his trousers. (Earlier, Zane requested that he take the cell out of his front pocket because the outline of the device was visible through the fabric, which didn’t look great on camera.)
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