The Worst Best Man

by Mia Sosa

  The sound of Rebecca’s heels enters the space before she does. As she approaches, her tinny voice floats through the room. “Lina, thanks so much for coming to see me on such short notice.”

  I rise from the sleek yellow leather couch and extend my hand. Her grip is firm but not overpowering. We make eye contact for the customary few seconds and pump our clasped hands three times; I bet we both attended business-etiquette workshops in high school.

  “It’s good to see you again, Rebecca.”

  “Let’s sit for a minute,” she says, gesturing to a small table by a window, the hustle and bustle on New Hampshire Avenue audible just beyond the pane as we settle in. “So here’s the deal. We’re rebranding in several areas, one of them being wedding services. I’ve been searching for a wedding planner to direct this new vision for our hotels, serve as its public face, and plan weddings, of course. You impressed me on Saturday. So much so that I’d like you to put yourself in the running for the position, assuming the thought of directing wedding services for a Forbes five-star-rated hotel with an award-winning restaurant appeals to you.”

  I’m stunned, but I manage to drum up a decent question. “You’re not looking for someone to direct general event planning, right?”

  She smiles and nods. “Right. I’m looking for someone to focus on weddings and build our brand in that specific area.”

  “Okay, got it.” I wipe my palms on my skirt and puff out a short breath. “Another question, then. I currently work with an assistant. She would need to be a part of any venture I consider. Is that possible?”

  This time, Rebecca’s nod is even more vigorous. “If we offer and you accept a position as director of wedding services, you’d be authorized to hire your own select staff. If that means hiring your current assistant, I’d have no problem with that. I’d authorize 50K for a full-time assistant.”

  “And my salary?”

  “Double that,” she says. “For work at all three hotels, of course.”

  Inside, I’m flailing like Kermit the Frog. One hundred thousand dollars. Holy shit. Is this really happening? I want to squee, but I contain my excitement as I process the possibilities. If I land this job, my lease problem wouldn’t even matter anymore. I’d be moving into larger, cozier digs at the Cartwright—and doubling my income, too. This is the break I never imagined I’d get, and my mother and tias would be ecstatic. But I can’t get ahead of myself just yet. I’ll need to keep looking for alternative office space in case this doesn’t work out. Still, am I going to try to get this gig? Shit yeah. “You’d like me to interview for the position? Today?”

  Until now, Rebecca’s navigated this interaction confidently, but in this moment she seems less assured, her hands flitting around as though she’s nervous. I can see that my question, although an obvious one, isn’t easy to answer.

  “I’ll be honest,” she says. “I knew the moment I met you I’d have a hard time choosing between you and my top prospect to date.”

  Oh. Bummer. There’s someone else—presumably, an equally impressive and highly qualified someone else—who’s already a standout in her eyes. Well, I guess I’ll just need to work doubly hard to prove I’m the better candidate.

  “So this is where my marketing folks factor into the equation,” Rebecca says. She glances at her wristwatch and stands. “Let’s move to one of our conference rooms. We can talk more there.”

  I jump up from my seat, a bundle of energy waiting to be unleashed, then force myself to simmer down. “Sure. After you.”

  Rebecca strides down the hall, her upper body twisted around so she can face me. “It just so happens that my talented marketing people are visiting today. I figure we can all get together in the conference room, and I can further explain my proposition and get them up to speed in one meeting. They’d be heavily involved in helping you present your ideas, and I think you’ll get along with them splendidly. Sound okay to you?”

  “Sounds great.”

  Rebecca leads me into a meeting room and motions to a seat at the head of a glass conference table. “Make yourself comfortable. Do you need anything before we begin? Coffee? Water?”

  If there’s one thing I do well, it’s going an entire day without drinking a single ounce of fluid. Dehydration is a real possibility at any given moment. And when I’m nervous—as I am now—thoughts of spilling liquids on myself, or worse, thoughts of spilling them on someone else, only add to my agita. So no, I don’t want anything to drink. Pasting on a measured smile in the hopes of projecting confidence, I settle into the chair and smooth my hands over the front of my pencil skirt. “I’m fine, thank you.”

  Rebecca, who’s been leaning against the threshold, straightens. “Great. I’ll grab the guys so we can get started. Back in a sec.”

  Now that I’m alone, I take in my surroundings, scanning the space for a focal point to latch on to during the meeting, should I need to calm my nerves. It’s a trick I’ve used since college, when I realized that my mother’s old advice about picturing everyone in their underwear wouldn’t work for me. Back then, I’d get caught up in guessing which brands my classmates and professors were using, which styles they’d favor, and so on. There’s nothing worse than imagining your econ professor in a plaid tie and leopard-print thong. Nothing.

  My gaze is immediately drawn to a bronze sculpture of a phoenix resting on the only credenza in the room. That’ll do. And I imagine I will need it. Rebecca can’t fool me with her business casual attire and friendly demeanor. Every step of this process is part of my interview, and the marketing people she nonchalantly referred to as “the guys” will either help or hurt my chances of landing this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. So I need to make a good first impression. If I demonstrate my expertise and convince them of my competence, maybe they’ll go the extra mile for me. And since I’m essentially competing for the position, every advantage, no matter how small, matters.

  A minute later, Rebecca’s laugh carries down the hall as though it’s a trumpet heralding her arrival. I rise, straighten my jacket, and stretch my lips. When the door opens and “the guys” walk in, all the fresh air in the room rushes out, displaced by a sudden influx of toxic atmosphere that makes breathing a struggle. I could use a strong slap on my ass to shock me into gulping in much-needed oxygen, but I’m not a newborn, and these men couldn’t care less whether I’m okay.

  And I’m not. Okay, I mean.

  Because there, in all his gorgeous and villainous glory, stands my former fiancé—or as I’ve renamed him since the breakup, Asshole Majora. And if that’s not bad enough, the worst best man ever—his brother, Asshole Minora—is standing by his side.

  Fuck my life into next week.

  What are they doing here? Together? Last I heard, Andrew had relocated to Atlanta and joined the marketing team of a global law firm. His brother lives and works in New York, or so I thought. Well, not today apparently. Today, they’re starring in my nightmare. And if their bulging eyes are any guide, they weren’t expecting this almost-a-family reunion, either. Andrew even looks a little green around the gills. So it’s no surprise, then, that they don’t do or say anything, presumably waiting for me to set the tone of this ill-fated encounter.

  Rebecca regards me with a cheerful smile as she addresses them. “Gentlemen, meet Carolina Santos. Says we can call her Lina for short.” To me, she says, “This is Andrew and Max. They’re brothers and colleagues.”

  Merda. This is not how I imagined this day would go. Not even close. I wanted to show Rebecca her instincts about me were right. Instead, she’ll discover in the next few seconds that one of two wedding planners she’s interviewing for an amazing position was jilted by the very marketing agent she thinks so highly of. How am I supposed to convince her that Andrew and I can work together to build the hotel’s wedding brand? I’m not even sure we can.

  And if Rebecca’s weighing the pros and cons of two comparably impressive candidates, would discovering that one of them comes with a lengthy vacation�
��s worth of baggage push her to go with the other one instead? Why would she sign up for this drama if she discovered it before she’d invested any appreciable time in that prospect?

  There’s more to this than just the uneasiness of working with a former fiancé, too. I make my living creating the illusion of happily-ever-afters. Admitting I didn’t succeed in finding my own kills the mood. What I do inevitably gets filtered through this lens even though it has no bearing on my skills as a planner. Sure, it’s not my fault, and no, it’s not a scarlet letter by any means, but if people are honest with themselves, they would readily concede that knowing I’m a jilted bride makes them feel sorry for me—especially given the nature of my business.

  Honestly, I wish I could let a river of tears run down my face, but I absolutely refuse to let anyone in this room regard me as a weakling who doesn’t deserve their respect. I need a way to neutralize the situation so I can function at the level Rebecca expects from me. I simply can’t let this reunion play out in her presence.

  The idea isn’t even fully formed in my brain when I clasp Andrew’s hand and give him a firm, desperate handshake. “It’s great to meet you, Andrew. Rebecca says you’re talented, so I’m excited about the possibility of our working together.”

  His mouth opens, closes, and opens again, while I implore him with my eyes to go along with this harebrained plan to pretend we’re strangers. “It’s . . . uh . . . great to meet you, too.”

  Yeah, stiff as always, even when he’s flustered. He looks good, though. His hair’s grown out at the sides and top, and his fair skin glows with vitality. The navy suit he’s wearing flatters his broad shoulders and trim waist as if his body regularly serves as the mold for menswear mannequins. All that’s fine and dandy, but here’s what I understand now: Andrew’s like a perfect résumé—there’s either a ton of embellishing going on or a bunch of unflattering stuff never made it onto the page.

  Max, for his part, appears to have experienced late-onset puberty between twenty-five and today o’clock—because he did not look this handsome the last time I saw him. Or maybe I wasn’t in the right mind-set to notice all those years ago. Well, in any case, time has been ridiculously kind to Andrew’s younger brother. From his dark, effortlessly tousled hair to the sharp cut of his jaw, the individual parts combine to make an impressive whole. Shorter than his brother by a couple of inches, Max still manages to dominate the room. He couldn’t blend into the background if he tried. Also, he’s cute in the eyes and thick in the thighs—a deadly combination that’s wasted on him.

  Max clears his throat and glides forward to join the introductions. “Lina, it’s a pleasure.”

  I ignore his outstretched hand. There’s a moment of unease as we stand there staring at each other, until he gestures toward the conference table, an ear-to-ear grin masking his manipulative tendencies.

  “Shall we?” he asks. “I’m looking forward to hearing a little more about you.”

  It’s not lost on me that Max has settled into his role like an Academy Award–winning actor while his older brother’s flopping around like a stuffed animal being dragged by a toddler. There’s a lesson in there somewhere, but I’m too anxious to absorb it.

  “Sounds great,” I say.

  After blowing out a slow and what I hope is an imperceptible breath, I scramble back to my chair.

  Andrew finally recovers and joins us at the table. His face is flushed and there’s a sheen of perspiration above his brows. Good. He deserves to be uncomfortable. We talked only once after the non-wedding, when he’d mustered the courage to explain that he was looking for more. More affection, more conversation, more sex, more everything. He’d been so calm and proper as he rattled off his new-to-me wishes, a laundry list of items that probably reflected Max’s wants, not his. Today, though, his unflappable demeanor is nowhere to be found, and knowing I put him in this panicked state sparks joy in me.

  “So . . . uh . . . Ms. . . . uh . . . Santos, tell us about your business,” Andrew says as he wipes his forehead with a handkerchief.

  Max covers his disappointment in his brother’s performance by swiping a hand down his face, but I catch the way his eyes roll to the back of his head before he clears his expression of any emotion.

  My chest expands as I take a deep, calming breath. Okay, they’re not blowing my cover; that’s encouraging. So I guess we’re doing this, then. And sure, I’m fully aware this could be a big mistake. Huge. Like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman you-work-on-commission-don’t-you huge. But there’s no going back now, is there?

  Chapter Five

  Max

  As subtly as I can manage, I watch Andrew’s reaction to this monumental turn of events. He’s sitting up straighter than usual, appearing cool and unbothered, but one of his knees is bouncing at an alarming rate. Oh man, if I had to guess, he’s seconds away from peeing his pants.

  This farce is going to blow up in our faces. Guaranteed. But what other choice do I have than to run with it? Lina plainly didn’t want to acknowledge that she knows us, and now that we’ve followed her lead, extracting ourselves from this charade would strain our developing relationship with Rebecca.

  I study our co-conspirator as she describes her business. Her appearance hasn’t changed much since I last saw her—when she told me to get the fuck out of her wedding suite. Same almond-shaped eyes, same pouty mouth, same regal air about her. The hair’s shorter, though, a cloud of curls resting on her shoulders, but otherwise she looks exactly like the woman who displayed little emotion when I told her that Andrew would be a no-show for the ceremony. Okay, maybe her brown skin tone’s warmer, but she’s not duping me; that sun-kissed complexion is camouflaging an icy interior. Do not go anywhere near that woman, Max. She’s a rattlesnake—coiled up tight and ready to strike at her innocent prey at any moment. Shit, you still bear the fang marks.

  “I plan six to eight weddings at various stages in any given month,” she says. “So my work requires lots of juggling. But I enjoy the challenge, and seeing the result always gives me immense satisfaction . . .”

  It’s a script. I’m sure of it. I can see the effort she’s making to recall what she’s supposed to say. Every few seconds, her eyes dart to one side as though she’s looking at something in her peripheral vision. I follow her gaze to the statue of a phoenix across the room. Maybe she’s engaging in a visualization exercise to calm her nerves? Or maybe the bird’s just interesting. Who the hell knows? In any case, there’s no denying she’s good. Really good. But she needs to loosen up. If it weren’t so obviously rehearsed, her pitch would improve tenfold.

  When Lina’s done, Rebecca nods politely, and then our client swings her gaze back to Andrew and me. “You guys already know that I want to shake things up here. I’m taking the reins, and my grandfather’s fully on board with the changes I’ve proposed. But there’s one problem. I know absolutely nothing about weddings. Which means I need to hire someone who does.” She turns to Lina. “I heard everything you just said, but I’m a visual person. I want to see what that new vision would look like, and how the person I hire will incorporate everything the Cartwright has to offer in one compelling package. How would you make use of our award-winning restaurant? How would you transform the ballrooms? What do you bring to the table that no one else does? How would you sell what you do so that a couple looking to hire you decides it’s a no-brainer? Show me what the revamped website would look like. Brochures. A display at a wedding expo, and so on.”

  Damn, if Rebecca’s willing to put this much effort into the search, how much does Lina stand to make if Rebecca ultimately hires her? Jesus, I don’t want to know. I might be tempted to switch careers.

  “Essentially a mock-up of what it would be like to have me as your hotel’s wedding coordinator,” Lina says.

  Rebecca points at Lina with both hands. “Yes. Exactly.”

  “How long would I have?” Lina asks. Her brows are furrowed, the first sign so far that she’s wary of what Rebecca’s proposi
ng.

  “Around five weeks. I’d like to get the position locked down before the next board meeting.”

  Lina’s pinched expression softens. “That’s doable.” She points at my brother and me. “And these gentlemen are going to help me package it?”

  “One of them, yes.”

  That captures my attention like no other statement does. “Only one of us?” I ask Rebecca.

  Rebecca gives us all a sheepish grin. “Well, here’s the thing: Before I met Lina this weekend, I’d made inquiries about potentially hiring someone else. I was at home mulling it over when my boyfriend started watching Hell’s Kitchen and that’s when the light bulb went off. A weeks-long interview with a demo component. Hmm, I thought. Why not do something like that with Lina and the other candidate?” She looks at Lina. “I won’t share his name for privacy reasons. Anyway, I got excited, emailed the agency, and here we are. So I’d like to go through this process with both candidates and choose based on my general impressions, your references—send me those, by the way—and your ability to sell me on your vision. I’m guessing it would make the most sense for us to split the group into two teams and plan for the presentations to be made around the middle of May. How does that sound?”

  Andrew audibly gulps, causing everyone’s gazes to land on him.

  “Sorry,” he says, swallowing. “I think I’m a little parched. That works for me.”

  “Same,” Lina says succinctly.

  “Me, too,” I chime in.

  “And I’ll leave it to you all to decide how to split the teams.” She looks down at her phone. “Maybe you guys can chat a bit while I make a quick call?” To Andrew and me, she says, “But don’t leave when you’re done here, okay? I need to speak with you about the restaurant and our spa services. Oh, and website analytics.”