by Mia Sosa
She meets my gaze over the edge of her menu. I straighten in my seat.
“What are you considering?” she asks.
Honestly, I’m considering how beautiful she is. As for the menu, I haven’t even glanced at it yet.
“I’m thinking about their spin on paella,” she says. “Rabbit, pork, rice, chorizo, yum—the list of ingredients goes on and on. It’s for two, though. Any interest in sharing?”
I set the menu aside. “I’d love to go in on that with you.” I scan the restaurant’s main dining area, taking note of the decor. “So what do you think of the room design?”
Lina places her menu on the table and turns both ways in her chair before scrutinizing the area behind me. “Love the gray weathered shiplap walls. And the wildflowers below the sconces are the perfect touch to tie the name and the decor together. It’s a little darker than I’d like, but it’s cozy. Almost like a fancy farmhouse.” Her gaze lands on the table centerpiece. “Putting the candle in a vintage Mason jar and setting it on a tray is exactly what the room needs. It’s rustic and chic.”
As I watch Lina effortlessly describe the restaurant’s interior design, I finally figure out what’s been bugging me about the wedding-godmother concept we chose for the pitch: It isn’t the best vehicle for showcasing this incredible woman’s talents.
I was so convinced that the personal element had to be front and center that I lost sight of the real person behind the service we’re trying to sell. I fell into the trap of thinking the armor Lina had developed for herself was a bad thing. But, after our time at Surrey Lane Farm, I think Lina owes a large measure of her success to her skill in using that armor to her advantage if and when she needs it. Who she lets into her life, who she cries in front of, who she lets behind her walls, who she shares her emotions with, is ultimately her choice. And it doesn’t diminish what she brings to the table; it just allows her to navigate different environments while remaining within her comfort zone.
Lina’s strength is that she gets shit done. Like she’s always acknowledged, she isn’t going to be a client’s best friend. Or cry at their wedding. Or jump around when the bride finds the perfect dress. That’s not her style. But she’ll organize the best wedding she can with the resources available to her. And that’s what any client should want. Now I just need to explain why I’m advocating a change in tactics. “Can we talk about the pitch for a minute?”
She takes a sip of her water and folds her hands in her lap. “Sure. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s just . . . I don’t think we should use the wedding-godmother concept. It isn’t you.”
She sags against the chair, and her smile broadens in tiny degrees. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Of course.”
“I’m relieved. I’ve been thinking about it the past few days, and I was waiting for the right moment to talk to you about it. I started to worry that the concept would make us look like we’re trying too hard. Or that we would be making me relatable at the expense of what I do best.”
I nod. “Exactly. Fuck relatable. We don’t need to change a single thing about you. We just need to play to your strengths, of which there are many. I’m thinking a theme focusing on your role as a wedding concierge could be effective. It ties in with the hotel’s business, still evokes the idea that you’ll give each wedding your personal touch, and would appeal to a broader cross-section of your client population. What do you think?”
She leans over and squeezes my hand. “I think I’m lucky to be working with you, and now I’m really looking forward to making this pitch.”
I’m probably beaming. Pleasing her pleases me, but it’s extra special that I can impress her simply by doing my job. “Great. So I’ll talk to—”
A hand lands on my shoulder, and a voice behind me bellows my name.
Startled, I twist around to see Nathan Yang, a childhood friend from the old neighborhood, grinning down at me. My heart resumes a normal rhythm. “Nathan, how the hell are you doing? It’s been ages.”
He nods. “It has, it has. Way too long.” Nathan looks at Lina. “Sorry to interrupt, but I had to say hello to an old friend.”
She gives him a friendly smile. “No worries.”
“Are you dining by yourself?” I ask.
Nathan smooths his hands over the front of his black suit jacket. “No, no. I’m the manager here. This has been my gig for about a year now.”
“Wow. That’s fantastic,” I say. “Congrats, man. Lina and I were just raving about the decor.”
“Thanks a lot. I’m proud of this place.” He glances at Lina again, his eyes narrowing as though he’s trying to figure out where he’s seen her before.
My mouth goes dry. Oh, shit. Nathan was Andrew’s friend, too, and I’m pretty sure he was invited to Lina and Andrew’s wedding. If there were a way to disable that part of the brain that controls facial recognition, I’d be performing surgery on Nathan this minute.
“Lina. Max. How good to see you,” a voice behind Lina says. “Is Nathan treating you well?”
Rebecca? You’re shitting me, right? Who the hell did I screw over in a former life? My gaze darts to Lina, who appears frozen in place. It’s okay. We can handle this, no problem. We’re working. Not a big deal at all. I stand and shake Rebecca’s hand. “Hey, Rebecca. Good to see you. Nathan and I were just catching up. We grew up together.” I wave my hand between Lina and me. “And Lina and I were just talking about the interior design. Trying to figure out the restaurant’s main selling points. There’s a lot to recommend. We’re trying the food next.”
Rebecca brushes her palms together. “Oh, I’m happy you’re liking it so far.” She leans in so only we can hear. “And the restaurant’s at its most impressive during the weekend, so good choice coming during a peak time. Be sure to try out the special tasting menu if you get a chance. Nathan’s done an amazing job drawing people in with that one.”
Lina gives her a tight smile. “I bet.”
Rebecca glances at her slim gold wristwatch. “I’m meeting my grandfather for dinner. He’s checking up on our properties. And checking on me, too, probably.”
Nathan places a finger over his lips as he studies Lina. “Sorry if I’ve been staring, but you look so familiar to me. Have we met before?”
Lina sinks lower in her chair and fans herself. “Is it hot in here? Someone must have turned up the heat.”
Rebecca, meanwhile, is slipping curious glances at everyone, tennis-spectator style. “Lina, are you okay?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” Lina says, her voice froggy. She clears her throat. “Just feeling a bit under the weather all of a sudden.”
I want to wrap Lina in my arms and hide her from Nathan’s scrutiny, but that would be unprofessional—and weird. Play it cool, Max. With any luck, Rebecca will leave before Nathan makes the connection.
“Hey,” Nathan says, pointing a finger in Lina’s direction. “Now I remember. You’re Carolina Santos. You were engaged to Max’s brother, Andrew. Sorry that didn’t work out.” His face flushes. “Damn. This is me inserting a foot in my mouth. My apologies for mentioning it.”
Dammit. So much for luck.
Rebecca tilts her head and studies Lina.
Her expression devoid of emotion, Lina surveys the restaurant through narrowed eyes, as if she’s searching for the most effective escape route.
How she’s holding it together is a wonder. Me? I’m ready to crawl under the table, and my brain isn’t operating quickly enough to defuse the situation. Besides, what the hell would I say?
Rebecca shakes her head. “Well, I must have missed a memo, but we can sort it all out Monday morning.” She looks between Lina and me, her mouth set in a hard line, then she says, “First thing Monday morning, perhaps?”
We both nod, neither of us meeting Rebecca’s gaze.
“I need to use the restroom,” Lina says, standing abruptly, her face still blank. “It was great seeing you again, Rebecca.” She glances
at Nathan. “And nice meeting you.”
I watch her walk briskly in the direction of the restrooms. Rebecca and Nathan watch her leave, too.
What a clusterfuck.
Chapter Thirty
Lina
Hope may spring eternal, prima, but deception will bite you in the ass.
Natalia’s warning rings in my ears like a church bell. Bong. Hello? Are you surprised? Bong. Of course you got caught. Bong. Now Rebecca not only pities you but also distrusts you. Bong. What are you going to do now? Bong. Guess you can forget about that position with the Cartwright. Bong. At least you didn’t cry in front of everyone.
With my fists clenched at my sides, I pace the length of the restroom, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. There’s no need to see my tears. I can feel them sliding down my cheeks.
Someone knocks on the door.
I flinch, then quickly wipe my face dry—or try to. “It’s occupied,” I call out.
The door opens a crack. “Lina, it’s me. Can I come in?”
“It’s not a good idea, Max. I’ll be fine. Just give me a”—I hiccup—“give me a second and I’ll be out.”
“Baby, you’re crying. Let me help.”
“How can you help, Max? I fucked this up all by myself.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then he’s talking to someone else. “We just need a minute, okay?” he tells the person. “She’s having a menstrual crisis.”
I probably misheard him. “Did you just say I’m having a mental crisis?”
“No, I’d never joke about that. I said menstrual. I only have a vague idea what that could entail, but she seemed to understand and backed away.”
I snort. Even when I’m having a “menstrual crisis” he makes me laugh.
“Did you just laugh?” he asks. “See? I’m helping already.”
Several seconds of silence pass, and my stomach churns when I consider the possibility that he’s gone. “Max? Are you still there?”
“I’m here, Lina. Will you let me in? Please?”
The urgency in his tone suggests that he’s asking for more than just my permission to enter this restroom. But if he sees me like this and doesn’t judge or pity me, what then? I’ll probably fall in love with him, that’s what. Because he’ll be the only man who’s seen my truest self and doesn’t think less of me for it. Andrew never saw the real me. And because of that, I was able to handle my breakup with him like a boss. Didn’t cry, or yell, or make a fuss. I held on to my dignity in the face of Andrew’s abandonment—because I never gave him my heart. Even when I asked him to reconsider his decision, I did it calmly and logically, pointing out the reasons we made sense. And when he declined to change his mind, I moved on.
So why should I ever give someone the power to make me feel weak again? That would be the very definition of self-sabotage. Plus, I’ve already got that covered; considering what just happened out there, I think it would be wise to impose a moratorium on undermining myself.
“Hey, Lina,” Max says.
“Yeah?”
“I’m just going to talk, okay? I figure it might help.”
I hiccup again. “Okay.”
“So here’s the thing. I wish Andrew and I were closer. But we just aren’t. From an early age, my parents encouraged competition between us. They think sibling rivalry can be a good thing. We push each other, they say. To a certain extent, that’s true. But it also means we don’t know how to engage with each other unless we’re trying to outsmart, out-succeed, out-everything each other. And I’m just so fucking tired of it.”
This is eye-opening. Andrew barely talked about Max when we dated. Now I understand why. When I think about what I knew about Max then—Andrew’s younger brother in New York—and what I know now, the difference is laughable. The man at the door is vibrant and sweet and funny and sexy and so much more than Andrew’s younger brother.
“I’m not exactly sure,” he says. “The toilet overflowed, so they’re cleaning it up.”
I frown. “What?”
“I’m explaining why this person can’t enter the restroom,” he says to me.
“Oh.”
“Anyway, this assignment with Rebecca,” he continues. “I know I told you it’s my chance to break away from Andrew at work. Distinguish myself so I don’t have to be attached to him at every turn. But it’s more than that. I just want to be my own person. Live my own life. Without reference to Andrew. Be Rebecca’s first choice for no other reason than I’m good at what I do. Maybe then Andrew and I could learn to like each other.” He’s silent for a moment, then his voice fills the air again, though it’s weaker than it was before. “I don’t know why I’m saying all this. I just thought you should know that what went down tonight affects me, too. This client could help me stand on my own. And I think we can fix the situation together—if you let me in, that is.”
Somehow Max knows that if he shares a piece of himself, I’ll be inclined to do the same. I can’t keep him out. It would be pointless to try. So I walk to the door, pull on the handle, and peek outside. Max is leaning against the wall to the right of the door, his hands behind his back and his head facing the ceiling.
“Hey,” I say.
Max turns to face me, his body still propped against the wall. “Hi.”
I take his hand and tug him inside the restroom.
Within seconds, he’s sweeping his thumbs under my eyes and drying my tears.
“So brave,” he says softly. After a pause, he adds, “Still a badass, tears and all.”
I roll my eyes and wave a hand up and down my body. “Out there, yes. In here? This is not the look of a badass.”
He stretches his arms out in front of him, and I fall into his body, releasing a shuddering breath as he envelops me in a tight embrace.
“Thing is,” he says, his chin resting on my head, “there’s no single way to be a badass. Your mother and aunts coming here and making new lives for themselves? Badass. My mother running her own firm even after she and my father divorced? Badass. You facing the obstacles in your path and reinventing yourself in the process? Badass. There’s room for different kinds of greatness. Even if you cry doing it. Hell, especially if you cry doing it.”
“It’s not that simple and you know it,” I say into his chest.
“You’re right. I do know it. Or I know it now. Because you made me see that it’s complicated. I just need you to understand that I think you’re amazing and strong and yes, a fucking badass. I can’t control what other people think, but I know what I know.”
And to think I wasn’t going to let him in this restroom. Or in my heart. I can no longer fathom not doing both. I don’t share myself with many people. My family and Jaslene are my only exceptions. But I’m ready to make an exception for Max, too. He gets me. Like no other man ever has.
Someone knocks on the door, and seconds later, a server pokes her head in. “Folks, we’ve got a long line outside. Are you squared away with your menstrual crisis, ma’am?”
Max and I separate, my jaw dropping at her words. How did the night progress to the point that she’s even posing this question with a straight face?
“I’m all set,” I answer. “Thanks.”
I drag Max out of the restroom, my face averted so I can avoid the annoyed gazes of the people waiting their turn for a restroom with only two stalls.
“I need to go home and drink myself to sleep,” I tell Max. “We can talk about the Rebecca problem tomorrow.”
He throws an arm around my shoulder. “We still need to eat, though. How ’bout we get the paella to go?”
I groan. “That sounds good, but it’ll take forever to make.”
“What if I told you I already ordered it?” he asks, his eyebrows waggling.
“I’d thank you from the bottom of my heart and tell you that we’ll both be getting a workout tonight.”
He grimaces. “Shit. That’s a shame.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t order it yet,
” he says.
“But I thought . . .” I shake my head. “Never mind.”
The man’s ridiculous, but I wouldn’t want him any other way. I drag him out the door. Paella or not, we’re both still getting a workout tonight.
* * *
“Max, I need to get out of bed.” I tap the octopus sprawled across my body. “Max.”
He doesn’t budge.
“Max, there’s marble cake with buttercream frosting in the kitchen.”
He stretches and lifts his head. “What? There is?”
I take advantage of his grogginess and slip out from under him. So gullible. As much as I’d love to cuddle with him in bed this morning, I promised Natalia and Paolo I’d meet them at Rio de Wheaton to go over their seating chart for the reception.
Max sits up, one hand stretched behind him and the other rubbing the back of his head, the sheet carelessly draped over his bottom half. “Did you lie to me about cake to wake me up?”
“I did. Sorry.”
He scrubs a hand over his face. “Noted. But vengeance shall be mine.” After fluffing the pillow behind him, he leans his back against the headboard and watches me gather my hair into a high ponytail. “So, you ready to talk about a game plan for dealing with Rebecca Cartwright? Ignoring the issue won’t make it go away, you know.”
I brush a few strands of hair from my face—stalling. I don’t know how to explain my actions to Rebecca without diminishing myself in her eyes even further. Plus, I suspect the chances that she’ll give me a fair shot at the position are slim to none. If I think too much about the opportunity I wasted, I’ll only get emotional about it, and that’s not going to change anything. I guess at this point I should focus on owning my mistake and ensuring neither Andrew nor Max pays for it. Oh, and I should find an alternative office space. “Honestly, I’m not sure what I’ll say to Rebecca yet, but I’d like to speak with her alone. This is my mess, and I’m the one who needs to clean it up.” I clear my throat and rest my butt against the dresser. “Would that be okay with you? I mean, I know you’ll probably want to touch base with her yourself, but I’d like to speak with her first.”