by JB Salsbury
“Recipe for a successful marriage,” I say sarcastically.
“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”
I hold up my glass, and he clinks his to mine. “Whatever works.”
“That’s right.” He leans to peer behind me, searching the restaurant. “Where the fuck are they? I’m starving.”
“Hey, isn’t it bad luck to see the bride before the wedding?”
“Please.” He leans over the table. “I make my own luck.”
“Your humility is inspiring,” I say dryly.
We drain the rest of our drinks as Bailey brings our next round. The sound of the waves crashing on the beach, combined with the cool breeze and squawking seagulls, puts me into a state of relaxation I haven’t felt in years.
The last five years of my life have been a fucking rat race. I’d heard life in New York moves at full speed, but I had no idea how true it was until it became my life. In college, competition was everything. I was up against some of the smartest business minds in the country, fighting for the best internships and the highest grades. In New York, no excuse is acceptable, and if you miss an opportunity there are no second chances.
I busted my ass to land my position as account manager for Riot Advertising. The scramble to the top didn’t stop there. I fight hard to secure the best clients with the fear that at any moment my position could be given to someone with better numbers. The struggle is real and it’s never-ending. I suck in two lungfuls of air and slowly blow it out, hard-pressed to remember the last time I actually did that. Ya know, breathed a voluntary breath.
How fucked up is that.
“No, honey. I said guava mimosa. With guava juice.”
I turn toward the sound of Maribeth’s voice as she and Anaya make their way to our table. They look like Kardashians, almost identical with their sleek black hair, big lips, and breast implants.
I catch Maribeth’s eye roll before she drops her sunglasses to her nose and takes the seat next to Tanner. “There are some incompetent people working in this hotel.”
I have to laugh because it’s ridiculous for anyone to call this place simply a hotel. Resort, maybe. Luxury destination would be more accurate.
“I said guava mimosa. Didn’t I, Anaya?” Maribeth waits for her friend, who takes the seat closest to me, to back her up.
“That’s what I heard.” Anaya flashes her manufactured smirk, and I give a small smile back.
She’s a nice enough girl, but for some reason, Maribeth thought she could push her friend at me over this wedding weekend. Everywhere we go, it’s as if we’re on a double date with the soon-to-be newlyweds.
“Exactly.” Maribeth purses her lips. “This chick was like, ‘Huh? Mimosa?’”
“Babe,” Tanner says, “it’s not a big deal. She didn’t hear you, so she asked to clarify. You don’t need to crawl up her ass.”
Maribeth gets pouty. “West Coast people are so lazy. In the spa, the masseuse…”
I tune out her bitching. No matter how much money Tanner spends, how nice the restaurant, hotel, or airline, she always finds something to be miserable about. I notice I’m breathing shallowly again, so I close my eyes and deliberately suck in air. Since when did I forget how to breathe?
“Better not screw up our wedding tonight.”
Bailey returns with the guava mimosas, and Maribeth doesn’t even look at her, much less say thank you.
“Thank you, Bailey,” I say for Maribeth and Anaya, who ignore her to sip their drinks.
It’s pretty fucking easy to be the nice guy when you’re surrounded by assholes.
“Tell Simpson we need the proposal sent over no later than five p.m. Eastern time. No exceptions,” I say as I pull the laces on my running shoes tighter.
My assistant Andrea’s irritated huff comes through my AirPods loud and clear. “Jackson, it’s Saturday.”
The sun is high behind me and the glassy Pacific Ocean kisses my beachfront hotel room patio. “It is.”
“Tanner’s wedding day.”
The corner of my mouth ticks up. Andrea isn’t all that much older than me, but she lectures me as though she’s eighty years old to my twenty-three years.
“Would you let me enjoy a weekend with my boss out of town? Please.”
“Yes. After the proposal—”
“That isn’t due until Monday.”
She’s right, but it’s all about competition, being the best of the best, and nothing says our ad firm is better than the rest like getting our proposal in early.
“I want this account.”
“I know you do, and you’ll get it. I’ll check in with the art department and see if…”
There’s a knock on my door.
From the spic and span state of my room, it can’t be housekeeping.
I open it only to have Tanner push his way inside. “Fuck, dude. Come on in.”
“Thanks,” he says, going straight for the minibar.
“Tell Tanner good luck tonight,” Andrea says. “I still can’t believe he’s marrying that bitch.”
I chuckle because it’s true. Everyone in our office has had a front row seat to their tumultuous relationship, and when he announced they were getting married, the bets were made with two-to-one odds they’d never make it to the altar.
“Let me know the status of the proposal. I’ll talk to you soon.” I hang up and step close to my bed, where Tanner sits propped up against the headboard with a beer in hand. “What are you doing here?”
“Maribeth kicked me out for her bridesmaids.” He looks around the room. “Got any food?”
“I’m going for a jog.”
“You fuck Anaya yet?”
I lean back against the dresser. “You’re kidding.”
He throws me a slanted stare. “You couldn’t seal the deal or what?”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Oh yeah? Well, those AirPods make it look like you’ve got two tampons stuck in your ears.”
“Says the guy who still wears a bluetooth device that looks like a big dildo smashed against your cheek.” I pull the Apple tampons from my ears and tuck them back in their case. “And I am not interested in Anaya.”
“So what? You’re on vacation. Why not have some fun, blow off some…” He motions indirectly to my dick. “Tension.”
“I’m not tense.”
“Sexual tension.”
“I’m not sexually tense either.”
“Is that why you’re wearing your running gear and barking at your assistant on a Saturday during vacation? Because you’re so relaxed and not at all tense?”
So maybe I’m a little tense. Work is my life. Even the part of my life that looks like a social life is mostly professional networking. Okay, not mostly. It’s all professional networking. But I didn’t get to where I am today by partying and blowing off tension. I got here by letting the tension build and feed my drive for success. I got here by working.
Not all of us have family connections like Tanner does. His grandfather started our ad firm and put in a good word for Tanner, who was accepted with zero accomplishments. I fought like hell and earned my spot as the youngest account manager in the company’s history.
I snag my room key and phone, tuck them into my pocket, then grab my Universal Fighting League hat off the dresser and slide it on. “I’m going for a jog. It’s my last day here and I’m not going to waste it indoors. Want to come?”
“Nah, man.” He picks up the phone and hits a button. “I’m ordering food—yes, hello. I’d like to order room service.” His eyes come to me and he grins. “Yes, charge it to my room.”
“Asshole.” I head for the door as Tanner places an order for a bottle of the hotel’s finest champagne. I laugh as the door slams closed behind me.
Fucking Tanner.
Sadie
Running thirty minutes late, I pull into the underground parking garage of Perle de la Mer Resort and Spa, my red Honda Accord jerking to a stop. Driving from Hillcrest to Del Mar
in afternoon traffic can stretch the thirty-minute commute to over an hour. I meant to leave earlier but got caught up in what I was doing and lost track of time.
“Always set an alarm!” I scold myself while I snag my purse, my black tie, and my apron, and slam the car door before racing to the employee entrance.
I punch in and groan, knowing I’m going to catch hell from my supervisor. I manage to slick my hair into a low ponytail as I race through the industrial catering kitchen to the staff lockers.
“Yo, Van Gogh!”
I wave to Jorge as I pass him in the kitchen. “I’m late.”
“No shit. Garden room!” he yells at my back.
“Thank you!”
I throw my bag into my locker, and then I fix my tie as I race up two floors to the outdoor ballroom. The tables are out, linens on, and the bars are being stocked with booze and glassware. I search until I spot Ricky’s bronzey-gold, stylish hair. I tie on my apron as I scurry toward him.
“Late again?” he asks with a smile. “Bernie is going to fire your ass if you don’t start getting here on time.”
I grab wine glasses from the rack and stack them behind the bar. “The traffic was really bad.”
“The only time you’re not late is when we’re on the same schedule and we carpool.” He lifts one sun-bleached brow.
Finally catching my breath, I level him with a glare. “You don’t have to rub it in. You’re always on time. I’m not. But I can’t help it if there’re a million other cars on the road holding me up.”
He polishes glasses, but his icy blue eyes study my face. “Traffic. Right.” He cups my jaw and swipes his thumb below my bottom lip. He shows me the blue flake he wiped from my skin. “You want to change your story, Pinocchio?”
I flick his well-defined pec, and even through his white button-up and undershirt, I nail his right nipple.
“Ouch.” He rubs his wound, but he’s smiling.
“Fine, okay.” I grab a napkin and scrub my chin. “You want to hear me say it? I was working on a piece and I lost track of time—”
“Like you always do.”
I sigh. “Okay. Like I always do.”
“Which is why I got you the alarm for your studio.”
I scrunch up one eye. “Are you trying to sound like my mom, or does this mothering thing come naturally?”
He grins, all straight white teeth and perfect lips. Ricky could be the poster boy for the Southern California Dream Boat. His golden-brown hair is the result of way too much sun, a tan for the same reason. He’s dangerously handsome, smart, and he genuinely cares for people. When the cards were dealt in the game of life, Ricky got a Royal Flush. Me? I’m more of a three of a kind girl.
“Rick,” our manager, Bernadette, says as she steps up to us. “You’re on bar tonight.” When her eyes come to me, they tighten. “Sadie, you’ll be serving champagne until dinner service.”
“Okay.” Please don’t notice I was late.
She scribbles something on her clipboard. “Set the tables.”
I drop what I’m doing and nod. “Okay.”
When she walks away, I blow out a relieved breath.
“Oh, and Ms. Slade? You’ll be closing, ya know, since you were the last one here.”
Crap.
Before I can say okay, she stomps off.
I’ve worked a ton of weddings in this hotel over the last two years, and all of them have been extravagant. The resort’s six-hundred-dollar-a-night room rate attracts only the richest guests, and tonight’s wedding speaks to that.
Not that I’m complaining.
The wedding is being held outdoors on the manicured lawn that overlooks the ocean, and the reception is in our most intimate rental room with glass walls and one hundred and eighty degree views. As if those things alone don’t make any wedding a five-star event, this particular wedding takes pretention to a whole new level.
“How much do you think that cost?” I mumble to Ricky, who’s dressing the tables with me.
He follows my gaze to the ceiling, where the over-the-top crystal chandelier is currently surrounded by a gigantic hanging garden of exotic, pale pink flowers I’ve never seen before. “Best guess? Way too much.”
“They look like some kind of hibiscus-wisteria hybrid.”
He shakes his head. “No clue what that would even look like.”
“What kind of person spends money to decorate a ceiling?” I rub my tickling nose. “I can’t even look at it for long without getting a pinch in my neck.”
Ricky bumps me with his hip to get me to move to the next table. He leans in and whispers, “Waste of money if you ask me.”
We go to work on the next table set for eight. “If this is how they dress the ceiling, can you imagine what the centerpieces will look like?” I run my hand along the silk tablecloth while Ricky checks its placement.
“A monstrosity no doubt.” He winks at me, and we share a secret laugh as hotel staff, lighting specialists, and decorators scurry about the space. “You’re saying, if all this”—he twirls his finger around—“was offered to you, you wouldn’t take it?”
“I’d rather keep the money and go on vacation or buy a house.” I snag the next table linen from its hanger. “Not that all this would ever be an option for me. I can’t imagine a person who has access to this kind of money is a nice person.”
The space fills with Ricky’s warm laughter. “That’s funny coming from you, little rich girl.”
“I’m not rich.” I sniff and take another swipe at my nose.
“No, but your parents are.”
I shrug. “It’s not the same. My mom was dirt poor her entire life until she met my dad, and sure he has money, but only because he worked his butt off for it.”
“You assume the person who could afford all this didn’t work his ass off for it.” He lifts a brow. “Is that fair?”
I take one more look around the space, the hanging garden above our heads, the custom flooring brought in to make everything white, and the seven-tier cake covered in gold flowers. “Maybe not, but it’s accurate. People who work hard for their money see the value in it and don’t throw it away on things like this.”
He shrugs, and we move on to the next table. “I see your point. At least it seems they’re keeping it small. Only eighty people.”
“True.” We drape the table linen over the eight-top round. “Which makes me think the bride and groom aren’t local.”
“Why do you say that?”
“They’d be forced to invite everyone they know, ya know, keeping up appearances and all.”
“See? You are smart.”
I scratch the corner of my eye. “Street smart.”
Ricky knows about my learning disabilities, but that never stops him from reminding me that school smarts aren’t everything.
There’s a commotion across the room as a team of twenty florists trail inside carrying centerpieces that have to be close to four feet tall. It takes three people to set each one on the table.
I grab one of the table napkins and dab my watery eye.
“Oh shit,” Ricky mumbles.
I rub the end of my nose. “What?”
His brows are high. “I think I know what kind of flowers those are.”
I’m about to ask him what he means when I register the burn in my eyes.
“Lilies,” he says with a low grumble.
I turn my head in time to shoulder a fierce sneeze. “Great.”
Chapter Two
Jack
Tanner and Maribeth’s ceremony went as well as could be expected. I stood to Tanner’s left while he repeated the vows and gave her a diamond big enough to take her straight to the bottom if she falls in the ocean. The sunset kissed the horizon as they were pronounced husband and wife.
I couldn’t wait to get to the reception and get a drink. My tuxedo is designer and well made, but it’s still black. I was ready for some AC and an ice-cold beverage.
After wedding photos that las
ted forever, Tanner’s brother Nick, golfing buddy Jerome, cousin George, and I were announced at the reception with our respective bridesmaids. Now, finally, I am mostly free of my best man obligations. At least until it’s time for the speech.
I find a spot at the bar and order a whiskey and Coke while Tanner and Maribeth make their rounds. The room looks like something out of a fairytale dream world, which doesn’t surprise me. Members of New York’s upper elite have two rules they live by: success is mandatory and appearance is everything.
“Hey, stranger.” Anaya steps close to me, pushing her chest into my personal space. Her black hair is curled and hangs loose around slender shoulders. Her face is so made up that she actually looks different. Not necessarily in a bad way, but in a plastic way. “What does a person have to do to get a drink around here?”
I open my mouth to tell her all she has to do is tell the man behind the bar what she wants, but that seems dickish. “What can I get for you?”
“Champagne, please.”
At least she said please.
I turn to the bartender and order for her while she’s standing three inches from me. Why do some women do this? Make themselves appear helpless when they’re not?
I hand her the glass, and she presses it to her glossy lips. I look away, not wanting her to get the wrong idea. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Anaya, she takes even the slightest kindness to mean more than it does.
“Did you see Maribeth’s mom’s dress?” she says close to my ear. “She bought it from Sears.” She snickers in the most unattractive way. “You know Maribeth doesn’t come from money, right?”
I ignore her last question because it’s fucking gross. “She looks fine to me.”
In an attempt to put some distance between us, I turn around and lean my elbows on the bar, giving her my back and hoping she takes the hint.
She doesn’t. She only moves closer. “You’re a guy. You don’t get it. Wearing a dress like that to a wedding of this caliber is trashy.”