My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon - Lauren Landish Page 0,139

a shower before you change into your suit.”

I glance around the kitchen to see my entire crew nodding with Belinda. But I haven’t lost them.

This is my kitchen. My crew.

But not my restaurant.

I don’t want that, not now, at least. But being the chef for a small restaurant with an owner who wants me to create and allow him to manage is the perfect compromise. Here, I have the opportunity to source local products or have specialty items shipped in, I can change the menu daily or seasonally, and I can experiment with free reign.

This is my new cooking home. Except I’m being kicked out, apparently.

“Belinda . . . guys . . .”

“We’re good, Lorenzo. I swear it. We won’t let you down,” Belinda reassures me.

I sigh, knowing she’s right and that I need to trust them. But I can’t let it go easily. “Run it down for me one more time.”

“Yes, Chef,” Belinda snaps.

She begins reciting the menu I’ve been agonizing over, different members of the crew picking up to recite their contributions to each plate. It doesn’t take long. It’s a set menu of items I selected.

Once she’s done, I realize that she’s right. They’re all right.

“Okay.” I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I am. I take my apron off and then my jacket. “I’ll see you later . . . on the other side of the table. Do me proud, guys.”

Belinda leads the crew in a round of applause that dies out the instant I leave the kitchen and is replaced with the hustle and bustle of knives chopping, food sizzling, and pots and pans moving around on the stovetops.

“You look amazing,” I whisper to Abigail.

She’s wearing the white gown she promised her mom she would, though I think it’s not quite what Kimberly had in mind. But in the end, Abigail will always do what she feels is right, and she’s gone with a two-piece. The top is a delicate silk tank with a deep V and lace in creamy ivory. The skirt is full in the palest blush pink with tiny buttons down the entire length of the back. She let me see it once, saying it wasn’t bad luck since we’re already married, though she’d only held it up, not actually put it on.

But even holding the skirt up, she’d twirled like a little girl, her face exuberant with joy.

On her now, it’s even more stunning.

Abigail’s smile in this moment, in this dress, is something I will remember forever. “Thank you.” She spins once again, the skirt flaring out beautifully. “You too. So handsome.”

She snuggles up against me, her arms going around my waist, and there’s a click from off to my right.

I ignore it in favor of looking at Abigail because I know the photographer is going to be taking pictures of the entire reception tonight.

“Are you ready for this?” I ask her.

“Absolutely, without a doubt. I’m ready to get our party on and celebrate.” She wiggles against me with her smile bright, not only on her lips but in her eyes. She takes my hand and holds our interlocked hands up. “Us against the world, yeah?”

“Always.”

The doors in front of us open, and Archie pokes his head out with a grin. “Okay, cats and kittens, you ready to rock and roll?”

I can’t help but laugh in confusion. “What?”

Abigail shakes her head and explains, “It’s an expression. A really old, dead one.”

Archie pouts sassily. “Let’s go. I’m ready to get our food on because I want to hit the dance floor.” He spins in place in his black boots and finishes by striking a pose with one arm up and one down, his fingers spread wide and shaking.

Walking into the restaurant, I see our family and friends are already seated at the tables, each of which has been draped with pale blush tablecloths and lovely arrangements Abigail created and set with a mix-match of china and flatware.

“May I introduce Mr. Lorenzo Toscani and Mrs. Abigail Andrews!” the DJ says into the microphone, and everyone claps and cheers as we walk through the restaurant. It feels like a victory lap.

We won at life by finding each other!

I can’t help but smile. This is all so . . . American. It’s like a rave version of a party but with everyone dressed up in their finest.

Abigail and I sit down at a table of our own and dinner service begins. I’m critical of every morsel on every plate, checking the ones I can see