My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon - Lauren Landish Page 0,14

my family’s recipe, perfected through the generations as it’s passed down to the next. Now, it is my turn to create it for you.”

She swoons, a blush rising on her cheeks, and my work here is done.

“Yes, it was ah-maz-ing,” she says, each syllable its own word. “I don’t think I’ve ever had anything that delicious in my mouth.”

I choke on the thirteen-year-old boy laughter that automatically tries to burst free at her phrasing, especially when she seems guilelessly unaware of her unintended double entendre.

“The pleasure was all mine,” I answer, keeping my tone level so as not to give my laughter away.

Cole takes Claire’s hand, patting it affectionately like one would a dog. It might not be a possessive, claiming, Neanderthal-type movement, but he’s warning me off all the same. “Claire Bear, didn’t you have something you wanted to ask?” he prompts.

She smiles sweetly at Cole and nods thankfully at the reminder. “Yes! Everything was so delicious tonight, and Mr. Sergio was telling us about how you’ve traveled all over the world learning how to cook—Italy, France, Spain, Germany, and finally, all over the States.”

I smile congenially while she tells me my own life story.

“And that fettuccine was . . . wow,” she says breathlessly. I swear she looks around the table for her plate too. Cole taps her hand, and her eyes flick back to me. “Will you come with us and make it for the wedding? Maybe even do one of the dinners? Whatever you want, as long as you make more of that alfredo.” To Cole, she gushes, “God, I would drink it like wine! Like cheese and wine all in one. I would be cheese drunk and carb loaded all the time.”

She beams, like any of that made sense. I look to Cole, thinking he can help translate what she’s saying. It’s not that my English is lacking, but Claire is talking fast and making little sense. But Cole is quiet, simply smiling lovingly with eyes only for Claire. Next, as much as I hate to admit it, I look to Sergio. He is good with the guests, after all, and perhaps can step in to help me figure out what the hell is going on here. But he too is silent, his cheeks flushed.

A woman in a black suit steps forward. Her hair is shellacked in place, her face stony in an expression of practiced blankness. “Signore Toscani, may I speak with you privately? Now.”

Not giving me a chance to answer, she turns and walks into a side hallway. “Excuse me,” I tell Claire and Cole. Sergio gives me a pointed look as I pass him that says ‘don’t fuck this up.’

In the hallway, any warmth the woman might’ve shown has chilled. She’s as frosty as an Ice Queen, a hard sculpture of a human in frozen form. “Signore Toscani, I am Meredith Wildeman. I’m in charge of pulling this wedding together last-minute and turning it into something worthy of the Kennedy-Johnson names.”

I think I’m supposed to be impressed by that somehow, but I give exactly zero fucks. “Yeah.”

With Claire’s effervescent friendliness, I gave formal politeness. With Meredith’s cold professionalism, I inherently want to push every button and piss her off with improper English and a lazy vibe. It’s my nature, and honestly, a bit of fun.

She sniffs, unimpressed by me.

Feeling’s mutual, woman.

“Yes, well. Miss Johnson seems to have taken a pretty strong liking to dinner tonight and would like to invite you to come to the wedding. Cook the fettuccine alfredo, as she said. Perhaps another meal or two, depending on the resort chef’s willingness to share his kitchen. I’ve already got a call in to confirm that.” With that, she pulls a tablet out of her bag and begins clicking around.

I hold up a hand, taking control of the conversation. I hope. “Uh, hey. What the hell are you talking about? Wedding? Resort?” I shake my head. “What?”

With a beleaguered sigh, she explains again. “Miss Johnson is the type of celebrity who gets what she wants, and she wants your fettuccine at her wedding. Name your price, your requirements, whatever. We leave on Sunday, so I’ll need your information to arrange your flights.”

“Let me get this straight, you want me to come to a resort in . . .” I pause and she jumps in.

“Aruba. And not me. Miss Johnson.”

I nod. “So Claire Bear wants some pasta and I’m supposed to just hop on a plane, go to an island resort, be