My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon - Lauren Landish Page 0,5

critical eye to the bouquet. I watch her face, looking for any telltale signs that something’s wrong.

Janey’s short, bleached white-blonde hair is pushed back behind a rhinestone headband, leaving her brown eyes exposed. They scan left and right, then around, up, and down, leaving no bud unexamined. She lifts one shoulder, tilting her head as she frowns. “Meh. It’s fine.”

I blink, my eyes jumping to the bouquet. “What? It’s gorgeous!” An instant later, I ask, “What’s wrong with it?”

Her smile blooms quickly, bright and white. “Gotcha! It’s gorgeous. Claire will love it.”

She might’ve been kidding, but now, I’m looking the bouquet over again with second thoughts. “Maybe I’ll add a few Swarovski crystals?”

Janey laughs, but when I don’t laugh along, she sighs. “I was just fucking with you, Abs. Here, how’s this instead?”

She opens her eyes wide, her hands covering her open mouth as she gasps sharply. “Oh. My. God. It’s gor-ge-ous. Like nothing I’ve ever seen. You are an artiste!” She adds a polite golf clap and then her drawn-on brows lift sardonically, her overdramatized reaction turning to snark. “Is that what you were looking for?”

I shove at her shoulder with a smile. “Bitch.” There’s zero heat to the word, and she merely laughs in response.

“Seriously, it’s great. It’s exactly what Claire asked for, only better because it’s got that Abi touch.” She mimes sprinkling glitter around the flowers.

Ooh, that’s an idea . . . maybe I could spritz floral glitter over the bouquet? I eye it, considering.

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop. The only thing you’re doing with it is putting it in the fridge to wait for the wedding planner to get here.” She points a warning finger my way. I’m the boss, but she’s bossy, and I would never risk pissing her off because she’s a force in the way a tornado is a little wind. Aggressive, fierce, and destructive if challenged.

So I put the bouquet in the cooler as instructed. “Happy?”

“Exceedingly.” She beams at having gotten her way. Again.

“As long as Claire’s happy, that’s all that matters.”

Claire Johnson, my biggest client to date, is a wealthy Instagram influencer-slash-self-motivation coach. She’s what my dad would call new money, like us, really. Someone who’s worked their way up from the ground floor, capitalizing on a niche she carved out for herself. Alternatively, she’s marrying old money. Her fiancé, Cole Kennedy—not those Kennedys, but close enough—comes from generations of millionaires and has a trust fund the size of a small country’s annual gross domestic product.

I’d know because Cole went to school with Ross, and between that elite small circle of a network and my working relationship with their top-notch wedding planner, Beth, I managed to get this contract.

And I will not blow this opportunity.

Because it’s not just a wedding. Besides the big day, this is an entire Event, with a huge three-foot-tall, blinking neon, capital E, starting with tonight’s dinner. It’s being held here in the city as a way of introducing the bride and groom’s families before we all travel for the ceremony and festivities.

Yeah, travel. Because of course, the wedding is a destination one, taking place on Aruba’s famed coast at the famous five-star Casa Del Mario resort, with an RSVP list filled to the brim with the rich, famous, and political elite. Alongside an orchestra, a custom choreographed fireworks display, and other live entertainment, People magazine will also be present to film what is being called THE wedding of the decade.

It’s a lot of pressure, amplified by needing to ship everything to the resort and make arrangements on site daily for the various lead-up events to the big ceremony and reception.

In other words, I can’t fuck up tonight’s dinner. This is my last at-home opportunity to show Claire what I can do and that I have her event well in hand.

I shouldn’t worry this much. I’m excellent at what I do, I have lists of my lists to be prepared for any eventuality, and Claire has been nothing but accepting of my ideas, but anxiety rushes through me despite all those reassurances.

The shop phone rings, and I hear Samantha, my front desk assistant, answer. “SweetPea Boutique, how may I help make today beautiful?” I can hear the smile in her voice, but then, more dryly, she follows up with, “Oh. Of course. We’ll be ready.”

“Abi!” she yells a second later. Hopefully, she hung up first or whoever was on the phone is probably deaf now.

I hiss, “What?”

Samantha runs to the back, eyes wild and bouncing around the