The Dream - Whitney Dineen Page 0,102

proud mother right now.”

Jazz heaves a sigh. “Speaking of mothers, you have to do me a favor.” My eyebrows raise in interest. She continues, “Watch out for mine and make sure she doesn’t murder my dad’s new wife during dinner.”

I snort. “Puh-leeze, your mom is every ounce a lady. She’d no more commit murder than I would.”

“Alas, Brandee—with two e’s— the latest of my dad’s spouses, has just announced she’s pregnant. My mom isn’t taking the news gracefully.”

“You’re kidding me? You’re going to have a new brother or sister at twenty-nine?” Then I ask, “How old is Brandee again?”

My friend rolls her big brown eyes. “My dearest stepmother has just turned twenty-four.”

“I don’t know, Jazz. I think your dad is the one who needs offing in this scenario. I might be persuaded to help.”

“I would appreciate it if no murders were committed at my nuptials.” Then she hugs me, and says, “But I love you for offering.”

“Oh, Jazzy,” I exclaim, “this day is going to be so wonderful. You deserve every minute of happiness. Dylan is one lucky guy.”

Brushing a non-existent wrinkle out of her skirt, she declares, “Now all we need to do is find you the perfect man. Three of the groomsmen are single. You’ve met two of them, and the third is the one with sandy blond hair. He’s Dylan’s cousin, Jared, from Detroit.”

“Detroit? Hard pass.” The sarcasm rolls off my tongue. “I’m not looking for a long-distance love. But have no fear, I’ll definitely scope out the other two. I’m not opposed to meeting the future Mr. Catriona Masterton tonight.”

She beams. “People often meet their future spouses at weddings. It’s a thing.”

“So, it’s got to be my turn, right?”

Jazz playfully punches my arm. “That’s the attitude I love! I just wish you were walking down the aisle with me.”

I call out to Jennifer, our assistant, “Make sure you pack up all of Jazz’s stuff and take it over to her suite at the hotel. Oh, and before you go, tell Elaine to get the limos turned around out front to transport the wedding party to the reception once the ceremony ends.”

In addition to being best friends, Jazz and I own a much sought-after event-planning business in Manhattan. We’re the go-to duo known for stylishly executing even the trickiest parties—like weddings where the groom was once married to the bride’s sister—without a hitch.

I turn to the current bride. “I wish I were walking down the aisle with you too, but someone has to make sure this shin-dig of yours goes off perfectly. There’s a ton of potential business out there, so we have to make sure this is our best party yet. Now, hustle, the bridesmaids are already upstairs, and their procession starts in . . .”—I check my watch— “two minutes, which only gives you seven before it’s your turn.”

I pick up my friend’s chapel-length train to keep it from getting dirty on the stairs. “Let’s go, lady; your happily-ever-after awaits.”

We arrive upstairs in the entrance of St. John the Divine Cathedral just as Emily, the last bridesmaid, starts her goose step down the aisle. Jazz and I stand side-by-side watching her go. As Emily takes her place in the front of the altar, the first strains of Trumpet Voluntary fill the atmosphere like a heavenly serenade. Chills race through my body as I kiss my friend’s cheek and hand her off to her father who will deliver her to her destiny, one Dylan Finch.

Once the ceremony is over and the reception is in full swing at the St. Regis Hotel, I take off my party-planner hat and put on my dancing shoes. It’s go time. I have my eye on a particular groomsman, whom I’ve met on a couple other occasions. He’s sweet and shy, but super easy on the eyes. I’m not sure we’re destined for matrimony, but a couple of dances would be fun.

I straighten the skinny navy skirt of my evening dress and prepare for the chase. I take a step forward and wind up doing an unexpected split to the ground. Ouch! The waiter rushes over to clean up the spilled drink I inadvertently stepped in, and before I can begin the process of restoring my dignity, a pair of shiny, black shoes shows up next to me.

A manly hand stretches out and a deep voice inquires, “May I be of assistance?” He introduces himself. “Ethan Crenshaw, lifelong friend of the groom.” I recognize him from the rehearsal dinner, but I