My Big Fat Fake Wedding - Lauren Landish Page 0,17

evil incarnate. I mean, all she’s missing is a crapload of Dalmatian puppies and—”

Right then, the giant double doors to the entryway swing open, accompanied by the sound of high-pitched barking.

“Speak of the devil,” Arch mutters under his breath. “Bitch-ella has arrived.” I swat at him, but he’s too quick, moving a step away and shooting daggers at me from under his arched and slashed brows. “Don’t even think about it, Boss Lady.”

Dressed in a black pantsuit, her white hair done up into a fashionable French twist, Lydia Montgomery strolls into the room with a small pup balanced on her arm. It’s a fuzzy white Pomeranian, not a Dalmatian, thankfully, or I probably would’ve lost it and started laughing at the moniker that Arch bestowed upon her. The fluffball isn’t nearly as cute as the movie dogs, either, and it doesn’t know the meaning of be quiet, judging by the chorus of constant yips.

Beside me, Arch visibly rearranges his posture, standing up straight and placing his hands respectfully in front of his crotch, which looks a bit odd for someone in ripped jeans and a t-shirt, even if they are vintage 80s and designer. Unconsciously, I almost do the same as Lydia stops in front of us with a frown that could curdle milk as she strokes the head of her yapping puppy.

Damn, you’d think she’s the Queen of England. I don’t know if I should bow, curtsey, or just roll my eyes.

“Welcome back—” Arch begins to say, and I’m thankful for his attempt at professionalism, but he’s silenced by Lydia’s frosty glare.

Turning her nose up, Lydia moves away to tour the room, inspecting our work, her militant gaze missing nothing. Her low kitten heels click against the ultra-polished marble floors and somehow manage to sound demanding and ominous.

When she’s done, she takes a seat on the gorgeous cream-colored couch I picked out and levels a scowl that could melt lead our way. Meanwhile, pup-inator is growling at us like we stole one of his doggie biscuits.

Arch and I exchange glances, and he mutters under his breath as he begins to slink away. “Okay, you grab all our stuff and I’ll go start the getaway vehicle.”

Ignoring Arch, I begin blurting out details. “The wall color is Chantilly Lace, the couch is custom in a washed cotton that gives the feel of linen but with better longevity, the art is by . . .” I give her the highlights of the room, making sure she sees the details, though I’m sure her eagle-eyed gaze missed nothing. I think that knowing the pedigree of some of these pieces will make a woman like Lydia Montgomery appreciate them more.

She doesn’t so much as look my way as I list out information, though her eyes follow my words around the room.

There’s a lot riding on this design. Lydia told me at the outset that this project was a test to see if she’d like to use me to design several more rooms inside her historic estate. And having her on my reference list would get me other clients automatically. As long as she likes it.

Lydia’s face morphs into an uncustomary smile in a move that seems almost difficult for her unused facial muscles to pull off, and her words shock me. “It’s absolutely gorgeous, elegantly simple but layered and warm. When would you like to start with the rest of the renovations?”

And that’s that, I guess. I wouldn’t have minded a bit more effusiveness about my work, but I’ll take the bare-boned praise happily. Woo-hoo for me!

Twenty minutes later, Arch and I have packed up our work SUV outside and are heading down the road, passing palatial estates and historic mansions. But I don’t see any of them as we celebrate our success.

“Can you believe that?” Archie asks, using an unused pillow as a headrest. “I really thought we were going to have to make a run for it before she tried to skin us to make a coat as punishment for fucking up her living room. It puts the lotion on . . .” he intones.

“So did I,” I say, shaking my head. “For the record, I don’t have any fur, though.” I smile, waiting a half-beat for Arch’s comeback, knowing I lobbed him a good opportunity.

He scoffs and deadpans, “I know. I book your waxing appointments.” He looks pointedly at my crotch. “Never fear. I booked you for a full-body removal before the wedding. Don’t want Colin flossing with your snatch patch.