The Romance Plan - Lila Monroe Page 0,76

are so busy going at it they don’t even notice me. He’s got her up on the sink counter, and if adultery was an Olympic sport, I’d have to give them at least a 6 on the difficulty scale. And with that poofy bridesmaid dress practically swallowing him whole? A solid 7 out of 10, for sure.

Minus 15 for the whole “nasty cheaters” side of things, I mean.

I’m just thinking about sidling on past to reach a stall when his pale ass bobs over the waist of his tuxedo pants. I reel back. Okay, I don’t need to pee that bad.

I stage a hasty retreat, back into the garlands and glitter strewn around the Central Park Boathouse. Now that’s a much prettier view. We’re set up by the building, with five crystal-bedecked white tents overlooking the lake. Even the trees are dripping with crystals, alongside bundles of white roses by the dozen, as the wedding guests sit down for their lavish meal. This has to be the most fancypants wedding I’ve ever been to, but I’m not a guest—I’m on the job today, ready to capture these beautiful memories in pictures that will last a lifetime.

Minus the banging, of course.

I look around for my boss for the day, aka the most in-demand wedding photographer on the East Coast. I’ve become Frederico’s go-to person when his usual assistant decides to play hooky, and despite the fact he’s a fiery bundle of Spanish artistic temperament, when he called me up this morning I couldn’t afford to turn the gig down. Literally. I just signed over the last of my savings to cover this month’s rent check.

Question: Will the happy couple still pay for wedding pictures if they’ve already broken up before the end of the celebration?

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve got a conscience. I just watched Mr. Newlywed say his vows. Captured photographic evidence of it, too. So with that image from the bathroom burned into my mind, I’m scrambling to think of what to do. Whether I should tell someone. How I should tell someone. Is an anonymous note a possibility? Because you know what they say about shooting the messenger and all . . .

I go looking for Frederico to solve this particular moral dilemma, but when I check the nearest storage tent—

Holy hell, there’s the bride pressed up against one of the tables, tongue-wrestling some dude with a man bun.

I pause in shock, but there’s no mistaking her. I mean, the big white dress is a pretty major giveaway. The big white dress she’s letting Man Bun push his hands up under, all the way to her—

Yup. Something blue.

What’s with these people?

You know what? I don’t want to know. Maybe they have the openest of open relationships. Maybe two really scummy people just got hitched. Either way, it’s none of my business. They seem happy enough . . . completely separate from each other. Who am I to interfere?

Or get in the way of my paycheck.

I backtrack, straight into a puddle of mud. Ugh. I pry my slingbacks out with a sigh.

Somehow, I thought being a pro photographer was going to be a lot more glamorous than this. I guess that’s what I get for putting my career dreams on hold. I’d been working as an executive assistant for a few years; I always told myself it was temporary, but one day, I took a look around and realized my dreams weren’t any closer than when I graduated. I took the plunge, quit my day job . . . and now I’m stuck at the bottom of the ladder starting over again. One rung at a time.

But there are some benefits along the way. My gaze falls on the catering tent, and my stomach lets out an almighty rumble. I skipped lunch shooting the bridal party prep, and everyone is busy right now stuffing their faces under the main awning. Since nobody wants photographs of themselves with a mouthful of steak, maybe this is the perfect moment to sneak a tasty little snack.

I slink over and peek past the draped lengths of sparkly gauze. The servers are still whisking out the hot food, but there’s a big spread of drool-worthy desserts just waiting on one of the tables. My stomach gets louder. I slip past the gauze and snag a chocolate cupcake.

The buttercream icing melts in my mouth. Fuck, that is a perfect mouth-gasm right there. I gulp it down and look at the table again. The lemon ones