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“Hale?” I called, as I stared at the television in horror while blowing my nose. “Hale, this is bad.”
“Stop watching the news,” he yelled back from upstairs.
I looked toward the master bedroom, then turned my gaze to the monsoon spilling over Central Park. “Can I look out the windows?”
“You’re supposed to be resting.” Hale knew I couldn’t turn down a nap, so he convinced me to rest as much as possible during our downtime.
My sore throat had turned into a bit of a head cold but I wasn’t sick. It was obviously allergies. They were putting too much pepper in the food.
Everyone kept trying to give me medicine, but if I took something it would be admitting defeat.
“Rayne, you’re not even lying down.”
Who could sleep at a time like this? They were predicting massive flooding. “Did you know that a few years ago, New York was completely underwater? What if this ends up like that?”
“That’s not?—”
“Shh!” I held up a hand as the meteorologist appeared on the television.
“Expect travel delays,” the man reported. Then he went on to say that not only could there be flight delays but there could also be issues with all three Metro-north train lines.
We were at the epicenter of it all and if the rain didn’t stop soon, New York was going to be underwater for my wedding. The television went off and I turned to find Hale holding the remote control.
“Hey, I was watching that!”
“You need to get dressed. We’re meeting my mom for lunch.”
“No, we’re not. I have a full day scheduled with the girls. We’re christening the bridal suite. We have to make sure everyone’s accessories arrived and then we’re doing something with a champagne bucket, followed by paraffin dips, and IV therapy.” When he crinkled his brow, I said, “Don’t look at me like that. These aren’t my traditions. I don’t even know why we’re doing half that stuff. I just follow my handlers’ directions.”
He sighed. “Fine. I’ll go to lunch with my mother alone.”
“You and Naomi will have fun.”
As it turned out, I should have gone to lunch with my future husband and mother-in-law. Getting everyone’s attire situated turned the beautiful suite into a madhouse. Seraphina and Quinn had every detail mapped out.
They even had a nifty label system in play so every item of clothing was tagged with a specific day or event—a system Phina recommended when I’d apparently paired a day shoe with evening attire.
“You’re lucky I didn’t wear my slippers,” I told her.
My entire week had been choreographed by wardrobe changes, photo shoots, meet and greets, and pitstops for beauty or booze. I was exhausted by noon.
“Devyn will be here to keep you on track,” Quinn said, texting with her left hand as she held an iPad in her right.
“Where will you be?”
“I’ll be overseeing the main events and the guests.”
“Shouldn’t I be at the main events?” I was the bride after all.
“You will be. But only after you make your debut.”
“Isn’t tonight’s welcome dinner my debut?”
It seemed every night included another welcome dinner and another debut. At what point did the people just accept that we were there?
“Every moment is an opportunity to reinvent and reintroduce yourself,” Quinn explained. “By the end of the week, you’re going to be New York’s darling. Everyone and their mother is going to want a peek at the wedding of the century, so we need to capture plenty of moments.”
But I didn’t want staged moments. I wanted real ones.
