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My stomach drops like the Tower of Terror.
You, Shane Hott, celebrity, are perfectly positioned in your well-connected LA life to recruit a celebrity couple to be married at Hott Springs Eternal. You have six months to make a celebrity wedding happen.
“No,” I blurt out.
My eyes snap to Quinn’s. I don’t know what I think I’ll find there, but if I was looking for sympathy, I’m SOL.
He smirks and says, “Accept your fate, dude.”
And shit, it serves me right. I’ve always given Quinn a way harder time than I should. He’s just so…teasable. I may or may not have made his life hell recently, as he was trying to deny his feelings for Sonya.
Lesson learned: never alienate the guy who might be on your side when the tables are turned.
“I can’t plan a wedding.” I cross my arms. “I have a movie to shoot. Next week.”
“I have excellent news for you!” Weggers says—which is clearly a lie because he wouldn’t smile that evil dark-lord smile if the news were actually good for us. “You don’t have to plan it. Hanna will plan it.”
“I—what?” Hanna’s eyes get huge.
“You”—Weggers points to me—“just have to supply the willing celebrities.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” my aunt Meryl pipes up, finally tearing her eyes off her knitting.
If it were anyone other than Aunt Meryl, I’d glare at her, but she’s so well meaning I can’t do it.
“Not bad at all,” Weggers says. “Your grandfather isn’t trying to make life difficult for anyone.”
There’s a loud sound—the combined scoffs of a whole room full of six-foot-plus, broad-shouldered, hyper-competent Hott brothers—and one pissed-off sister.
“What, exactly, is he trying to do, then?” my brother Rhys asks.
“He’s merely making sure you’re all worthy of this gift,” Weggers tells us.
The sound this time is synchronized gagging.
“Wait,” Hanna says. “What’s this bit about me having to plan it?”
Weggers holds up a finger. “There are some additional stipulations. As you’ll see when you read onward.”
Pretty sure you can hear our coordinated eye-rolling, too.
I find my place and continue reading. “‘The wedding must be planned by the lead wedding planner at HSE.’”
Hanna groans. “So, me.”
“Looks like it.”
“That was my idea!” Weggers crows. “I wanted to make sure Hott Springs Eternal got the business. Otherwise Shane could just get them married in Hollywood or Vegas.”
“Thank you,” Hanna tells him darkly.
“You’re most welcome.” Weggers gives a nod of his head that might be a bow.
No sense of irony, this one. I read: “‘The couple must both be celebrities and must be in—’ What?!”
“Must be in love,” he supplies, as if I’ve asked a real question instead of just choking on my saliva.
“Be in love?” I repeat.
