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A woman in a black suit steps forward. Her hair is shellacked in place, her face stony in an expression of practiced blankness. “Signore Toscani, may I speak with you privately? Now.”
Not giving me a chance to answer, she turns and walks into a side hallway. “Excuse me,” I tell Claire and Cole. Sergio gives me a pointed look as I pass him that says ‘don’t fuck this up.’
In the hallway, any warmth the woman might’ve shown has chilled. She’s as frosty as an Ice Queen, a hard sculpture of a human in frozen form. “Signore Toscani, I am Meredith Wildeman. I’m in charge of pulling this wedding together last-minute and turning it into something worthy of the Kennedy-Johnson names.”
I think I’m supposed to be impressed by that somehow, but I give exactly zero fucks. “Yeah.”
With Claire’s effervescent friendliness, I gave formal politeness. With Meredith’s cold professionalism, I inherently want to push every button and piss her off with improper English and a lazy vibe. It’s my nature, and honestly, a bit of fun.
She sniffs, unimpressed by me.
Feeling’s mutual, woman.
“Yes, well. Miss Johnson seems to have taken a pretty strong liking to dinner tonight and would like to invite you to come to the wedding. Cook the fettuccine alfredo, as she said. Perhaps another meal or two, depending on the resort chef’s willingness to share his kitchen. I’ve already got a call in to confirm that.” With that, she pulls a tablet out of her bag and begins clicking around.
I hold up a hand, taking control of the conversation. I hope. “Uh, hey. What the hell are you talking about? Wedding? Resort?” I shake my head. “What?”
With a beleaguered sigh, she explains again. “Miss Johnson is the type of celebrity who gets what she wants, and she wants your fettuccine at her wedding. Name your price, your requirements, whatever. We leave on Sunday, so I’ll need your information to arrange your flights.”
“Let me get this straight, you want me to come to a resort in . . .” I pause and she jumps in.
“Aruba. And not me. Miss Johnson.”
I nod. “So Claire Bear wants some pasta and I’m supposed to just hop on a plane, go to an island resort, be on call to make her alfredo at the drop of a hat, and do a dinner service? That about sum it up?”
“Yes, yes.” She’s clicking away again, and I realize she really is booking me a flight.
The ornery ass inside me rears up and I want to say no. I’m not some punk kid who can be ordered around or enticed with money. I cook for the love of it and share my food to grow that love.
But Claire loved it.
That’s true, so maybe I’m not really selling out. And it would be ridiculous to turn down a trip to Aruba over foolish stubbornness, especially when I was just thinking that it might be time to hit the road. This could be a way to test that theory out. If I miss Avanti, I can return. If not, I can put out some feelers on where to go next.
“There you are, baby,” Valentina purrs, coming into the hallway with me and Meredith. Valentina presses the length of her body to my side, her hands going around my neck. Giving zero thought to what she might be interrupting, she whispers loudly, “I’ve been looking all over for you. I thought we were going to meet when you finished service for the silly girls with their phones out.” Her smile makes it seem like that’s a private joke between two lovebirds, or at least fuck buddies. We’re neither.
I analyze for another second and then turn to Meredith. “I can go straight to the airport now if you want me to.”
Her smirk is pure maliciousness, though I don’t understand why. She’s getting her way.
I shake Valentina off, hating the way her unwanted warmth has soaked into the side of my body, the skin tingling with desire for a shower to wash her play at seduction from my memory.
Valentina pouts, crossing her arms, which only serves to boost her full tits up another inch. “Baby, you’re not leaving me, are you?”
I take in Valentina’s pout and want to escape even more. Like run away screaming with my arms flailing crazily. Now. “I’ll let Sergio know right away.”Chapter 3Abi“Absolutely not,” Archie decrees from his perch on my bed.
Wait, is it a perch if he’s stretched out on his side, booted feet hanging over the edge with a mimosa in his hand and a look of disbelief on his face?
“Actually, that not only won’t work for Aruba, but you need to donate it to a blind beach bum. What were you thinking with that print and that color?” He holds a flat hand above his brow as though the shirt is the brightness of the noon sun shining in his eyes.
