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I try to imagine Meredith at a New Orleans Mardi Gras celebration, riding down Bourbon Street on a big float, and just can’t do it. She looks out of place enough in this ballroom with its luxury masquerade décor.
“Flower girl, the sweetheart table . . . fix it.”
“On it,” I say, not correcting her. She’s stressed to the nth degree. I can see that and understand it, but seriously, does it take that much to simply call me Abi? Hell, I’d take one of those bitchy ‘Miss Andrews’ sneers at this point.
I putz with the sweetheart table, not fixing anything because nothing is actually wrong with the beautiful setup, and then the doors open.
Claire and Cole come in, looking happy, tan, and beaming with love. Claire has on a white gauzy dress with tiny seed pearls along the bodice that give it a vintage and romantic vibe. Cole has on a khaki linen suit with an untucked white button-up shirt beneath. Both are barefoot. For some reason, that’s what makes the whole image perfect. Like they’re more real with no shoes on.
Claire exclaims as they come into the ballroom. “Oh, my gosh! It’s gorgeous!” Her hands cover her wide-open mouth and a second later, she’s tearing up. “It’s everything I imagined.”
That moment right there is why I love what I do. I soak it up, letting it erase all the craziness of today. Hell, of the whole week. Claire’s happy tears simply wash it all away.
“Wildeman’s orders,” Janey says as she hands me a black mask. It’s Zorro style, just large enough to cover my eye sockets but still let me see.
I look around to find all the staff wearing black masks to go with their black head to toe uniforms. Typically, the dark clothing helps us disappear into the background, as staff isn’t meant to be seen at an event like this. But the masks make us even more anonymous.
I see Claire and Cole donning white masks and the guests putting on various colors and laughing along with Claire’s fun masquerade idea. It does actually change the mood to one that seems more mysterious and exciting.
Standing off to the side out of the way, I watch as everyone mingles and finds their seats. And then dinner begins.
But this isn’t any old dinner. Not for this crowd.
The door to the kitchen opens, and I expect to see the waiters beginning service. And they do, except the whole line of servers is following a woman in a full ball-gown dress of purple and pink with a painted face and a feathery mask, who’s twirling sticks with lit sparklers on the ends.
The crowd gasps in delight and applauds the woman’s exciting spectacle. The photographer runs in front of the sweetheart table as the firework-twirling woman stands behind Claire and Cole to take photos.
At the end of the line of waiters, Lorenzo comes out, looking sharp and suave in full black with a mask of his own. Even his chef jacket is black tonight. There might be major hoopla happening in the ballroom, like literal fire, but Lorenzo is still what draws my eye. He’s captivating, and I’m not the only one who notices.
But somehow, though there is a roomful of gorgeous women all clad in fancy dresses and shiny baubles giving him appraising looks and I’m hidden away to blend in, his eyes find me easily.
His smile is everything and over too fast when he turns to face Claire and Cole to explain the first course.
Each course is the same—some new visual spectacle, servers, and then Lorenzo. I live for the moment he walks through those doors and his eyes find mine, promising heat and more.
After dessert, the party really gets started and the DJ plays tunes designed to get everyone on the dance floor. The Cupid Shuffle might be old and cheesy, but everyone from the twenty-somethings to Grandma and Grandpa can step to the left and right when they’re told to. And I’ve never seen old folks get down as when Cole’s parents break it down to Let Me Clear My Throat.
As Claire and Cole enjoy the night before their wedding, partying and doing it up big with their families, I feel a presence looming beside me. I turn to see Lorenzo, his chef jacket now absent, but he’s still dressed in head to toe black, including his mask.
“Mia rosa,” he murmurs. “I thought about you all day, worried you wouldn’t get everything completed, but it all looks beautiful. Not as lovely as you, of course,” he says with a heated smirk. Even with the mask, I can see his eyes trace down my body.
To be fair, I’m not dressed for seduction. Slim black pants, a black blouse, and black flats aren’t exactly a sexy, flirty look. But his gaze sees right through the plain clothes, almost like he can see my bare skin beneath.
