Page 23 of Bound To Be Mine

My assistant, Zoey, had texted me photos of the flowers, the napkins, and every other detail. I trusted her. Trust but verify, but I knew it was all good.

“Coffee,” Zoey said and handed me a cup.

It was my third one for the day and it would not be my last.

“Any problems?” I asked.

There were always problems. That’s what we did. We solved problems. It didn’t matter how much we planned, little things always popped up. That’s what we got paid the big bucks to do. When things went off the rails, we got everything back on track.

Zoey stopped to adjust the ribbon on one of the flower arrangements. The tiniest details mattered.

“We’re good here,” I said. “Let’s go to the ballroom.”

“Car’s waiting,” she said.

The hotel ballroom was technically within walking distance. Most of the guests would make the walk, but I was not interested in walking in the hundred and ten degree desert heat. No thanks.

We slid into the car. Zoey handed me my tablet with the checklist we always went through. We arrived at the hotel with the garish casino noise. It was next to impossible to go anywhere without the sound of a slot machine. But fortunately, the ballroom was so far removed from the casino floor that you’d never know you were in Vegas. This wasn’t the Vegas of drunk bachelorette parties and nickel slots. This was the Vegas of people who could drop a million dollars on a poker hand and not blink.

Tourists all saw the flashing lights and massive drinks. The ass cheeks of the women all trying to get people to come see their shows. That was Vegas out front. I was catering to the Vegas where the rich and famous played.

The noise fell away as we followed the signs to Ballroom A. The ballroom was stunning. Forty-foot ceilings with crystal chandeliers. Floor-to-ceiling windows that had been covered with blackout drapes—not for ambiance but to keep the cameras attached to drones from getting the money shot. Paparazzi had already tried three times to get aerial shots during setup. Security had chased them off, but we weren’t taking chances.

I was pissed about the need for the blackout drapes because I wanted the space to feel open, but that wasn’t going to happen. It was one of those last-minute changes. It still worked. It would still be gorgeous. We had secured no less than a million tiny lights that were placed in front of the drapes. Now, it looked like a fairy room or something from space. The bride hadn’t seen it yet, but they paid me the big bucks to make the decisions.

I walked the perimeter of the room, mentally checking off details. Each of the thirty tables was set with custom Bernardaud china, Baccarat crystal, and centerpieces of white orchids and pale pink peonies that had been flown in. The dance floor gleamed. The band was setting up on the stage, their equipment list longer than most people’s grocery lists.

“Mandy.”

I turned to find John, head of security, approaching. He had an earpiece with a little cord at the back of his head that made him look like a Secret Service agent. We had worked together many times. I had hired his security firm the first time about six months ago. He was professional and damn good at his job. High-profile events like celebrity weddings required the best.

The intimidating scowl on his face told me we had trouble. John was six-five, built like he could bench-press a small car, and took his job very seriously.

I loved him.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“We’ve got the perimeter locked down,” he said with disgust.

“What happened?”

“I caught two young ladies trying to pass themselves off as part of the catering staff,” he muttered. “Did they really think we wouldn’t check?”

“Lucky for us, they don’t sound like master criminals,” I said with a laugh. “Everything else good?”

He nodded. “No one gets in without credentials. We’ve got two guys on the kitchen entrance. The catering staff has all been vetted and badged.” He handed me a small, laminated card on a lanyard. “Your plus-one. You said he’s arriving this afternoon?”

I took the badge, looking at the name printed on it. Briggs Blackwell. “Yeah. He should be here by two.”

“I’ll make sure he gets through.”

“You can’t miss him,” I said with a shake of my head. “He’s almost as serious as you.”

“Then we’ll get along just fine,” the man said.

“Thanks, John.”

He nodded and walked away, already speaking into his radio about something. I clipped the badge to my clipboard and continued my rounds.