Page 2 of Weddings, Revenge & Fake Dating

Bedsheet trailing, I careen through a pair of double sliding-glass doors onto the terrace with a new mission. Precariously leaning over the railing, I squint at a nearby parking lot. I breathe a sigh of relief when I spot my trusty behemoth.

Parked diagonally across three spaces and crushing a bed of tropical flowers sits the Beef. It’s my thirty-foot-long, eleven-foot-high, Italian beef sandwich shaped from fiberglass on wheels, which accelerates from zero to sixty in under ten minutes. It’s one of two identical vehicles used to promote a chain of Italian beef and hotdog sandwich shops my husband, Roman, and I own in Chicago.

Or technically, he now owns. If we’re being technical, he’s my ex now.

I groan and slump onto the railing.

At least the Beef explains my mode of transportation from Chicago. I rub my cheeks while staring off into space, straining to recall what must have been a twenty-hour drive.

That’s when I spot him. He’s just beyond the swaying palm fronds below—my bunny, my handsome Roman—the namesake of Roman’s Italian Beef shop. He’s beside a lounge chair at the hotel’s pool, shrugging on a T-shirt and gathering his things.

“No. Don’t leave me. Stay there!” I hold out my hand as if this will stop him, like he could hear me from umpteen floors up.

I launch into action. The reason I came to Miami Beach suddenly shines like a flashing sign in my head.

I’m here to win back Roman and stop his ridiculous wedding!

After a quick swish of the hotel’s complimentary mouthwash, I scour the room for my suitcase. The problem? There isn’t one. The only items I find are a pair of glittery head boppers, furry rainbow leg warmers, and white panties printed with a large glittery and very appetizing-looking mango milkshake on the crotch.

“These better be mine.” Grossed out, I shimmy into them.

With a little more digging, I find a blue-and-white striped beach towel in the closet. I secure it like a spa wrap around my body. No one will know I’m topless. A pair of fruity-colored bejeweled sunglasses cover my undereye bags.

I glance at my reflection before I go. Yep, same Jeanie: too much dark hair, big bust, marshmallow hips, and a narrow nose. I tighten the towel, making sure it’s securely in place.

“Good enough,” I mumble to my reflection before darting out the door with a keycard I found on the dresser.

At the elevator bank, I press the down button several times, willing the cab to appear faster. I traipse in an anxious circle before the elevator dings and the door slides open.

Inside, I fidget again. I can’t help it. I crack my knuckles, check my wild hair in the mirrored walls, and mentally prepare for an encounter with Roman. The thing is, I’m not supposed to know about his wedding. What will he say when he sees me here?

The cab stops. I turn to race out but realize it’s not the lobby when a man appears in the opening. He’s so tall, I automatically step back until I bump the wall.

We lock gazes, and his lazy smile dazzles against his suntanned skin. A riot of dark hair and a shade of a beard suggests he just rolled out of bed too, except he’s managed to find real clothes and not look like the local trash panda.

Before he steps inside, the door slides to close, but he reaches out a defined arm to halt it. It jolts and dings at the roadblock and slides open again. His unbuttoned tropical-patterned shirt reveals a chiseled chest, while teal flip-flops and beach trunks show off his shapely calves.

Saying nothing, he steps inside and allows the door to close.

Now locked inside together, we stare at each other as the cab heats several degrees. Nervous, I shift my weight from one foot to the other. After all, I am mostly naked in an elevator with a man I’ve never met . . . and I look like a maniac.

As the cab makes its slow descent, we stand in opposite corners, pretending like the other doesn’t exist. Or I think we are until he says, “I like your milkshake.”

In the steely reflection of the door, I discover my special may-or-may-not-be-mine undies are peeking out from between the slit of the towel.

“Oh, ha! You know what they say about milkshakes,” I say, trying to recall the words to an older pop song.

I readjust the towel, mentally willing it to fit around my thick thighs, and then I glance the man’s way. He appears perplexed. Probably because I’ve said something ridiculous.

My anxiety forces me to try again so he doesn’t think I’m insane. I return his compliment instead.

“And I like your, um—” I bypass the obvious: the vibrant shirt, the sexy legs, the miles-wide chest, runway-model hair, romance-book chiseled face, and instead say, “Lips.”

I like your lips? I’m dead. My eyelids sink shut, and I immediately regret slithering out of bed.

He unexpectedly laughs, and my eyes snap back open.

Is he laughing at my comment or at me? Or both? Either way, his response flusters me, so I instantly struggle for an explanation for my strange compliment to save myself from complete mortification, if that’s possible.