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“It’s no skin off your nose,” he said.
“You’re only trying to make a living. Yeah, I understand. And once you hand it over, I’ll forget about it.”
“Don’t be a bitch.”
She moved quickly, reaching for the top button on his vest, the one that didn’t quite match the others. The button came off in her hand, and as she pulled it free, she met resistance from a thin piece of cable.
“Hey!”
With a jerk, she yanked it free. “No cameras allowed. Didn’t you get the message?”
“What do you care? You got any idea what the photo agencies pay for shit like this?”
“Not enough.”
He’d turned red, but he couldn’t wrestle the camera from her without everyone seeing. She started to walk away only to have him come up behind her. “You could sell your story, you know. About working for them. I’ll bet you could get at least a hundred grand. Give me my camera back, and I’ll put you in touch with this guy. He’ll handle the whole thing for you.”
A hundred thousand dollars…
“You wouldn’t even have to say anything bad about them.”
She didn’t answer. She just walked away.
A hundred thousand dollars…
A funny video montage of Skip and Scooter clips played after dinner. Shortly before the cake-cutting ceremony, Dirk Duke appeared with a microphone. He was the most popular DJ in town—real name Adam Levenstein—and Poppy had hired him to spin music for dancing, which wasn’t scheduled to begin for another half hour. Dirk was short, with a bullet-shaped head, tattooed neck, and Ivy League education he did his best to hide. Tonight he wore a badly fitted tuxedo instead of his customary jeans. “Yo, everybody! This is a great party! Let’s give it up for Georgie and Bram.”
The audience dutifully gave it up.
“All you Skip and Scooter fans. Seeing Bram and Georgie married is great, right?”
Applause and a couple of whistles, one of them from Meg.
“We’re here to celebrate a marriage that happened two months ago. A marriage none of us was important enou
gh to be invited to.”
Laughter.
“And tonight…We’re going to do something about that…”
Four waiters appeared bearing an arched bridal bower draped in white tulle caught up with blue hydrangeas. Poppy trailed behind in a floor-length black dress, her face smug with anticipation.
Georgie poked Bram with her elbow. “I think Poppy’s just unveiled her surprise. The one you told her to go ahead with.”
Bram grimaced. “You should have hit me over the head. I don’t like this.”
Georgie liked it even less as she watched the waiters position the bower at the front of the ballroom. Bram swore under his breath. “That woman is officially fired.”
“As an ordained minister in the Universal Life Church”—Dirk paused for dramatic effect—“it is my honor”—another pause—“to ask our bride and groom to step forward and”—raised voice—“repeat their vows in front of all of us!”
The guests were eating this up. Even her father. Poppy’s glossy, inflated lips formed a triumphant smile. A muscle ticked in the corner of Bram’s jaw. Poppy had no right to stage something this personal without consulting them.
Bram clenched his teeth and rose. “Put on your game face.”
Georgie told herself it didn’t mater. What was one more public performance after so many? Her crystal gown rustled as she stood.
Dirk elongated his vowels like a game-show host. “Dad. Come up and join them. Mr. Paul York, everybody! Bram, choose your best man.”
