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Not Palmer out there airing my personal business amongst his colleagues.
Freaking Palmer and his loud, yuppie, blabbing mouth. I take a deep steadying breath before delivering my next words. “I am the least qualified person to help you. I’m sorry but I think you should contact Love Beans—they’re a matchmaking service in the city.”
I’ve seen or heard their commercials over and over. They always have my eyes rolling and my mouth cringing.
“Love Beans?” Decker scoffs. “On what planet am I ever going to contact a company that refers to themselves as Love Beans. What does that even mean?”
Good question.
One I’ve asked myself plenty of times.
“Google it.”
It’s not my job to educate some random dude who cold called me out of the blue while I’m trying to unwind and enjoy some quiet time. Today was long, though easy, and mentally draining. The last thing I want is to continue this conversation, especially when my bathwater grows colder by the second.
“Is that your final answer?” Decker asks quietly.
“That’s my final answer.” I nod definitively even though he cannot see me. “Thanks for the offer—I appreciate it, but will not be accepting it.”
He goes silent a few seconds, then, “Sounds good. Thanks for hearing me out.”
“Yup. Best of luck to you.”
I end the call, staring at the phone number before setting the phone on the edge of the porcelain tub.
Chapter Three
MIRIAM
I’m charging this bride fifteen hundred dollars for me to deliver the Best Man his speech.
Exorbitant, I know.
Still, her father can afford it and she was desperate, and considering working a wedding the weekend after I worked a funeral?
This is the last place I want to be.
She wanted her father to sound articulate and the Best Man to sound brilliant and not like the drunken mess he actually is.
Fidgeting with the tiny speaker lodged in my left ear, I give it a little tweak so it’s nice and snug, locate an inconspicuous spot in an alcove at the back of the room, and watch as the wedding processional strides into the reception room.
It’s a gorgeous space with parquet floors and large, round tables filled with champagne flutes, wine and water glasses, and silver charging plates.
I watch as guests take their seats.
Lift my chin when numerous members of the bridal party put their hands to their ears, too, and adjust the speaker there.
“Miriam to Mister Stadler. Mister Stadler, can you hear me?”
At the front of the room, Steven Sadler—our lovely Bride’s father—nods. He may be the CEO of a successful company, but the man is terrified of public speaking and hadn’t wanted to make a speech, and, with failing eyesight, he wasn’t confident enough to use a teleprompter or cue cards.
“Whenever you’re ready to say the prayer before the meal, just nod your head again, Sir.”
A nod was our signal.
It takes Steve Sadler a good five or seven minutes before he gives me the go ahead to get the ball rolling.
“Ladies and gentleman,” I say as quietly as I can to still be heard over the noise. “Can I please have your attention.” Obediently, Mister Sadler repeats after me. I mean—this is what I’ve been hired by his daughter to do; feed her father and a few others their lines.
