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I tap my place card. “Sorry, this is my seat.”
He looks at the app again, then squints at the calligraphy on the white card. “You’re jazz legend Drew Robinson? May I say you’re looking good for seventy-five?”
Nica twists in her seat and flutters her eyelashes. “Don’t be silly. He isn’t that Drew Robinson!”
“Nica! How nice to see you again.” He shakes her hand.
She smiles uncertainly. “How long has it been?” She clearly has no idea who this guy is, and she’s not really trying to hide it.
“It’s me, Oliver James—I work with Richard Lewis? At the law firm?” The skinny man flashes crooked teeth at her and adjusts his glasses. “Destiny said she’d seat me next to you, since you didn’t have a plus one.” He puts a hand on her bare shoulder. Anger sparks in my chest, but I clench my fists and wait to see if she needs my help.
She stiffens, and distaste flickers across her face, then vanishes into a conciliatory smile. “Oh, that’s a shame. Destiny must have made a mistake. Drew here is my plus one.” She twists in her chair and puts a hand on my arm. The move should have pulled his hand from her shoulder, but he maintains his proprietary grip.
I raise my brows at Nica. She must see the murder in my eyes, and she gives a tiny headshake. I push down my instinct to deck the pencil-necked geek.
“No.” He finally removes his hand to poke at his phone. “I specifically asked if you had a date, and she said you’d be alone. There’s nothing wrong with that.” He puffs out his skinny chest, making it clear that being male makes his solo attendance more socially acceptable. “I told her I’d keep you company.”
I get to my feet. “There’s obviously been a mistake. Nica and I are here together. Maybe someone botched the seating chart.” I pull out my own phone and find Drew Robinson’s seat. “See—they had me at this table, but my place card was here. Clearly, there was an error.”
“Yes, there was.” He stretches his neck out, as if trying to make himself taller. I easily have three inches on him. “The mistake is that you’re supposed to be sitting over there.” He points across the room—in the wrong direction. “I’m supposed to be with Nica.”
Rob Mead appears behind James. With his broad shoulders and perfectly fit tux, he looks like a secret service agent. His voice is low and smooth. “Is there a problem?” His eyes flick from my face to the place card, which he can’t possibly read from this distance. “Mr. Robinson?”
I stand corrected. “There’s been a small mix-up with the seating chart, but Mr. James was just going to his seat. At table three.” I nod at the table in question.
Gloria appears on James’s other side. “Did I hear you’re a lawyer? I’ve been looking for a new one. Tell me about yourself.” She grabs his arm and turns him away from the table. Rob closes in behind, herding him away.
Nica doesn’t move, her eyes darting wildly, as if she’s afraid of breaking the spell. After a couple of beats, she relaxes and giggles. “That was amazing. Who are those people?”
“Friends of mine. I’ll introduce you later.” I watch over Nica’s shoulder as Rob directs James to his new seat and Gloria introduces him to a well-endowed woman on his right—the retired adult actress, no doubt. “I think Ollie just met his new BFF.”
Nica turns to look. Her shoulders tighten, then she turns back. “Perfect. They deserve each other.”
Other guests take their places at our table. Nica introduces herself to a couple of appreciative men, their start-struck wives, and another bland lawyer. They accept me without question—too entranced by Nica to pay me much attention. I chat with the bored kid on my left—son of the couple ignoring each other across the table. He shows me the game on his phone and challenges me to a match.
“Maybe another time.”
A blare of music, like a discordant wall of sound, blasts from the speakers. “Yo, play-ahs! This is Sharp Hip Supreme in the hiz-ouse!”
The kid beside me cheers but colors and ducks his head when no one joins in.
Nica coughs. “Who hired this guy?”
I shrug. “I’ve never heard of Sharp Hip Supreme. But I’m not really up on my celebrity DJs.”
“Either he’s the latest thing—and based on that intro, I’m going to guess not—or he’s a wannabe. I think Destiny’s mom did most of the wedding planning, and Dad paid the bills. That’s his usual wedding strategy.”
I try to imagine a world in which anyone I know would have a “usual strategy” for their weddings but fail. I know plenty of people who’ve tied the knot more than once, but it’s never been “usual” for any of them. But I guess when you’re working on number six, you get into a rhythm.
Sharp Hip Supreme finishes telling us how wonderful he is and starts into a long introduction for the newly married couple, completely forgetting his agreement with Nica. The music blares again, and the doors burst open. The wedding party slinks and grooves into the ballroom like well-trained extras in a music video.
The bridesmaids all wear the same color, but their dresses are each styled differently. Nica’s half-sister Maddie spins in a move that obviously required years of classical training, her fluffy skirt belling around her. Her stiff-looking half-brother, John, takes her hand and guides her around the room, looking more like a robot than a dancer.
Lights flash, and colored smoke billows into the room. The bride and groom stride through it, smiling. Destiny, dressed in a new yet similarly risqué white dress, shimmies and dances around Nick, who regards her with a possessive smirk. The music finishes with a flourish, and the group all take a bow. I heave out a sigh of relief—the cringe factor on this display was ten out of ten.
Nica gives me an understanding yet mocking smile. “I’m sure we haven’t seen anything yet.” The bridal party take their seats, and the music drops to a tolerable hum as servers enter with the first course.
As the meal progresses, the DJ introduces and referees a series of unusual activities. We play two uncomfortable question-and-answer games at our table, then he starts pulling people away from their meals for party-wide contests. The constant activity gives us little time to chat with our fellow guests, which is probably the point. Nothing stops small-talk cold like an eighty-year-old singing “You Sexy Thing.”
