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1
HAZEL
I’m notthe kind of woman to wind up drinking vodka neat at nine o’clock on a Wednesday morning in an airport bar—or any time, to be honest.
I like my drinks fruity and sparkling, like I’m powering through aSex and the Cityrewatch, about to gab with Carrie and the girlies about our wild adventures. Sure, I prefer the comforts of my cloud couch to the noise of a nightclub these days, and the closest I’ve been to a sexy adventure all year is the time I accidentally sat on a foaming bath bomb in the tub, but you get the picture.
Knocking back a shot of Stoli before I’ve even gotten started on my toasted everything breakfast bagel with extra cream cheese? Not my style.
But this morning, the usual rules don’t apply.
“What do you mean, the butterflies have migrated?” I slam the empty shot glass down and shudder at the taste of the vodka, sitting on a stool at the bar in the middle of the crowded Departures terminal.
My poor assistant, Anna, melts down over the phone. “They’re gone!” she blurts. “The butterfly sanctuary just called. They weren’t supposed to migrate for another couple of weeks, but I don’t know, they said something about rainfall patterns and wind speed? It’s global warming, and they’ve gone!”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “There are supposed to be a thousand tropical butterflies soaring over the beach at sunset,” I say slowly. “Perfectly matching the dazzling array of rare orchids that are sitting on the runway in Miami in temperature-controlled vans. The power is still running to the vans, isn’t it?” I ask, struck with a sudden panic – and the vision of all those irreplaceable blooms wilting in the midday sun.
“I’m babysitting them right now,” Anna reassures me. “We borrowed a dozen generators from the local Fire and Rescue department, just in case the power goes before takeoff.”
“As long as everyone has their priorities straight,” I say dryly.
This is what I get for selling my soul – and artistic skills – to the highest bidder. I’m usually a production designer: wrangling sets, lighting, and costume to make movies look gorgeous and atmospheric, so when the offer-slash-desperate last-minute plea came to take over running a lavish wedding for Hollywood royalty, I figured, why not? The cameras would still be rolling, just forVogueinstead of a movie. I’d get an all-expenses paid tropical vacation out of the deal, and the fact I got to name my price and work with an unlimited budget, too?
Immediate yes.
Now I know it was a trap. Because there is no amount of beachfront massages and room service French fries that could justify the circus I’ve been trying to wrangle. And I haven’t even touched down at the resort just yet.
“Hazel?” Anna prompts me, sounding desperate.
“I’m thinking.”
I look around to summon the bartender again, this time for the industrial amount of coffee I’m going to need to get through the day, but instead, I catch the eye of a man sitting just down the bar. He’s corporate-hot, with dark hair, a designer suit draped on his athletic frame, and a clean-cut, confident look; like the arrogant city boyfriend in a romcom who’s all wrong for our heroine, before she visits that adorable small town for the holidays and meets her plaid-shirt-wearing soulmate…
I pause. Did I maybe watch too many holiday movies this year, eating my body weight in homemade chocolate candy bark?
Maybe.
Then I realize that Mr. All-Wrong is staring right back at me, smirking with amusement – and clearly listening in on my bizarre conversation.
I angle my body away from him, and try to think fast. “Look, we need the butterflies,” I tell Anna. “They’re the theme for the main event. Renewal, rebirth, emerging from the cocoon to a lifetime of happiness, and all that jazz. If we don’t have them, then the twenty-foot butterfly ice sculptures, and imported Italian hard candies, and custom Tiffany’s stained glass inset in the guest room doors don’t make any sense.”
I hear a snort of laughter from Mr. All-Wrong.
“So, call the butterfly sanctuary back,” I continue, ignoring him. “And tell them the happy couple will fund their entire operating budget for a year if they can get those butterflies back, and ready to flutter on the sunset breeze.”
The first rule of production: when all is lost, throw money at the problem until it disappears.
Preferably, somebody else’s cash.
“OK, that could work…” Anna says, sounding not-quite-so desperate.
“It better. Look, my flight’s about to board, I’ll see you soon. Breathe,” I add, reassuring. “This will all be over soon.”
I hang up, and take a deep breath myself. I thought I’d seen it all working in Hollywood, but it turns out, the most demanding, temperamental directors in town have nothing on a Bridezilla with cash to burn.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve got to ask…” Mr. All-Wrong speaks up from down the bar. His voice is low and rich, with a hint of a Southern twang.
I shake my head. “Trust me. You really don’t want to.”
