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“Absolutely.” I mimicked the affable, customer-first tone Gabe always adopted. “Now, to review, you requested seating for forty-eight.”
“I said fifty-seven in the last update email I sent your brother.” Mrs. Zimmerman did ruffled hen better than anyone I’d met. Even the embroidered bride and groom on her Christmas sweater puffed up at the implication that we’d dropped the ball somewhere. “Where is he anyway?”
“A well-deserved babymoon.” I waved a hand to ward off more questions. After much urging from Atlas and me, Gabe had reluctantly agreed to take the whole day off. I also didn’t like Mrs. Zimmerman’s attitude that Gabe would be better suited to handle her lengthy list of demands. Not that she was wrong, but I was tired of always being the younger sibling and not being taken seriously. I’d grown up here at Seasons as well and knew all the event tricks. “We can roll out another two tables. No problem.” I smiled far broader than I felt. “And we’ve used the red and green table linens.”
“I suppose that will do.” She sniffed loudly. “I’d hate to make you redo.” Liar. She’d love nothing more than to make us strip the tables and redo to her lofty expectations. “But I was hoping for more gold accents.”
“I’ll see what we have in the decor closet as far as centerpieces and accents like some beads or tinsel.” Tinsel was a pain to clean up, but it would undoubtedly add the over-the-top feel Mrs. Zimmerman wanted. I steered her away from inspecting the linens to three draped rectangle tables set up along the far wall. “And as you can see, the decorate your own cookie station is ready to go.”
Nix had provided trays of sugar cookies in assorted shapes along with bowls of various toppings, decorative elements like sprinkles, and icing bags.
“This is going to be so messy.” Mrs. Zimmerman made a clucking noise.
“Mom. I saw the idea online. Everyone will love it.” Blessedly, Betsy Zimmerman chose that moment to emerge from the restroom. Like her mother, she wore a red Christmas sweater, but hers spelled out B-R-I-D-E in glittery embroidery across her chest. “Thank you, Zeb. Everything looks great. However, Anderson has been trying to bring up both our playlist and the slideshow, and we can’t seem to connect to your A/V system.”
She gestured over at the plump fellow in the green G-R-O-O-M sweater. I’d directed him earlier to the shallow closet where we housed the system for the large screen display we positioned for events that needed the video option. Anderson worked in IT and had seemed confident enough in his skillset that I hadn’t worried.
I should have worried.
The screen itself was fine, but the hub that controlled the various adapters and inputs/outputs had chosen today of all days to give up the valiant fight after a solid five years or more of loyal service. I had a solution, but time was of the essence. I tracked Atlas to the bar area, where he was arranging items for the signature cocktails the happy couple had selected.
“We’ve got a problem.”
“Oh?” Atlas raised a single bushy eyebrow, eyes flashing with alarm as his gaze dropped ever so slightly to my waist.
“Nothing to do with…football.” I grimaced because his reaction was a good indicator that he was no closer to being okay with Gabe or anyone else finding out what we were up to. The time since Thanksgiving had been like a cozy cocoon, and while I’d loved showing Atlas endless variations of frot and making out, I couldn’t help but yearn for something I couldn’t quite name. Not dating precisely, but something more than the sex lessons I’d promised. Time was running out to figure out what precisely I wanted from Atlas, but right then, other things had to take priority. “We have an issue with the A/V System. I can fix it, but I need to run back to my place for some of my gear.”
“Need me to hold down the fort here?” Atlas asked. “I’d offer to go, but you know your equipment better than me.”
“Please.” I offered him a grateful smile. His recognition of my competence felt like a warm caress, the antidote to my earlier feeling of being underappreciated. “The bride’s mother is kind of—”
“Zeb.” Mrs. Zimmerman rushed in our direction, the glitter and ornaments on her sweater bouncing in time with her frantic movements. “What’s this I hear about the vegan entrée not also being gluten-free?”
“Go.” Atlas waved me toward the door. “I’ll handle this.”
As I grabbed my coat, Atlas spoke to Mrs. Zimmerman in far more patient tones than I had managed. “Let me take you to meet our chef, and we can discuss your concerns.”
I hurried back to my apartment and collected the items I needed. The air was crisp and dry with rapidly falling temperatures. After a cold but dry November, it finally felt like winter was well and truly on the way, with snow expected any time. Returning to Seasons, I quickly used my spare laptop and cables to get a temporary solution up and running.
