Page 26 of Bridesmaid to Bride

The Omni Hotel emerges like a beacon, and our descent onto the rooftop marks the end of this harrowing journey.

“See? Not so bad.” Foster helps me out of the helicopter.

“It wasn’t,” I say, still unsteady on my feet. Even I can’t deny the awe that seeps in as we’re ushered off the roof, down some steps, and into the restaurant.

It’s empty except for us, and the panoramic views of Atlanta are an array of beauty and grandeur. It’s a testament to Foster’s connections—and skills to impress.

“Wow,” I breathe, the word feeling small.

“Only the best for you.” There’s a seriousness in his tone that makes me realize that although we’ve just met, he’s all in.

“If the food is as good as the view, we’ll be blown away.”

“This is one of the five Michelin star-rated restaurants in Atlanta.” Foster pulls out my chair with a skill that’s practiced but no less charming.

“So a real dump?” I settle into my seat.

And as we sit perched above the world, I think that this unexpected detour could be the start of something good.

I swirl the wine in my glass, a rich, bold red that probably costs more than I would venture to guess. The first sip is like sin wrapped in velvet, and I have to remind myself not to guzzle it.

I set the glass down with reverence. “That’s… um, I don’t have a word for it.”

“Divine?” Foster’s eyes twinkle.

“Divine works.” I nod, the words rolling off my tongue. “This whole place is divine.”

Foster grins, pleased, and I can’t help but warm to him. Maybe he is a golden retriever, just in a tailor-made suit.

The appetizer arrives, something involving truffles and a foam that defies gravity. As I poke it with my fork, Foster launches into his dreams of his own law firm. His passion is palpable, his hands cutting through the air as he describes the kind he wants to create—one that’s ethical but powerful—a titan of justice.

“I love your passion,” I say, impressed and wishing I had the same.

“Thanks. Now it’s just the small detail of pulling it off.” He whisks out a self-deprecating laugh.

“Hey, details, schmetails.” I pop a bite of the appetizer. It tastes like clouds—delicious and perfectly seasoned.

“Your turn,” he says. “Tell me your aspirations.”

Phew—that request should be easy, but it’s not. Maybe it’s because I’ve never been one to count my chickens before they’re even conceived, let alone hatched. Or maybe it’s because I don’t know what they are anymore, exactly. “I want to grow my food business for sure.”

“Wait, food business?” Foster’s face twists.

I let out a laugh that’s more of a squawk. “Did I say food business? My bad, I misspoke. I meant my dad’s law firm.” I wave a hand, brushing off the slip. “Sorry. I left the firm for a stint to do my own catering business, which didn’t work out.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“No, it’s fine,” I say in a rush. “Just still getting my brain to change gears. But my point is, I want to do great things for Steinberg Law—for my dad and myself.”

“We both have big shoes to fill.” Foster nods with understanding.

“No kidding. I might have to buy new shoes.” I lift my wine glass.

“Cheers to that.” He clinks his glass against mine.

And as we sit, talking dreams and sipping wine while the skyscrapers of Atlanta surround us, I think maybe I could get used to this kind of life. I mean, who couldn’t?

The server sets my plate down, and the flames leaping up from my filet mignon look like a circus act. “Wow,” I exhale, feeling the heat kiss my cheeks as the servers of the restaurant watch.

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