Page 2 of Triplet Babies for Pucking Christmas

“I was thinking the same. We could do something like…” My phone buzzes with another email. “Hold on, I’ve got something else.”

“Another booking?”

“Not really. They were just informing me that the wedding will be broadcast on some news channel.” I bite my lip, trying to stop the panic bubbling up in my chest.

“Sav,” Layla says, her voice sharp, cutting through my spiraling thoughts. “Listen to me. You’ve got this. You’re one of the best damn chefs in New York. This wedding is gonna beperfect, and investors will be begging to throw more money atyou. Think of it this way: this wedding is all the marketing that we could ever ask for. It’s basically free publicity.”

I take a deep breath. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

“I’m always right. Now, how about you start planning the most epic fucking wedding menu ever and show them they’ve got nothing to worry about.”

I smile, feeling a little lighter. “Epic fucking wedding menu. Got it.”

“That’s the spirit. Call me later, okay? We’ll brainstorm.”

I hang up and lean back in my chair, staring at the café ceiling.

I’ve got this.

I pull up my notes app and start jotting down ideas. Fancy hors d’oeuvres, custom cocktails, edible flowers—everything these rich people eat with their pinkies in the air.

I refuse to let this slip through my fingers. This wedding is going to be perfect. Lemons is going to thrive. I’m going to thrive.

Mom, I hope you’re watching, because I’m about to take over the world. Everybody is going to know my name.

***

The wedding day is perfect.

I stand at the back of the venue, staring out at the sea of white roses, silver accents, and candlelight flickering in gold holders. Everything looks like it belongs in a glossy magazine spread.

There are Christmas trees stationed all around, beautiful seasonal wreaths hanging in place, and all the right trimmings for a Christmas wedding.

There’s even a string quartet playing some classical bullshit in the background. Verybougie, just like I expected.

Lemons, my baby, has pulled this off.

I had almost died when I realized that I had to plan not only a celebrity wedding, but a celebrity Christmas wedding, but it had all come out right in the end.

I glance at Layla, who’s standing next to me, biting her lip as she checks the guest list one more time. “You nervous?” she asks, nudging me.

“Nah,” I lie, my heart pounding. “Piece of cake.”

Layla smirks. “Piece of cake, huh? You’re catering a celebrity wedding with more A-listers than the Oscars. No pressure.”

I snort, trying to act cool, but my hands are practically vibrating. “Just another Saturday, right?”

Right.

The bride, Olivia Harper, a Hollywood actress who can cry on cue, and her groom, Ethan Jameson, a British pop star with the face of a Greek god, are at the center of it all. They look like something out of a fairy tale—ifthe fairy tale involved two ridiculously famous, ridiculously rich people getting married for the cameras.

And the guests? God, it’s like scrolling through Instagram, except they’re allhere. In person. With faces I’ve only seen on screens.

Models, actors, athletes—everyone who’s someone is sitting at the pristine white tables, waiting for the first course.Myfirst fucking course.

“Sav,” Layla leans in, “focus. The appetizers are being plated.”

I snap out of it. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good.”

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