Page 92 of The Accidental Honeymoon

I follow the wedding party to the tank and pull out my phone. “All right, let’s get the Belugas in the background. Start by striking your sexiest pose.”

They instantly suck in their cheeks and angle their bodies. It’s more than a little funny because they’re already four sheets to the wind. We do a few takes while I coach them through some shout-outs and goofy poses. It’s actually kind of fun. Fans are the lifeblood of my brand, and moments like this remind me why I do what I do. They’re good people. Plus, their drunk enthusiasm is infectious.

They take turns snapping selfies with me. I make sure to flash my best “Rustin Smile,” the one that’s equal parts genuine and camera-ready. The drunkest groomsman asks about taking photos with Calla, but I explain that she’s working. They seem to understand, and I’m relieved.

I look over to the dessert table. Calla is talking to the wedding planner, her hands making small, precise gestures. She looks… happy. Like she’s in her element.

I should go help her. I start to walk over, but someone grabs my arm. It’s one of the other guests, an elderly woman holding a glass of champagne. “Thank you,” she slurs, a little wobbly. “For everything. You’re making this day so special.”

I take the glass from her and clink it against the glass she’s holding. “It’s all her,” I say, nodding toward Calla. “She’s the real deal.”

She follows my gaze. “You’re lucky to have her.”

“Yeah,” I say, and it comes out softer than I mean. “I am.”

She totters off and I turn back to Calla. She’s alone now, tidying up the table. I walk over, slowly, thinking about what the older woman said.

I am lucky.

“Calla,” I say when I’m close enough. She looks up, and I can’t read her expression. Maybe she’s wondering whereI’ve been and why I haven’t helped more. “I’m sorry,” I say. I jerk my thumb over my shoulder. “I got caught up.”

“It’s fine,” she says. But it doesn’t sound fine.

“I was trying to keep them off you. They just?—”

Her lips thin. She glances behind her at the rest of the wedding guests filing in and nods towards the hallway. “Not here,” she hisses as she tows me out of the room.

Uh oh.I can tell from the tightness in her lips that this isn’t going to be a thank-you hug.

Once we’re out of earshot, she rounds on me. “If you’re not here to help, you should just go home. Today is about my business, not your social media audience.”

I wince. “Calla, I’m sorry. I was just trying to take the pressure off you. I thought?—”

“You thought what? That I couldn’t handle it?”

“No, that… I don’t know. That it would be easier for you if I kept them busy.”

She crosses her arms and looks away. “I can handle a little attention, Jay. It’s not like I’m a complete nobody.”

“I know that. I’m sorry.”

She lets out a long breath, then uncrosses her arms. “I appreciate you driving and helping with the setup. Really. But I need you to understand why I’m doing this.”

“I do,” I say, though I’m not sure I do. “I’m just trying to help.”

She nods, but the gesture is half-hearted. “I forgive you. But I’m still mad.”

“Fair enough.”

We move back to the dessert table and start restocking the trays. The room is filled with the low hum of conversation, punctuated by the occasional clink of glasses. We’re left alone until a man in a chef’s coat walks up to Calla.

“These are fantastic,” he says, holding a half-eateneclair. “Sorry. I snagged one off the tray of backups. Did you make these yourself?”

Calla wipes her hands on a towel and stands a little straighter. “Yes, I did. Thank you. I am trying to get my dessert shop off the ground.”

“I have a question. How do you get the pastry cream so smooth?”

Her cheeks color. “Low and slow heat. Temper very gradually. I also pass it through two sieves to filter out any imperfections in the cream.”

---