Page 71 of Before I Say I Don't
“It’s a dish, not a stoplight,” I said, trying to diffuse the tension and inject a sense of levity into the discussion. “We’re good.”
Under the table, Viangelo discreetly rechecked his phone again, ensuring the screen was hidden from view. Diane caught the movement; she palmed her pearls, a gesture of both anxiety and poise. Danica, ever observant, mentally noted the distraction without comment. I noticed but smiled at the chef and asked about portion sizes.
When the dessert sampler arrived, it was a visual delight: elegant lemon tarts adorned with perfectly bruléed tops, rich chocolate mousse cups topped with a delicate shard of dark chocolate, velvety vanilla panna cotta garnished with a vibrant mix of macerated berries, and hand-rolled chocolate truffles dusted with cocoa like tiny jewels on the plate.
“These are perfect,” I exclaimed. “Let’s consider adding mini peach cobbler shooters—just a little tribute to family traditions.”
Diane’s eyes brightened. “Yes—peach cobbler! I can jar preserves as favors?—”
“No jars,” Danica stated before Diane could reach into the tote. “We’ll set up a recipe card station for the late-night snack area. Same love, less stickiness.”
Diane pursed her lips, a hint of discontent dancing in her eyes.
“Hmph,” she replied, clearly disappointed.
Viangelo shifted uncomfortably, tugging at the collar of his shirt as if it were suddenly too tight.
“Are we almost done here?” he muttered, a hint of impatience creeping into his voice as his eyes darted around the crowded room.
“What’s the hurry when you’re the one who showed up late?” Danica said, clearly eavesdropping.
Danica’s patience with him, his mother, and the whole damn wedding was clearly hanging by a thread. I felt the same—every smile I forced, every polite nod, was stretched so thin it could snap at any second. The only difference was, she didn’t care who saw her irritation, while I was still busy disguising mine under lip gloss and small talk.
Diane's head popped up like a startled bird—nostrils flared and expression fierce as she locked eyes with Danica.
“Don’t you dare speak to my son that way! He’s doing the best he can!” she exclaimed, voice rising defensively.
Danica turned her head slowly, a thin, almost predatory smile curling her lips.
“If this is truly his best effort, I’d hate to see his average,” she retorted.
“Aye, check yo’ sister. ‘Cause last I checked, this isourwedding," Viangelo called himself, reminding me and others.
“And last I checked—” Danica leaned in, eyes glittering, ready to set the whole room on fire.
Recognizing the escalating tension, I held my hand up to intervene because I knew Danica could and probably would run out.
“Enough!” I shouted.
The whole table froze.
Mariah’s eyes widened like she was debating if she should fake a bathroom break. The chef, halfway through setting down the next plate, paused with tongs midair, pretending shesuddenly found the ceiling tiles fascinating. Even the servers went still—eyes shifting like kids who just saw their parents arguing and telling secrets at Thanksgiving dinner.
“I guess you’re about to defend heragain?” Viangelo sneered at me.
I turned my gaze on him, low but lethal. “My sister is protecting me; your mother is protecting optics. If you can’t tell the difference, that’s your problem.”
He gave a sharp, humorless laugh. “Optics? You the queen of optics, Kam. You’re a lawyer, head table, ghost chairs?—”
“I’m the queen of execution. I pay for things. I make them happen. I show up on time. You… just show up.”
The vein in his temple jumped. Viangelo opened his mouth—something ugly loading on his tongue—but his phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at the screen, then at me. Something flickered in his eyes.
“I’m stepping outside to take this,” he announced, already backing up.
“Tell yourworkI said hi.”
We moved on to the cake samples—red velvet with cream cheese frosting, lemon with raspberry filling, and a triple chocolate ganache that could have made a nun cuss. Everyone disagreed again. Diane liked lemon, Danica liked chocolate, and Viangelo just said, “Red velvet’s fine,” like he didn’t care. The ‘big’ cake tasting had been done months ago; that cake was locked. Everything else was theater.
