Page 135 of Champagne Fizz

Lady Lada perks up with a tickle that saysabout time, though right now is definitelynotthe time. And I don’t meanthatkind of kiss, Lada. I mean a chaste, thank-you kiss.

No, you meant THAT kind of kiss,Lada corrects, and I make a promise to admonish her to the chastity box and ignore her. It’s wedding day, and I have helping hands waiting for directions.

“Hi everyone,” I say, addressing the group. “I’m Kendall, or you can call me Miss Hart. It would be wonderful if I could have half of you bring the large boxes into the dining room. You can set them down by the picture window. And if the other half could take the small boxes into the foyer, that would be brilliant. And does anyone know where to find a ladder?” Someone in the back raises their hand. “Fantastic!” I say. “Can you go get it and meet me by the chandelier?”

I notice the elevator door open again, and Becca walks out carrying a giant floral centerpiece. She looks like the Mother of Dragons coming to feed her giant winged-babies an orchid masterpiece.

“This is Becca of Birds of Paradise Flower Farm,” I say to the group, pointing at the silver-haired-tattooed beauty. “If I could get a couple volunteers to help her get the rest of the flowers from her van—”

Two guys shoot their hands up like it’s a competition, and I swear Becca’s face flushes. For a second, I wonder if the two volunteers have anything to do withperks of being singleBecca mentioned when I was ordering flowers. It sounded like maybe she’d hooked up with one or two of the waiters at Flambé before, and I wonder …

Becca walks up to me carrying the centerpiece, throwing a glance back at the two hot guys following her. In a sultry half-whisper, she says, “I didn’t realize I was getting Flambé pin-ups as my helping hands.” Becca’s eyes twinkle like this job just got better than expected.

“I don’t know if men who carry crème brûlée torches are the perfect fit for a florist,” I tease back. But Becca winks like she’s got plenty of uses for those torches that I can’t imagine.

I ignore my flush and I turn back to the group. “I just want to say thank you—to everyone! This is really amazing.”

“For Olivia and Ned!” one of the employees calls out, and I nod.

That’s the crux of it, isn’t it? They’re here to make today beautiful for their friends, and to make sure we’re celebrating the union of two people who are truly and deeply in love. If we keep that in mind, then everything will seem easy.

38

SIMON

I’m helping Kendall tie eucalyptus swags to the chandelier when Arie strides up to us in a huff.

“I’ve been told by my many minions that I’m supposed to report toyouthis morning,” Arie says, tossing her long mane of red hair over her shoulder with a dramatic flourish. “So here I am Sergeant Callahan.”

Arie never uses my last name.

From her body language to her tone, it’s clear she’s in a bad mood, and the use of my last name is a warning shot not to be missed.

“Let’s talk in the kitchen,” I say, tying a knot on the section of swag I’m securing and handing the rest to Kendall. “I’ll be right back.”

“No please,” Arie snips with fake sweetness, “don’t let me interrupt your very important business. It’s not like I can cook, cater, and run my own kitchen without a chaperone.”

I shoot Arie a glare. Of course, she can do all those things by herself. She does them every night. But she knows that’s not why I asked to see her when she arrived.

Arie tosses Kendall a smirk before spinning on her heels and heading for the kitchen, the gold sparkly number she’s wearing looking like an out-of-place disco ball. I don’t know why she insists on cooking in evening wear. It must be a girl thing. Or a crazy my-business-partner thing.

We walk into the kitchen and Arie immediately launches into a tour of everything she’s prepared for the wedding: the cake, the cocktails, the hors d'oeuvres, the main entrees. All are cooked and prepped, or waiting for their final finishing touches.

“You see,” Arie says with a twirl. “I can do my job like a professional.”

“I’m not concerned about the food and cake,” I say, nodding to a corner of the kitchen where we can talk in private. Only, Arie doesn’t follow me. Instead, she stands in the middle of her stainless steel palace like a queen who’s glued to her throne.

“Whatever you want to talk about, you can talk about here,” she says with her hands on her hips, striking a pose that’s very Wonder Woman meets rockabilly-disco-bitch.

“It’s about Kendall,” I say, to which Arie covers her displeasure with a wicked smile.

“Yes, the temporary queen of Flambé for the day,” Arie snickers. “And yes, I know, she’s in charge, and I’m supposed to do what she says.”

“Not supposed to,” I correct. “Youwilldo what she says.”

“Of course, Sargent Callahan,” Arie sasses, using my last name again. Twice in ten minutes is a bad sign. “At least Kendall had the braincells to wear black today instead of some canary-yellow eye sore. No one wants to seethatin the background of the photos.”

“It looks great out there!” I point to the main room that Kendall’s turning into a flower paradise. “Hell, it’s the kind of décoryouwould covet for your own wedding.” Arie shrugs like she hasn’t even bothered to look. “You could at least try to be nice. Maybe even compliment Kendall on how fantastic it looks?”

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