The Worst Best Man Page 6

  I shake my head. “Dostoevsky, Natalia? Seriously?”

  She pretends to brush off her shoulders. “What can I say? My dragging skills are multifaceted.” Her eyes are kind when she takes my hands. “Listen, if you need to stay within your comfort zone, that’s okay, too. Your way of reacting to a situation is just as valid as mine.”

  “Just not as fun, right?” I ask with a smile.

  She winks. “You said it, not me.” With a finger over her mouth, she gestures for us to leave the dressing area quietly. “I don’t want to tell Marcelo about the dress just yet. Not with an audience. He’s coming over to my mom’s tonight, so I’ll tell him then. Please cover for me.”

  Jaslene and I link arms to create a human wall for Natalia, then we all tiptoe past the showroom and skulk out the door. We loiter outside, a few feet away from the shop’s entrance, beyond Marcelo’s line of sight.

  As Natalia and Jaslene chat about the wedding timeline, I stare off into the distance, mentally urging myself to tell Natalia the full story. Before I can change my mind, I turn to her. “There’s one other thing I didn’t tell you.”

  She raises a brow. “There’s more?”

  “Yeah. So when I first saw Andrew and Max in the conference room at the Cartwright, I panicked and pretended not to know them. Rebecca has no clue Andrew broke our engagement, and there’s no going back, not if I want a shot at the job.”

  “Shut. Up.” Natalia flails. “This is mind-blowing. You, Ms. Plan Everything Within an Inch of Its Life, orchestrated a sham of epic proportions and now you’ll be forced to see it through to its unpredictable end?” She makes a big show of looking around. “Where’s the popcorn and the Twizzlers? I can already picture this playing out on a big screen.”

  “That’s what I said,” Jaslene adds. “Well, the part about the popcorn. I’d even plant my ass in a movie theater to see it. And you both know I don’t put on a bra and real clothes for just any ol’ film.”

  “Look, I’m not proud of what I did,” I say, interrupting their musings, “but yeah, I’m going to see it through to the end. Maybe after Rebecca makes her decision, I’ll find a way to tell her. By then, I hope she’ll think it’s more important to have me as her wedding coordinator than to concern herself with my past relationships.”

  Natalia worries her bottom lip as she studies me. “Hope may spring eternal, prima, but deception will bite you in the ass. You sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “Hell, no,” I tell her. “I have absolutely no clue what I’m doing, but I’m not going to let that stop me. Andrew has every reason to keep up the ruse, and his brother’s just along for the ride. I know exactly how to handle someone like Max.”

  Jaslene clears her throat and gives me scary googly eyes.

  “Allergies again?” I ask her. “Ugh. My car was covered in pollen this morning.”

  “Not exactly,” she says, coughing into her hand.

  “Anyway, if I play my cards right,” I continue, “Max won’t figure into the process at all. He’s so clueless, I’ll be signing my employment papers before he realizes he was a nonfactor.”

  Natalia tips her head up and sighs.

  “What?”

  She looks at a spot over my shoulder, her eyes narrowing into a death glare.

  My breakfast somersaults in my belly, and a tingling sensation runs up my spine. “He’s standing right behind me, isn’t he?”

  “He is,” Max says, a tinge of humor in his voice.

  Shit. Maybe my life should be a movie.

  Chapter Seven

  Max

  Every opponent, no matter how worthy or skilled, has a weak spot. I can already guess Lina’s. She wants to control everything. When she doesn’t, her brain flounders, leaving her off-balance, agitated, and flustered enough to do absurd shit—like pretend not to know her ex-fiancé and his brother during an impromptu business meeting. By showing up here unannounced, I’m taking advantage of this vulnerability. Shameful, I know, but necessary nonetheless.

  She spins to face me, her face contorted into an awkward wince. A slight wobble interrupts the fluidity of the move. Heh. My plan’s working.

  I give her my best charming-as-hell smile. “Lina, it’s good to see you again.”

  She treats me to a drop-dead-and-die grimace. “I wish I could say likewise, but I’d be lying if I did. What are you doing here, Mr. Hartley?”

  If Lina thinks I’m going to get riled up when she snaps at me, she’s flat-out wrong. I’m an easygoing guy. It would take some monumental bullshit to set me off, and her snippiness doesn’t even come close to reaching that level. “It’s a public sidewalk, Ms. Santos. Would you believe I happened to be passing by just when you bad-mouthed me?”

  A woman jumps in between us, looking up at me with venom in her eyes. “Don’t answer her question with a question, creep.” She takes off an earring, then another, whips out a hair tie, and pulls her long, curly honey-brown hair into a ponytail. She’s getting ready for something, and given the way she’s cracking her knuckles, I don’t think it’s a tea party.

  “What do you want?” the irate woman asks.

  I vaguely remember her. If memory serves, she rushed past me in the hall after Lina kicked me out of the bridal suite on her wedding day. Apparently, I’m on this woman’s shit list, too. I put up my hands. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. What’s all the hostility for? You’re not supposed to shoot the messenger, remember?”

  “Messenger?” The woman sneers. “That’s rich. The person who convinced my cousin’s fiancé to cancel the wedding is an accomplice, not a messenger.”

  My gaze darts to Lina’s face. Her mouth trembles, but I don’t even blink before she clears her face of any expression. Is that how she feels? Or am I just a douche by association? I wish she’d give me a peek inside her brain. It’s where all the action happens, and it must be fascinating in there.

  “Look—” I point at the woman. “What’s your name again?”

  “Natalia,” she says through gritted teeth. She jabs a thumb in the other woman’s direction. “And this is Jaslene.”

  Jaslene shakes her head at me gravely. “Hey, Max.”

  Huh. Jaslene doesn’t seem to hate me. Shocker. Maybe she’s a potential ally.

  I turn back to the hostile one. “Look, Natalia, from what I overheard I gather you’re up to speed. Which means you also know Lina and I can’t avoid working together. I’m trying to make the best of an uneasy situation. So, do you mind if I talk to your cousin for a minute?”

  She crosses her arms over her chest and shifts to the left. “Be my guest.”

  “Alone, please?”

  Natalia and Jaslene take several steps back but remain within arm’s reach.

  “I stopped by to invite you to lunch today,” I say to Lina. “I think we should talk. Maybe clear the air and figure out a way forward? What do you say?”

  Tilting her head, she widens her eyes and blinks like an owl on speed. “Clear the air? Why would we need to do that? We’re strangers, remember?”

  Oh, we’re playing this game, are we? Fun. “Well, we’re strangers as long as I cooperate, remember? Rebecca’s just a phone call away.”

  She straightens and glowers at me. “You. Wouldn’t.”

  Dammit. She’s got me there. I shake my head. “No, I wouldn’t. But you know how in a movie when a group of teenagers does a bad thing, there’s always that one kid who cracks under pressure and confesses everything? That’s Andrew. If you and I don’t get our act together, he’s going to get scared and sing like a canary.”

  She takes a small breath, her face pensive as she studies me. “We can clear the air right here.”

  “Or we can clear the air over a nice lunch. Like adults.”

  She leans over and rests her hands on her thighs, as if she’s addressing a small child. “Are you sure that wouldn’t put too much pressure on you to perform?”

  Jesus. By the time Lina’s through with me, I won’t just be a shell of myself; no, I�
��ll be a mutated version that wears V-neck cashmere sweaters, relaxes in Adirondack chairs, and chortles when someone tells a joke.

  “Nice,” Jaslene says.

  Some ally she is.

  Why am I subjecting myself to this abuse? I didn’t sign up for this. Okay, so maybe a tiny part of me is enjoying this snarky side of her, but that’s not the point here. If I don’t reassert myself, Andrew’s going to easily steer his planner to victory—and I can’t let that happen. Plus, I’m tired of being punished for someone else’s bad behavior. Andrew’s especially. Frowning, I squish my eyebrows together and pretend to be confused. “I think I might have missed the moment when I left you at the altar.” Then I rest a hand on my hip and tap my chin. “Oh, wait a minute. That was my brother. Sorry. I get us confused sometimes. You do too, apparently.”

  Lina squints. Natalia growls. Jaslene gasps.

  Oh fuck. That came out way harsher than I intended. Now I’m stranded on Gone-Too-Far Island, and these women are my only chance for a rescue. Before I can apologize, Jaslene pulls Lina away. They face each other, and Jaslene rests her hands on Lina’s shoulders, as though she’s coaching her through a personal crisis.

  “Petty is as petty does,” Jaslene tells Lina, her voice urgent. “You can do this.”

  Lina looks from Jaslene to Natalia, and the latter nods as though she’s the Godfather, silently putting a hit out on someone. What an odd trio.

  Lina inhales, her chest rising high and proud, then she breathes out slowly. “Okay, Max. Where would you like to go?”

  That’s it? She’s not going to flay me for that ill-advised outburst? I feel as though the Queen has granted me a reprieve. Well, I’m taking that reprieve and running with it. I still have five weeks to smooth over any bad feelings. “Your choice. Whatever you want.”

  “How about the Grill from Ipanema?”

  “In Adams Morgan? That’s right around where I live. Perfect.”

  She nods. “Okay, I’ll meet you there in thirty minutes.”

  I point at my illegally parked car. I’ll probably get a ticket if I’m not gone in the next minute. “I can give you a ride if you’d like.”

  “Nah,” she says. “I need to run an errand first. I’ll meet you there.” She turns in the direction of her bodyguards while Jaslene pulls Natalia away by her shirtsleeve.

  I take a few steps and freeze when I hear Lina call out my name. “Yeah?”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” she says. “And I really appreciate the gesture.” Then she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and smiles at me shyly.

  Lina’s luminous as it is, but that smile transforms her face, as though she’s suddenly glowing from the inside. It’s not just breathtaking, it’s breath snatching. I inhale deeply—because I want my fucking air back. “Uh, yeah, I’m glad we’re doing this. See you soon.”

  She nods and turns away.

  I stand in a daze of my own making, cautiously optimistic about the quick progress we’ve made. Makes me realize I’ve been thinking about this all wrong. Interacting with Lina isn’t a battle. It’s more like making a great cocktail—a science I’ll be perfecting over time. Take a person who thinks they’re in control (Lina), add in someone bent on throwing them off-balance (me), and stir vigorously. It’s effervescence in a glass, an explosion of flavors on the tongue, and it leads to tiny breakthroughs like the one we just experienced. With a few more tweaks, we’ll be so good together someone will want to bottle our chemistry.

  Platonic chemistry, of course.

  Just, you know, chemistry between two people interacting on a professional level and working toward a common goal.

  Dammit. I can’t unthink it. Now I’m the one flustered enough to do absurd shit—like wonder what would have happened if I’d met Lina before my brother did.

  * * *

  Lina and I have just ordered our meals—an appetizer, entrée, and dessert for her (says she prefers to choose her dessert and work backward from there), and an entrée for me.

  So far, so good.

  I sneak a glance at her face as she sips her drink, a cloudy concoction with lime and mint in it. She’s been disturbingly serene since we sat down, and I’m recalibrating how to engage with her now that she’s no longer throwing daggers with her eyes. “Let me start by congratulating you on a fantastic opportunity. You must have really dazzled Rebecca. She’s putting a lot into this search process.”

  Lina settles an elbow on the table and stabs the ice in her glass with a swizzle stick. “I was wondering about that. Whether what she’s doing is atypical for a client trying to rebrand.”

  Now, this is a step in the right direction. Lina’s engaging with me as though I’m just another colleague. As though she wants to give us a fresh start. And I intend to capitalize on her mellower demeanor. “It’s the first I’ve heard of anything like this. But I’m not surprised. Rebecca strikes me as the type of person who’s perfectly happy following her own approach. The good news is, what she’s asking for in terms of a pitch is very much in my wheelhouse, so I can help, especially when it comes to using social media to your advantage.”

  Lina nods thoughtfully. “Well, let’s say I was interested in relying on your expertise. How would you propose we go about preparing the pitch?”

  “Simple. I’d take Rebecca out of the equation for the moment and make you the client. What I typically do is research the client’s work and how people respond to it. So in your case, I’d get a feel for what it’s like to plan weddings.” There’s a split second of unease when I say this—on my part, not hers—mostly because the phrase reminds me that she planned her own wedding but never experienced the grand finale. Also, I’m the asshat who blithely mentioned it earlier. I shake off the thought and forge ahead. “So, in essence, I’m looking for what you bring to the table and how it compares to the rest of the market. Then I’d check your references. Get a handle on what people think of you. Next, we’d talk about how you want to position yourself in the field. Brainstorm a bit about what that would look like. Then we’d put everything together to compose your pitch.”

  “So you’ll—”

  Our server arrives with Lina’s appetizer. “Bolinhos de bacalhau?”

  “Sim,” Lina says as she rubs her hands in anticipation. “Obrigada.”

  He places the dish in the center, and Lina pulls it closer to her side of the table.

  “You sure you don’t want to try it?” she asks.

  I beg off. “Never been a fan of salted cod, so I don’t want it to be my introduction to Brazilian food.”

  “Makes sense.” She picks up one of the egg-shaped fritters and bites into it. Closing her eyes, she groans. “Oh, that’s good. So. Good. And not greasy at all.” She pops another one in her mouth and hums.

  I don’t dare look at her. Not when she’s coaxing her appetizer past first base. It’s fucking obscene. Unable to help myself, I peek at her with one eye. Shit. The visual’s worse. I grab my water glass and guzzle, then mentally smack myself. What is your problem, Max? Let the woman eat in peace. Maybe I should give her a little privacy—or make a joke to break this embarrassingly one-sided tension. “If you’d like me to leave you alone with your cod balls, just let me know.”

  She jerks to attention and her eyes snap open. I truly believe she forgot I was here, and it takes everything in me not to laugh at her stricken expression.

  I point at her nearly empty plate. “Satisfying, I take it?”

  “Immensely.” She dabs at the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “Getting back to the pitch. You said you’d like to get a sense of what I do on a day-to-day basis. So, what, you want to shadow me?”

  I’m grateful she’s keeping us on task; for a minute, I forgot why we’re here. “Shadowing is a good way to put it. I want to see you in your regular environment. But I also want to record you, if that’s okay. Some of that footage could find its way into a video package. Or help us make stylistic choices.”

  “You’d tell me when you�
��re recording?”

  “Of course.”

  “And since I’m the client in this scenario, you’re going to listen to my wishes, right?”

  Yes, she’s right about that, but only partially. This isn’t exactly a what-she-says-goes situation. It can’t be, because I have another client—my actual client—to please. “I’m going to listen, sure. Bear in mind, though, that I work for Rebecca, and I need to keep her interests and the interests of the Cartwright Hotel Group in mind.”

  She nods. “That’s understandable. Thanks for being up front about that.”

  If I’m not mistaken, we’re experiencing another breakthrough; she seems receptive to working with me. Which confirms what I’d hoped: This lunch is exactly what we needed.

  Two servers sweep in with our entrées, placing them on the table with a flourish that makes me feel underdressed. At Lina’s suggestion, I’m trying moqueca de peixe, a Brazilian fish stew. Lina’s having . . . the remaining items on the restaurant’s menu, apparently. The servers tag-team the process of setting bowls in front of her. Chicken. White rice. Black beans. A side that looks like cornmeal. A bowl of tomatoes and onions swimming in some kind of vinaigrette. And a plate of greens.

  I bend down and lift the tablecloth, scanning the floor.

  “What’s the matter?” she asks. “Did you drop something?”

  “No, I’m looking for the other people who are going to help you eat your meal.”

  Her mouth twitches.

  Aha. Lina’s thawing before my eyes.

  She lifts her fork in front of her mouth as though I need instruction on how to use basic utensils. “Eat, Max. It’s the wisest thing you can do right now.”

  I give her a sheepish grin. “Okay, okay. Can I ask a question first?”

  She sets her fork down. “Sure.”

  “What’s the stuff that looks like cornmeal?”

  Her face lights up and she gives me a radiant smile. “That’s farofa. It’s toasted cassava flour, a staple of any Brazilian meal. A little bit of oil, onion, and garlic add flavor. My mother’s version blesses us with bacon.”