Page 27 of Stirring Up Trouble
“Anyway,” Sloane continued, mashing down her dread, “the last thing you should be worried about is me. You’re getting married in a few hours.”
Her next smile came a lot more easily, and she let it take over. The absolute glow suffusing her best friend’s face canceled out any remaining unease churning in Sloane’s gut, and she exhaled over the temporary reprieve. She was about to take part in a gorgeous wedding and spend the entire night in one of the luxuriously appointed hotel rooms the resort executives had blocked off for their star chef’s special guests. Just for tonight, Sloane was going to send her troubles packing. No worries, no stress, and no distractions. Period.
Including her brooding, sexy, calm-cool-and-collected boss, and the fact that she couldstillfeel the kiss he’d laid on her nearly a week ago, even though they’d been all business, all week long.
Carly popped up from her chair and smoothed a hand over her jeans. “Wow, is it already that late? I know we’re done with the hair and makeup thing, but I should get dressed.” She headed for the white garment bag perched on a stand over by the full-length mirror in the suite’s dressing room, but Sloane stopped her in her tracks.
“You have to wait for your mother,” she protested. She might not ever be destined for the altar herself, but Sloane sure as hell knew the rules of the game. Unless you had a death wish, inciting the wrath of an Italian mother on her only daughter’s wedding day was just plain stupid.
Carly laughed. “Since when are you so sentimental?”
“It’s self-preservation, not sentiment. Your mother will kill us both if you get into that dress and she’s not here. Plus, it won’t be long. She and Bellamy should both be here any second.” Bellamy Blake was the only other female chef on Carly’s staff, and Sloane’s compatriot in bridesmaid duties.
“You’re probably right. I guess we can wait another minute or two.” Carly shrugged. “I have to be honest, it’s kind of nice not to have such a big production. The first time was a lot different.”
Sloane couldn’t help it. She scoffed. “The first time, you married an asshat.”
Carly’s laughter echoed through the luxurious suite, bouncing off the peach-colored walls to land happily back around their ears. “Yeah, but I found my swan, so it all turned out fine in the end.”
She should’ve known sharing that metaphor would come back to bite her on the ass. Swans mated for life, so calling the happily-ever-after guy a swan had made sense to Sloane. Of course, she usually reserved it for her books, since real-life swans seemed more legend than likelihood. But as hard as it was to imagine Carly’s six-foot-four fiancé as an elegant white bird, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Jackson Carter was her swan.
“Did someone slip you a happy pill? You are way too laid-back for someone about to get hitched.” Sloane’s nerves did a jump-and-jangle in her belly, as if to make up for Carly’s nonchalance. While the week she’d spent tutoring and looking after Bree had been uneventful, Sloane’s unease at not being able to write a single useable word had gone from niggling worry to flat-out dread.
Nope! No worries tonight, remember? La la la la!Sloane metaphorically plugged her ears and drowned her worry in a deep, calming breath.
“There’s no point in being nervous.” Carly’s grin took over, recapturing Sloane’s attention as her best friend kept on. “Marrying Jackson is the easiest thing I’ll ever do.”
Sloane lifted a brow. “Now who’s sentimental?”
“Give me a break. I’m getting married.”
As if on cue, Bellamy poked her head past the dressing room entryway. “Hey, sorry I’m late. I just wanted to make sure the catering guys had everything under control in the restaurant for the reception.”
Bellamy’s at-ease smile was an unspoken testament to the fact that everything downstairs was running smoothly. Otherwise, knowing her, she’d probably have thrown some chef’s whites over her bridesmaid’s dress and started whipping up the perfect cocktail sauce with one hand while rolling crisp-tender asparagus spears in prosciutto with the other.
“They’re being careful in my kitchen, right?” While Carly’s smile remained in place, her words came out on a serrated edge, making Sloane laugh.
“So much for laid-back,” she said.
Bellamy leapt into chef mode, reassuring Carly with a detailed account of the food prep. With most of La Dolce Vita’s staff attending the wedding, it had only made sense to have the reception in the restaurant itself. Getting management to agree to the deal would’ve been tough for anybody other than their star chef, but the stack of rave reviews that kept rolling in for La Dolce Vita along with a reservation log that was booked a solid month in advance sealed the deal. If Carly had asked for the moon on a plate, the resort execs would’ve been on the next rocket out of town.
Sloane watched Carly’s face melt back into relaxed bliss as Bellamy described the food, right down to the little sprigs of dill on the cucumber-salmon canapés. Carly’s usual no-nonsense expression softened with pure happiness, but rather than giving Sloane the warm fuzzies, the sentiment panged through her as if it was covered in barbed wire.
What the hell? Her hand flew to her breastbone, as if she could extinguish the strange sensation with a simple cover-up. Sure, Sloane put stock in happily ever after, but it wasn’t like her to get all gooey at a simple wedding. Plus, seeing Carly get the fairy tale ending she so deserved was a good thing—no, make that agreatthing. She and Jackson were perfect for each other, and Sloane hadn’t been kidding when she’d said their story was best-seller material. It was the very stuff romance novels were made of, for God’s sake, and it couldn’t have happened to two people more deserving of real-deal, forever-and-ever love.
So what was with her rib cage trying to impersonate a corkscrew at her best friend’s joy?
“Ah! Here’s the bride. Let me look at you, eh?” Carly’s mother, Francesca di Matisse, bustled into the dressing room, and the warmth on her face was unmistakable. Her thick Italian accent, laced with a non-subtle Brooklyn cadence, was all too familiar, and it sent Sloane’s unease into rapid descent.
Their home-turf neighborhood had a grapevine as thick as one of the fifty-year-old oaks shadowing Sloane’s current residence at the bungalow. Even though her own mother was in New York, squawking over a hugely pregnant Angela, she’d surely hear every last detail of Carly’s wedding before the week was out. Which was certain to kick off the latest round of Sloane’s least favorite game: Why Aren’tYouGetting Married?
Okay. So maybe that explained the corkscrew.
Carly leaned in, letting her mother fold her into a quick embrace. “Hi, Ma. Is the minister all set downstairs?”
“Of course. Although when he walked in, I had to assure him it was the same room we were in for last night’s rehearsal. It’s so beautiful, the way it’s all set up for the ceremony. But not more beautiful than you.” Francesca kissed both of Carly’s cheeks before pulling back to level Sloane and Bellamy with a proud smile. “You see this glow on her face? This glow comes from only one thing.” Francesca hooked a knowing finger at her daughter and smiled.
“Mama!Jeez. I haven’t even seen Jackson today!” Even though Carly could boss around a team of muscle-bound, tattooed chefs twice her size, her mother’s good-natured teasing stained her cheeks bright red. Bellamy clamped her teeth down on her bottom lip, surely in an effort to maintain decorum, but Sloane wasn’t so lucky. Eh, she’d never been big on etiquette, anyway.