My mind drifts to Sophie. I really hope she’s making the right decision. We didn’t get to talk about it. The engagement happened so fast and then she got swept away in planning a wedding. BAM! It got here faster than I thought it would. I wonder if she feels the same way. Rubbing my hands over my face, I sigh deeply and hope she’s happy. Brides have a tendency to freak out. A serene bride is a medicated bride. Not only is a wedding the biggest commitment of someone’s life, it’s also the event with the highest probability of everything going wrong.
Example: the wedding I shot last weekend. The frosting shouldn’t have caught fire like that, but it did. A few misplaced doilies, a strong gust of wind, and poof! Inferno cake. The little couple on top melted into little hunchbacks.
A wedding from earlier this month had an even more horrifying event: while the bride was walking down the aisle, her little flower girl got too close and stepped on her train. The sound of popping stitches filled the church, as a monster hole opened down the back of her gown, revealing the bride’s panties—which were printed with the word BRIDE across her backside in Swarovski crystals. I was amazed when she just hugged the horrified flower girl and let someone staple the dress back together. That wedding continued, when most other brides would have eaten the entire assembly and spit out their bones for something like that. Never step on a bride, not unless you have a death wish.
A noise catches my ear, like someone is yelling down the hallway. I assume it’s Sophie’s younger cousins. After turning off the water, I step out and towel off. I look behind the door for a robe, but there isn’t one. Whatever. I will not have a stroke and I have no plans to call the front desk for assistance, just to have Spawny bring me a robe that’s been defiled. No thanks. I toss my wet towel on the edge of the tub and pad out of the bathroom naked. I head for my suitcase, which is on the bed, so I can grab my dress and make-up kit.
As I step through the bathroom door and into the room, I’m glancing at the dreadfully ugly carpet. It’s like one of the Vegas-style, busy, rugs that hide every stain known to man. Damn, it’s ugly. That’s when I feel the sensation of eyes on me. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle at the same time a pair of shiny black shoes enter my field of vision. From there on, everything happens in slow motion. My entire body tenses as I lift my gaze.
Standing in front of me is Nick Ferro, ass-hat extraordinaire, with a huge smile on his face. “Don’t tell me—you’re the slutty bridesmaid.”
I don’t answer. I scream and try to cover up at least a little, so he can’t see everything, but he already has. And the jerk is just standing there, with that amused grin on his face.
“Get out!” I scream the phrase over and over again, trying to hide both girls and wishing for a loincloth to magically appear in the proper place. Every time I grab one boob, the other falls out of my grip. They’re too big to hold with one hand, but his eyes are all over me, and I don’t want him looking. My hands move around spastically between my crotch and my chest, so I look like I’m landing a plane. For a second, I think about turning and running back into the bathroom, but then he’d see my butt, and since that’s the one piece of me he hasn’t seen, I refuse to turn around. Logic isn’t one of my strong suits. Don’t judge me until it happens to you. It makes sense. Sorta.
Nick steps back as I hurl the tissue box at him, and stumble backward into the bathroom. Nick says pleasantly, “This is my room. You get out.”
“It’s not your room, it’s mine! I’m going to call the cops!” I bump into the sink and try to shove the door closed with my foot. It’s an uberly uncoordinated effort that lands me on my ass. My ankle catches the door, closing it, as I not so gracefully fall backwards. I let loose a few expletives before a loud SLAM.
He rushes to the door. “And tell them what? That the guy you came on to didn’t want you? I didn’t say that, by the way.” He’s quiet for a second, and adds, “Are you all right?”
“No!” I’m not all right. Why is he here? Why is he in my room? This is the person responsible for singlehandedly destroying my business. Amy thinks I’m paranoid, but what the hell is he doing here, then? He shouldn’t be here. I’m sitting with my back against the tub when the door cracks open. I kick it closed. “Oh my God! What kind of deviant are you? I didn’t say come in!” My voice is at least an octave higher by the time I finish yelling at him.
“You said you weren’t all right.”
“I’m fine! Go away!”
“I can’t. This is my room and I have a wedding to shoot this week, so if you don’t mind—”
What? Scrambling to my feet, I grab the shower curtain and pull it off the rod. As I march out, the little plastic rings drag on the floor. Yanking the door open, I rush through and slam into his chest. I swear to God, my entire body made that dong sound that happens when you run into a metal pole. Not that I’ve done that. Recently. Oh holy hell, his body is hard. Why does he have to be so infuriatingly sexy? And he smells good, too. Meanwhile, I’m wet, sporting a rat’s nest on my head, and styling the latest fashion in hotel shower curtains, which is that white plastic crap that sticks like tape to my damp skin.