“Thanks, but I have a lot to do,” I say. “Phone calls to make and—”
“Suit yourself,” Veronica says, twirling a wrist, “but if those phone calls have anything to do with the wedding, I’ve got all that under control.”
I just look at her, surprised, not liking the sound of that at all. Veronica smiles importantly—her assistants stand next to her, staring down into their phones.
With that famous fake smile of mine, my teeth grind harshly behind my closed lips. “You already called the caterer and—”
“Not yet, but it’s next on my to-do list,” she interrupts me again. “Take a break, girl. You look like you need one.”
I’m sure that last comment wasn’t meant in the kindest of terms, but like everything else I dislike about her, I let it slide. Paige isn’t as forgiving, and glares at Veronica with flames in her eyes. I step in front of Paige quickly to distract Veronica before she notices.
“I appreciate the help,” I say, “but don’t worry yourself with the phone calls; I’ll take care of them. We’ll finish up here and then I’ll take you up on that break.” I smile, hoping Veronica takes the bait. I want to get her as far away from the arrangements—and the vendors—as possible.
Veronica, probably not used to being struck down once, much less twice, in just a few hours, manipulates the inside of her mouth with her teeth and just looks at me, wordless and quietly disapproving. Then she says something about how she needs to go lie in the sun, and walks away with her assistants, sashaying her hourglass hips down the center aisle as if she were the one getting married tomorrow.
“I swear, Sienna,” Paige says, “I feel like I need to shower every time she’s within five feet of me so I don’t get infected with cuntilitis.”
As Paige’s best friend, I would have to agree with that, but as her boss, I decide to keep my mouth shut this time rather than fueling the fire.
“Do me a favor,” I tell Paige, “and call the vendors to make sure everything’s on schedule. I’m going to finish up here and check on a few more things just in case Veronica got any other ideas.”
“I’m a step ahead of you,” Paige says. “Was thinking the same thing.”
Later I do find time for a short break and I end up on the beach with my camera. Hawaii is too beautiful not to photograph, and so I sacrificed lunch to take advantage of it while I could. As I inch closer to where Veronica is sitting on her towel with long, tanned legs stretched out like landing strips in front of her, I make it a point to keep my distance. I just want to get a few shots of the surfers riding the waves. A few guys—and girls who are probably girlfriends—are among the group. All of them are tall and tanned and look like they walked right off the pages of a Hawaiian magazine.
Squeals pierce the air as Veronica’s assistants are sprayed by water from a small, boisterous wave. Veronica throws her head back daintily and laughs like a wannabe 1950s movie star—I suddenly feel embarrassed even though I’m not sitting beside her.
I peer back into my lens as two more guys from the group head out together into the wave-capped water, surfboards in hand.
Snap, snap, snap.
Suddenly the tall guy with a nice body in the red and black wetsuit looks in my direction briefly. Through my lens I see his eyes looking right at me, and I suck in a sharp breath, dropping my camera from my face with a pang of embarrassment settling in my stomach. I hope he doesn’t think I was photographing him, even though I was.