Page 152 of Mexico Can Choke On It
The ocean keeps whispering as my playlist drones on. I realize…
This was it.
The closest thing to forever I’ll ever have with Petra Brinkman.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
PETRA
GROUP CHAT : CPK FOREVER
Me:Quick poll: CAN YOU DIE FROM HAPPINESS??
Cam:Okay, spill.
Me:He played it. Our song. From my graduation party. The one we kissed to.
Katie:That was seven years ago!
Cam:Casual hookups don’t play meaningful songs, babe.
Me:Help. I think my heart’s doing that dumb thing again… Hoping.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, PLEASEassume your respective positions. We will now beginthe wedding rehearsal.”
Nigel announces it as a royal decree. You’d think that would snap everyone to attention, but nope. No one’s listening. We’re all too busy staring at the absurdly oversized luxury circus tent we’re standing in.
This tent isn’t just big. It’s obscene.
No joke—if a jumbo jet wanted to crash this ceremony, it could land inside and still have room to do a three-point turn. The ceiling is vaulted like a cathedral. White silk drapes billow dramatically, catching the ocean breeze. And there are fifty-two crystal chandeliers, each one the size of a Honda Civic, sparkling as if somebody captured the sun and broke it into a million pieces. I can’t look directly at them without squinting.
The lavish displays of white roses and peonies are as beautiful as they are boastful, screaming:We told you money was no object.Behind them, industrial AC units hum away, because no one’s makeup is going to melt off at tomorrow’s picture-perfect outdoor wedding. Not on Fiona’s watch.
Through the tent’s open archway, the ocean sprawls beyond the altar, as if Mother Nature is trying to photobomb this over-the-top production.
Nigel stands in the center of it all with his clipboard in hand, commanding an army of staff as if he’s directing a military operation. Which, let’s be honest, he basically is.
“Nigel,” I call out, “quick etiquette question: Will Miss Muffy’s ceremonial cushion be in silk or velvet?”
“Miss Von Cashmere has very specific preferences, Miss Brinkman. The burgundy velvet, positioned precisely six inches from the aisle for optimal viewing.”
“Right. And if someone accidentally sits in her spot?”
“I believe you Americans have an expression about ‘finding out.’” The corner of his mouth twitches, and I swear I catch a glint of humor. “Now, Miss Brinkman, if you would kindly assume your position with the bridal party.”
I grin, because getting Nigel to crack even a microscopic smile is a personal victory. He produces a small silver bell from his jacket pocket.
PING! PING! PING!
“Casa Cashmere has hosted precisely one hundred and twenty-seven weddings,” he announces. “Each has proceeded with dignity and grace. We shall continue that tradition. First position, if you please. Mr. Echo shall stand in for Mr. Whitfield, who has yet to arrive.”
Fiona’s voice floats over from where she’s fussing with her rehearsal dress. “Daddy should be arriving soon! He’s always a little late because he’s, for sure, the busiest man ever. I mean, you should see his calendar.”
WHUP-WHUP-WHUP-WHUP.
A helicopter roars overhead, making the chandeliers rattle and sending rose petals flying like confetti.
“Ooh, maybe that’s him!” Hana squeals, clapping her hands.
