Page 174 of Mexico Can Choke On It
My brother is Mr. Fix-It, and Fiona’s got him wrapped around her manicured fingers.
God, this isso fucked up.
“All right, listen up, gentlemen. There is no way in hell I’m letting that deranged Barbie doll marry my brother. I’ll go along with this undercover cop show, but only until they break out the wedding rings. If your police buddies haven’t shown up by then, I’m taking the law into my own hands.”
I hold up my taser. “And by law, I mean arson. I’ll burn that overpriced Dream Doll Tent to the ground before I let that she-devil say ‘I do.’”
Nigel processes my threat. “I find your terms entirely acceptable, Miss Brinkman. Though I believe it won’t come to that. Law enforcement is scheduled to arrive momentarily.”
“You better be right, Lord Britchybottom, because I’m not bluffing.”
“Understood,” Nigel declares. “Now, we must all execute our performances flawlessly. I shall resume my hosting duties with Miss Von Cashmere. Mr. Sterling, you should mingle amongst the guests in your customary manner. Miss Brinkman, I beg of you, stay out of sight, but stay close.”
We all bob our heads together as though we’re accepting assignments in a wedding heist movie.
“Mission Save My Brother from Marrying a Felonis officially a go.”
Nigel extends his hand toward me. “The remainder of your confection, if you please. We mustn’t risk another outburst from Miss Von Cashmere.”
I groan and hand over what’s left of the cookie. He exits, Miss Muffy perched on his forearm.
Bryce turns halfway out the door then hesitates. “I didn’t treat you the way you deserved. I’m sorry for everything. My world taughtme that people like you were beneath me, when actually, Petra, you’re above us all.”
My stupid eyes want to water, but hell if I will let him see me cry. I snap back, “You don’t get to rewrite the ending to make yourself feel better. Stay the rich asshole you are, a man I can hate from across the damn country. Okay?”
He exhales. “That’s fair. I guess this is goodbye, Pip.”
I bite down hard then flash him a smile that feels like barbed wire. “Good luck ruling the world. I’ll be expecting my monthly credit card bills from your family’s bank. See you never, Moneybags.”
The door clicks shut with a ferocious finality, leaving me with one soul-crushing realization. The man I love is out of my life forever.
***
There’snowheretohidein this boujee tent. Outside was easy, but inside I’m a walking contradiction of white lace and black leather. Security guards are clocking every step I take. Servers stare like I’m a stray cat in the wrong neighborhood, and wealthy guests stop mid-mingle, as if they’ve never seen a leather jacket before.
I duck behind a fruit tower overflowing with velvet-skinned plums, glistening blackberries, and succulent figs. I snag a few grapes as I sweep the altar area for the best place to stake out.
Option 1: Behind the floral arrangements?Too obvious. Not with this white dress I’m wearing that screams “Wedding Crasher.”
Option 2: Near those industrial AC units humming like angry wasps?Too loud. The noise would drown out the vows and I’d miss my cue.
Option 3: Sit in the back row like a civilized human?Too exposed. If Fiona sees me, she’ll cram her bouquet straight down my throat.
My best bet is to hide in one of the oversized white curtains wrapped around each tent pole. If I wedge myself in just right, the folds should swallow me whole. Combat boots and all. Probably.
So that means I have to get as close to the altar as possible.
Silver trays rest on a nearby table, loaded up with on-call champagne flutes for guests. I grab one and hold it high, like a shield, as I weave between clusters of old money and new hair plugs.
“The jet was detained formaintenance, so we had to fly commercial. The trauma.”
“Our nannyquit, can you imagine? I had to make my own coffee, like an animal.”
“… rained the entire week in the Maldives. Itoldthe staff to fix it, but you know how unreliable they are.”
“We didn’t evenwantto go back to the Amalfi Coast, but the yacht’s a write-off, so what could we do?”
A guest grabs a flute from my tray, and I glance away to avoid eye contact.
