Page 27 of How to Ruin Your Ex's Wedding
“You look good, my queen. Really good.”
“Thank you.”
“But are your breasts getting smaller?” He squinted at my chest, then put his glasses on and looked closer. “I think they are. Should we have them enlarged?”
I’d cough-laughed. “Excuse me?”
“While I love you thinner, my queen, I do prefer a more ample bosom.”
“And my C-cup is not ample enough?”
“You know what they say, bigger is better.” He’d smiled.
I’d changed the subject before I lost my temper. There’s a lot I will do to enhance my appearance, it’s a must in the entertainment industry. And even though I’m not sure if I plan to return to it, turns out Hunter is a fan of the same alterations. But I’m not there yet, mentally, at a boob-job. I mean, I prefer a larger dick, but I didn’t offer to get him an enlargement.
I pull open the door to the bakery, peeking at the exterior before going in. It’s a cute little shop, very unassuming from the street front. There’s a large display case near the cash register when you first walk in. Then, off to the side is another room with table and couch seating, a fireplace, bookshelves filled with books, and an even smaller room off that one where it appears the tasting will be taking place. Enlarged photos of cakes cover the walls, and the air is filled with the scent of sugar and vanilla.
I’m surprised I’m even on time, considering lunch hour in downtown Seattle is often crazy busy and crowded. Liza is already in the small room, talking to a man with scraggly hair and a camera around his neck, and another in his hand. It stops me. The only person I’ve ever known to do that is Pax.
Of course, Pax is the only photographer I really know in my adult life. Still, it isn’t something I’ve seen often with the paparazzi or on movie sets. Liza had all but insisted we hire this man. She swears he is thebest of the best, just the bestand that we arelucky, so very luckyto have caught him when he’s free. I’ve started to notice she uses the same words in repetition, over and over, and it’s annoying.
Pfft. You just did the same thing, Tabby.
“Tabatha, I’m so happy you are here. It is lovely to see you again, just lovely. This is your photographer, Matthew Hanhauser. Matthew, this is Tabatha Seton, soon to be Simpcox.”
“I’ll be keeping my name,” I say, unnecessarily.
“Oh,” Liza says. “Okay. Okay, well.”
“Nice to meet you, Matthew.” I hold my hand out to shake his, and a jolt passes through me when we touch. His hands are rough and warm. They feel good against mine. I look at our joined hands, then up at him. It’s hard to see his eyes behind his thick glasses, but I’d swear they are laughing at me.
“It is nice to meet you as well, Tabatha. Or would you rather I call you Ms. Seton?” His voice reminds me of Pax, but I couldn’t identify why. They don’t sound similar.
Jesus, Tabs, quit thinking about Pax, you are being ridiculous.
I know I’m not thinking of Pax for any reason other than this is a wedding and he’s someone I’ve married before. It’s the correlation of circumstance that keeps him at the forefront of my mind.
“Tabatha is fine, thank you for asking,” I tell him.
He nods in response and fiddles with one of his cameras. I take a moment to get a good look at him. There is something about him that is appealing, but I couldn’t tell you what. He’s not particularly attractive. He might be if it weren’t for the hair. On his head and on his face. I didn’t think anyone had a mustache any longer except for Tom Selleck and Sam Elliott. Oh, and Burt Reynolds. But it dies with those three. It has to, they aren’t a good look on anyone else, especially not on my wedding photographer.
Click.
He takes my picture as I study him. I’m fairly certain my eyes were half-closed.
“Whoa, what are you doing? I wasn’t ready,” I tell him.
“Mr. Simpcox was real clear, ma’am, he wants candid shots. I’m just gettin’ warmed up.”
“Well, could you warm up on cakes or something?”
“Sure thing, Ms. Seton.”
Didn’t I just tell him to call me Tabatha?
I look around, noticing everything is ready. We’re just waiting on Hunter. Which is odd since he’s never late. I turn my back to the others and try his cell. Voicemail. So, I send him a text.
ME: Everyone is waiting. Are you almost here?
