Page 3 of Faking the Pass
And then the dauntless facade slid back into place. Olivia gave me a strained smile before speaking in an extra-calm voice.
“Everything’s fine,” she said.
The smile grew a little more strained and a lot less believable. “It’s being… handled. It’ll only take a moment.”
Handled? Was that a normal wedding planner term? Because as far as I knew, the only thing youhandledwas a problem.
“Is there a problem?” I asked. “Did Randy not show up?”
That odd floaty feeling got even floatier, threatening to carry me to one of those altitudes that made people pass out.
Olivia was speaking into her microphone again. “Yes, just tell them to hold off on the bride’s processional and keep playing the movie score until you hear back from me. I’m coming up.”
To me she said, “Oh no, honey, he’shere. Don’t worry about a thing.”
But a bead of sweat trickled from her neat hairline to form a trail down one temple. And the strained smile had turned her face into one of those brightly painted sugar skulls from Dia de los Muertos, minus the flowers and glitter.
Something wasdefinitelywrong.
My acting classes had trained me to portray pretty much every human emotion you could imagine on cue, so I was good at reading facial expressions and body language.
This unflappable woman wasseriouslyflapped.
Reading between the lines, I asked, “Is he having second thoughts?”
She didn’t answer the question directly. “Just a teensy delay. An unexpected guest. Everything’s fine. Don’t worry honey.”
Gripping her clipboard like it was a parachute and she’d just been told to jump out of a plane, Olivia turned to leave the dressing room.
“Please wait here. I’ll be right back. Just stay here okay?” she said before closing the door firmly behind her.
Whatwas going on?
What kind of last-minute guest could cause this kind of delay? Did Randy know the Pope or something?
I blew out a breath, pacing the dressing room in the mansion’s lower level. My feet hurt already, and I’d only had these stupid heels on for thirty minutes. I was going to be crippled by the end of the reception.
If it even happened.
Screw waiting.I had to see what was happening for myself.
If the wedding planner was up there applying a blowtorch to my groom’s icy feet… I needed to know about it.
Leaving the dressing room, I rushed—to the best of my ability in the enormous dress and cruel stilettos—up the stairs and into Bellevue Manor’s opulent entry hall area outside the ballroom’s glass doors.
The crowd visible through them was even larger than I’d expected.
It really did look like a movie scene in there with huge floral arrangements overflowing their containers around the room and candlelight sparkling all along the walls and in the crystal chandeliers overhead.
At the front of the room, live trees adorned with tiny twinkle lights bloomed with pink petals and overhung the podium where the officiant stood at the ready.
There were cameras everywhere. Apparently Randy wanted the ceremony to be captured from every angle.
But I didn’t see him standing up front with the officiant and the groomsmen and bridesmaids. The wedding planner must have lied about him being here.
And then I heard her voice.
Turning to the side, I spotted her in a romantic little marble alcove where a fountain poured water into a lighted pool, speaking in hushed tones with a man and woman.
