Page 42 of The Billionaire & the Virgin Chef
Emily
Dylan goesoff the deep end two days before Jackson and Dahlia’s wedding. Does he realize what I have to deal with as both caterer and maid of honor? I’m caught between two huge sets of competing responsibilities, both with almost the same deadlines, sky-high expectations, and risks of embarrassment and loss of my best friend if they don’t both come off without a hitch. Smack in the middle of reviewing the meal plan with my catering and serving staff, and handling the last-minute hiccups with the wedding planner, he bursts into mykitchen.
“You need to come with me now, Emily,” he orders me, not caring about the thirteen people who are hanging on the wedding planner’s everyword.
I try to be sweet. “We’re really busy, love, but come back in about an hour and a half. I’ll have a few minutesthen.”
“No,” he says firmly. “You and I have toleave.”
“Why?”
He leans down and close to my ear, he says, “There’s news aboutJoy.”
I reach down to the floor, pick up my purse, and excuse myself. That’s a sound rationale for handing off this meeting to the wedding planner’s and my sous chef’s capablehands.
I follow him out from the kitchen through the main floor of the Hamptons area resort Jackson and Dahlia chose for theirnuptials.
“What... how... when did you find out about it?” I ask, tripping over eachword.
He leads me out to his car in the parking lot. “We need to gonow.”
“Where exactly are wegoing?”
“JFK airport. My contact will give us all the detailsthen.”
The car is silent for the entire ninety-minute drive. My hands won’t stop shaking, my tongue is heavy, and my throat is tight. I can’t think straight with the never-ending list of questions and flood of emotions that wash over me like oceanwaves.
When we arrive at JFK, Dylan drives into the short-term parking structure and sends a text on hisphone.
“Who are we meeting?” I ask. “Yourcontact?”
“What I know is the person is in a violet top and blue jeans, and will be wearingsunglasses.”
We jump out of the car and hurry into the terminal. “Are they male orfemale?”
“Female.”
I take Dylan’s offered hand, glad for the extra support to stay upright while my knees threaten to buckle and give out on me. How are we supposed to see Dylan’s contact through the throngs of travelers and airport staff? There are thousands of people moving in everydirection.
“Where are we meetingher?”
Dylan doesn’t answer. As I glance up at him, I notice a hint of a smile on his face. “Dylan?”
“There sheis.”
I follow his stare to look for who he’s referringto.
Then I seeher.
All the air leaves my lungs. Tears stream down my face. My knees really do buckle, and I feel Dylan’s strong arms wrap around my waist to hold meup.
It’sher.
My babysister.
It’sJoy.
Her face is unmistakable, even after all these years. She looks almost identical to how I rememberMomma.
