Solange
There’s only one rational explanation for what’s happening in this stairwell: I’m cursed.
Yes, I’m being dramatic. Yes, the drama’s guaranteed to escalate from here.
I’m in this predicament because my cousin Natalia, a cosmetologist by trade, called me at the last minute and begged for my help with, as she put it, “providing white-glove makeup services” for a wedding at the Cartwright. What even is that?
My other cousin Lina, the wedding coordinator for this swanky boutique hotel, has instructed me to keep a low profile. She would never admit this, but I’d bet money she’s worried that my alarmingly effective most-men-are-trash pheromones will change the outcome of this highly anticipated affair.
So fine. I’m happy to hand Natalia makeup brushes or wipes or whatever and keep out of sight. Except she assigned me an additional duty—asking for a broom and a dustpan—and I figured I could snag a few extra vials of courtesy moisturizer for my ashy hands if I just went down to housekeeping myself.
Damn my cheap ass to hell.
I should have purchased the lotion from the hotel spa and continued on my clueless way. Instead, I’m now rooted to the landing between the second and third floors, intruding on a private moment between the bride and a man who isn’t the groom.
“You don’t love him,” the man says, his blue eyes overly bright and his tie askew. Then he reaches up to caress her face.
The bride, a vision worthy of any wedding magazine layout, steps back, easily dodging his attempt to touch her. “I never said I did.”
Good Lord. She’s not even denying the accusation? If my mother were here, she’d gasp, place a hand across her forehead, and say, “Que escândalo!” She’d be right too. Because this? This is an epic scandal.
“Then don’t do it,” the man urges. “You’ll regret this for the rest of your life.”
“Give me another reason not to go through with it. One that counts.”
He gestures around them. “Where the hell is all of this coming from, Ella?”
She paces in the small space, twisting her perfectly manicured hands and mumbling incoherently, her face scrunched up in distress. Several beats later, she stills and takes a steadying breath. “I’m in love with you, Tyler. The question is, are you finally ready to admit your feelings for me?”
Holy shit. Is she serious?
Not-the-groom closes his eyes and says nothing, giving her the answer she wasn’t hoping for.
The nosy part of me wants to watch what happens next; the sensible part of me knows I can’t stand here forever. Think, Solange. Think. Okay, okay, I suppose I can pretend to be oblivious to what’s unfolding and slink past them. Since the bride’s makeup was already done when I arrived, Ella and I haven’t crossed paths, so I could make myself scarce in the dressing suite, and she would never know her secret’s been compromised. Or I could tiptoe back to the door on the third floor. Considering they’re totally engrossed in each other, I may be able to leave undetected.
I eye the stairs, then turn my head and stare at the door. Decisions, decisions. But hang on a minute. I didn’t do anything wrong. This is the bride’s mess, not mine. And I want that fucking lotion—it’s magical. Plus, I need time to plan my next move.
Because the apparently unlucky groom isn’t a stranger. Not exactly. Dean and I haven’t met yet, but he’s the best friend of Lina’s boyfriend, and loyalty to my cousin (along with basic decency) dictates that I consider whether to disclose what I’m witnessing.
A loud gasp signals that the choice of how to extricate myself from the situation is no longer mine, however, and when I glance back at the duo, two pairs of wary eyes are gazing at me.
Thankfully, I’m quick on my feet. “Sorry to interrupt, folks,” I say, giving them a jaunty salute. “I understand the need to sneak away just before you say ‘I do.’ My husband and I had sex literally ten minutes before we tied the knot.” I’m not married, but I can lie to someone’s face when the occasion calls for it.
To my relief, the tension in the bride’s body recedes, as if she’s determined I’m not a potentially hostile friend of the groom. Her unrequited crush, meanwhile, rubs the back of his head and barks out a laugh.
“It’s so hard to stay away from him, you know?” she says. “Just an hour more and we’ll be in each other’s arms for our first dance.” Playing the role of a bride flirting with her intended, she gives him a coy smile and tugs on the lapels of his suit jacket to draw him close. Is he a wedding guest, for heaven’s sake? Then she winks at him, the faint blush blooming across her dewy cheeks conveniently enhancing her performance.
Wow, she’s as talented an actor as I am.
I wave off her apology and graze the wall until I reach the first step that will lead me to freedom. “No worries. Enjoy and congratulations.” When I’m three steps down, I add, “I wish you all the best.” Why? Because it’s in neither my nor the groom’s interest to reveal what I really think about this situation. Not yet, that is. I’ll just grab that broom and dustpan—oh, and the free hand cream, of course—and find Lina. She’ll know how to handle this.
But when I return to the bridal suite (without the damn lotion because the hotel stocks it in a locked cabinet), Lina is nowhere to be found and isn’t answering my SOS text. Worse, the ceremony’s due to start in minutes.
“Where have you been?” Natalia asks as she dabs powder on a middle-aged woman’s chin and forehead. “I asked for the broom fifteen minutes ago.” She looks at my reflection in the mirror and raises an eyebrow.
I’m fidgeting. She notices.
Natalia twists her upper body—a significant feat given that she’s eight months pregnant—and leans in my direction so only I can hear what she says next. “Everything okay? You look like you’ve seen a naked ghost with a humongous schlong.”
I roll my eyes and puff out a short breath. Natalia frequently speaks in the tongue of her ancestral land: a frat house. “Uh, I’m not sure. It’s just that I saw the bride when I went downstairs and—”
The woman in the chair jumps up, dodging Natalia’s hands as my cousin tries to blot the woman’s face. “Ella’s downstairs? But why? She’s supposed to be here putting the final touches on her makeup.”
Actually, from what I could tell, Ella’s shooting her shot with another man. To Ella’s presumptive relative, I say, “I’m not sure, exactly. Maybe you should check on her?” I eye Natalia and mouth, I need to talk to you. Outside.
She nods, but then Ella sails into the suite and parks herself right between my cousin and me, several tendrils of her blond hair having escaped the intricate topknot she’s chosen as her wedding-day hairstyle. “I’ve got a bit of shine, but we don’t have a lot of time,” the bride says to Natalia. “Could you do a quick refresh?”
Natalia activates her professional mode. “Of course.”
Before Ella drops into the chair, she slides a troubled gaze in my direction. “And who do we have here?”
“This is my cousin Solange. She’s pretending to help me today.”
I give Natalia a dirty look, then add for Ella’s benefit: “I’m also on the groom’s side.”
Ella swallows. “I see.” Then she fans her face. “Is there someone who could get me some water? I’m feeling a little parched.”
I point to an impressive display of snacks—and bottled water—on a table a few feet away. “There’s some right there.”
“I’m partial to sparkling, actually,” Ella says, giving me a tremulous smile. “Helps to settle my stomach, which for obvious reasons is doing a number on me today.”
Natalia grins at me sheepishly. “Would you mind, Solange? Maybe ring room service?”
“I tried calling in the hall,” Ella says quickly. “They’re not answering.”
“The café on the mezzanine level, then?” Natalia asks.
Oh, I see what’s going on. Ella wants to get rid of me. I’m probably the only thing standing between her and the marriage she’s hoping to enter.
Gripping the chair handles, Ella leans over and pins me with a feverish gaze. “I understand you don’t have any dog in this fight, but that sparkling water would be just the thing to calm my nerves. It’s my big day, and I’m out of sorts.” She shakes her head as if to clear it. “I don’t do my best thinking under circumstances like these. Can you find it in your heart to do me this one small favor?”
Dog in this fight? Out of sorts? Not her best thinking? This woman’s really something. Using just a few carefully selected phrases, she’s telling me to back off and keep quiet about what I saw. And maybe I should. Still, I can’t help making a plea for her to do what’s obviously best for everyone involved: call off this wedding.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” I ask.
“It . . . it is,” she says, her voice breaking.
“It’s not too late to change your mind, you know.”
“My parents would say otherwise. Besides, I’ve made my choice.”
We stare at each other for a long moment, then I puff out my cheeks and exhale.
“Fine,” I tell her. “Every bride deserves to get what she wants on her big day. Even if it isn’t readily available. I’ll see what I can find.”
She gives me a shaky laugh, then twists around and relaxes against the seat back. Gah. I’m officially drained. A half hour more and Natalia will release me from my duties.
Just get the damn water, Solange, and move on with your life. Intending to do precisely that, I stalk to the door of the suite, then, with a last glance at my cousin, who’s squinting in my direction, I walk across the threshold and resist the ever present urge to meddle in someone else’s business.
When my phone buzzes in my pocket, I pull it out and see a text from Lina:
Sorry. The cellist got lost on her way here. Needed to get her settled. What’s up?
I type a quick reply as I walk to the bank of elevators: never mind. we’re good
LINA: K, great. The ceremony will be starting soon. The groom should be on his way, then Jaslene will come get the bride. Is everyone all set up there?
ME: think so. might want to check with Natalia to be sure
She texts a thumbs-up emoji.
Before I can respond in kind, a person slams into me, and I drop to the ground like I’ve been KO’d in a championship bout. Figures. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s falling on my ass with verve and panache.
“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” a husky voice says above my head.
I blink a couple of times and open my eyes. Whoa. The white man leaning over me isn’t your average Joe. Nor your average anything. On the contrary, he’s off-the-charts handsome—so much so that I imagine his facial features competing daily for the title of best body part.
“You’re no match for me,” his plump lips say to his strong jaw.
“The hell I’m not,” his jaw retorts. “Everyone knows I’m fucking irresistible when the big guy strokes me.”
“Pipe down, you two,” his hazel eyes tell them. “When we gaze at a woman for longer than three seconds, she’s a goner. Try to top that.”
There’s a tiny patch of scarred skin above his left eyebrow. It’s the money shot (the basketball kind, that is), and it adds a hint of mystery to his impeccable appearance.
“People dig me the most, though,” the scar boasts in a seductive tone. “Because it suggests he spends his days poring over spreadsheets and his nights kicking ass in a dingy boxing gym.”
“You’re all great,” I say.
Out. Loud.
A touch of pink on the apples of the man’s cheeks tells me he’s noticed my blatant perusal. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re all fine.”
Not-your-average-Joe smothers a laugh and clears his throat, then offers his hand. “Here, let me help you up.”
I take it and allow him to pull me to standing. Jesus, he’s tall. The man eclipses me by at least five inches, and I’m taller than the average woman. And now that I have my bearings, I notice the black tuxedo and dirty-blond hair: Thisis the person Lina gestured to when I asked her to point out the groom.
“I apologize,” he says, the flush creeping up his cheeks deepening a shade. “I’m a bit distracted today.”
“You’re the groom,” I say.
“Yep,” he says, nodding.
“Dean.”
My mastery of obvious facts is breathtaking. Truly.
“Two for two.” He gives his head a quick shake. “Should I know you?”
“I’m Solange. Lina’s cousin.”
He smiles, his eyes brightening in friendly recognition. “Right, right. You’re the youngest.”
“Only by two years,” I say a tad defensively. “But to my older cousins, I’m still walking around in diapers.”
Oh my God, shut up, Solange.
His smile widens (hopefully not because he’s picturing me in Pampers). “If it’s any consolation, Lina thinks you’re brilliant.”
I try not to fidget; brilliance is a lot to live up to. “I’d prefer to think of myself as resourceful and good-hearted.”
“Doesn’t mean you can’t be brilliant too, does it?”
I tap my chin, pretending to consider his question. “Now that you mention it, you’re absolutely right. I’m fucking brilliant too.”
He nods in encouragement, the laugh lines around his eyes appearing just to spite me. “That’s the fucking spirit.”
We grin at each other—until images of the encounter in the stairwell flash in my mind and force me to remember that this man’s heading to his wedding ceremony.
Honestly, I’ve never lamented the notion that all of the good ones are taken—lots of bad ones are taken too—but it seems especially unfortunate that I’m meeting this guy today. Just in case you were wondering, Fate: You. Are. Trash. Because if this man were free, he would definitely rise to the top of my to-do list. Well, I’ll just console myself by assuming he’s bad in bed. Cutie in the streets, troll in the sheets. C’mon, it’s only fair.
Dean’s gaze travels over my face, then he scrunches his brow and jerks his head as though his brain needs a reset. “Well, anyway, thanks for helping out today.”
“My pleasure.”
I’m all smiles and pleasantries on the outside, but inside my chest is deflating like a tire with a slow leak. Truth is, the narrow hallway isn’t big enough to contain the secret I’m keeping, and my lips aren’t sufficiently disciplined to remain shut. It’s right there on the tip of my tongue: Your bride’s in love with someone else. Run!
But then Dean’s phone rings, and he answers without hesitation, a shrill voice entering our bubble of conversation. The call’s a timely reminder that I know very little about this man’s life and shouldn’t wreak havoc on it unless I’m certain it’s the right thing to do.
“Dean, sweetie, that bastard posted an eviction notice on my door,” the irate person on the other line says loud enough for me to hear. “The judge said he couldn’t do that, right? What now?”
“Hang on, Mrs. Budros.”
He presses the phone against his chest so Mrs. Budros can’t hear him.
“It’s my client,” he explains to me. “I need to take this.”
“Let me guess: You’re a lawyer.”
“Guilty as charged,” he says with a grin. “Excuse me a minute.”
Pressing a finger against his free ear, he pivots away from me and strolls down the hall. “I’m back,” he says to his client.
Seconds later, the elevator arrives on the floor and Jaslene, Lina’s best friend and assistant, rushes out, a clipboard wedged under one arm, her gaze zeroing in on Dean. “Found him,” she says into her space cadet headset. “I’ll send him down right now.”
Jaslene marches over and tugs Dean forward by the sleeve. “Let’s go, hotshot. We don’t have time for this. You’re supposed to be downstairs so I can grab your bride.”
Dean allows himself to be led inside the elevator, never interrupting his conversation with Mrs. Budros. Without another word, Jaslene presses a button on the panel and gingerly jumps off before the doors slide shut. Just like that, he’s gone.
When she notices me standing off to the side, Jaslene stops short. “Are you the designated hall monitor?”
I consider Jaslene family, so she’s allowed to be a smartass.
“Cute.” Adopting a posh British accent, I explain why I’m loitering. “The bride has requested sparkling water, and I’ve been given the unenviable task of procuring it.” Eh, sounds more like a poor imitation of Count Dracula.
Jaslene rolls her eyes. “Don’t bother. You won’t get it to her in time. I’ll call in a request and have it sent downstairs to the waiting area.”
I shrug. “I’ll go back in and help Natalia clean up, then.”
Jaslene pouts. “You’re not going to watch the wedding? It’s the first one I’ve planned from start to finish. I don’t mean to brag, but I think I’ve finally hit my stride with this one.”
Watching that train wreck is not on my agenda, which means I need an excuse. Jaslene’s wearing a fitted pale blue skirt suit that complements the wedding scheme; my casual outfit would mar the vibe—or so I’ll tell her. I sheepishly gesture to my skinny jeans and ballet flats. “I’m not really dressed for it.”
“Just stand in the back,” she says, waving away my concern. “Near the rose-covered trellis. You’ll have a perfect view of the ceremony.”
Again, that isn’t a goal of mine, but if I’m honest about it, Jaslene will be hurt. This accomplishment is important to her, so that makes it important to me. “All right. I can’t wait to see how it all comes together.”
Lovely. Now I’ll be forced to watch Dean marry a woman whose intentions are unclear. And with every second that passes, I’ll wonder if I should have disclosed what I know. Like I said, I’m cursed.
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