“Hey, there,” she says cheerfully. Too cheerfully. “Come on in.”
When I slip inside, I’m shocked to see many sets of eyes staring at me, Natalia’s unwelcoming pair among them.
“Max, this is everyone,” Lina says with an enthusiastic sweep of her hand. “Everyone, this is Max. He and I are working together on a project to help me get that wedding coordinator position I told you about.”
A guy behind the counter straightens as his eyes narrow on me. He looks familiar, but I can’t place him. His coloring and features favor Lina. Except he’s also big. Burly as hell. Way taller than I am.
“I’ve seen you somewhere before,” he says, his eyes squinting as though that’ll help him recognize me.
“You’re right, Rey,” Lina says.
Rey. Short for Reynaldo. I remember him now. He’s Lina’s older brother. We talked briefly during the rehearsal dinner—two days before my brother canceled the wedding.
Lina gives me a wicked grin before she addresses her family again. “You remember Andrew, right? The guy who dumped me on our wedding day? Well, this is his brother. The one who encouraged him to do the dumping. Anyway, let’s all sit. We have a wedding intervention to attend to.”
Everyone’s attention shifts to me, the schmuck who’s unsteady on his feet.
She shoots. She scores. I’m dead.
I can picture my single-sentence epitaph now: He never saw it coming.
Chapter Fourteen
Lina
Negotiate a peace treaty among my family members about the scope and details of Natalia and Paolo’s wedding? Or get some intel on Max by throwing him into the lion’s den? Who says I can’t do both?
“Why is he here?” Rey asks as he glowers at Max.
Tia Izabel, who’s standing next to Rey behind the counter and who’s fond of watching fireworks but never wants to cause them, elbows him in the side.
Max silently slumps into the chair behind me. I’m his shield, apparently.
“Like I said, he’s helping me prepare a presentation for the position I’m applying for,” I say. “Part of what he needs to do is see me in action, so I figured this would be a good way for him to watch me handle a delicate situation.”
Natalia and Paolo join me at the table, while my mother takes a seat at another one nearby. Tia Viviane, the mother of the bride and the main reason for this meeting, swings her chair around and straddles it, positioning herself in her own space. She needs attention, and she shall have it. “Why is the situation delicate?”
I flick my gaze toward Natalia and Paolo. The groom, who’s a sweetheart of a guy, will say next to no words tonight. He’s not messing with his future mother-in-law. The former is a badass—except when it comes to her mother. I’m here to be the badass in her stead. “We need everyone to be on the same page about certain aspects of the wedding, and there are so many ideas bouncing around, it’s getting overwhelming. We want to respect the couple’s wishes and tastes, and that may not always be in line with yours.”
“Talk specifics, please,” Viviane says.
“Let’s start with your dress,” I say.
Everyone who’s sitting—and I mean everyone—straightens up and leans back as though they want no part of this conversation. Traitors.
Viviane throws her hands on her hips. “What’s wrong with my dress?”
I gulp before I speak. “It’s a little . . . loud.”
And that’s an understatement. It’s a purple Lycra glitter bomb with flesh-tone mesh panels along the waist and hips. Think Real Housewives of New Jersey meets Dancing with the Stars meets the ladies of World Wrestling Entertainment. My mother and Izabel, for their part, are wearing neutral-toned dresses that complement the wedding palette.
“It’s perfect for the reception,” Viviane counters. “It’s going to look great under the lights when I’m on the dance floor.”
Natalia groans. “With the amount of sparkle on it, that dress will be the lights on the dance floor. Disco lights, more specifically. We’ll certainly save money on energy costs, at least.”
Max chuckles.
Viviane’s head nearly snaps off her neck as she swivels it in his direction. “You never get to laugh around here.” She slides a thumb across her throat, her expression menacing. “Nunca.”
I lean back and look at Max over my shoulder. “That means ‘never.’”
A muscle in his jaw twitches, and he casts a veiled glance my way. “I figured that out on my own, thanks.”
I want to giggle so badly, but if my family sees us getting along, they might ease up on him, and this is way too much fun not to let it play out a bit more and see what they’re able to draw out of him.
“Listen, Tia,” I say to Viviane, “you’re the mother of the bride, so you’re going to be a big part of Natalia and Paolo’s day, but the focus should be on them. As lovely as it is, your dress is a distraction.”
“Is that how you feel?” Viviane asks Natalia.
She nods. “Yes.”
“Why didn’t you just say so?”
Natalia sighs. “I did. On, like, five different occasions.”
Viviane fusses with a napkin in her hand. “I must not have heard you.” After a few seconds, she says, “Fine. I’ll wear a different outfit.”
I look over at my mother. “Mãe, you’ll help her?”
“Sim, filha. I’ll take care of it.”
I slap my hand on the table as if it’s a gavel. “Okay, next order of business. The strogonoff de frango on the menu.”
“The stroganoff de what?” Max asks behind me.
Rey bangs his hand on the counter and points a finger at Max. “Hey, you. Don’t talk. Observe.”
Max crosses his arms over his chest and grumbles under his breath.
Poor Max. I bet this is unfamiliar territory for him—taking a back seat and being forced to remain quiet. He probably hates it. As for me, I love, love, love it. “How you hanging in there, champ? Doing okay?”
“How sweet of you to ask, ISTJ.”
His reference to the fake Myers-Briggs personality type he assigned to me elicits the laughter he was probably shooting for. I turn my head over my shoulder. “A sense of humor even under pressure. I’m impressed. And just for that, I’ll help you keep up. Strogonoff de frango is chicken stroganoff. Brazilian-style stroganoff is very pink—from the tomatoes—and prone to stain your clothes.”
“What’s wrong with the stroganoff?” Viviane asks, her forehead puckered in confusion.
I can’t be around to mediate every situation between Natalia and my aunt, but I can show Natalia that it’s possible to do it on her own. “Nat, if you could ask the family for one thing that would make the process of planning your wedding easier, what would you ask for?”
Natalia meets Paolo’s gaze, and he gives her a small nod.
“I’d ask that everyone not add to our stress. That’s it.”
I nod encouragingly. “Okay, and how is the stroganoff stressing you?”
The words rush out of Natalia’s mouth like the release of steam from a pressure cooker. “It’s messy. And so I’m envisioning a disaster. Wedding photos with big pink splotches on everyone’s clothes. That stuff is like spilled ink in your purse, you know? It explodes everywhere. I just don’t want to worry that the flower girl is going to want a taste, or that a guest hugs me and gets it on my jumpsuit. It’s just a headache I don’t need.”