I know because Winter is waving and calling her over to our table, and even if I can’t see her, I can almost picture Summer spotting me, furiously trying to come up with an excuse not to join her sister’s table, failing, and coming over looking irresistibly pissy.
“Hey.” Summer joins our group.
She takes the last free chair next to Tucker and does her best to avoid meeting my eye, looking as subtly on edge as I predicted. But I’m sure only I can tell she’s nervous.
“Hey,” Tucker says back.
“Hi,” I say, infusing the perfect amount of charm into the greeting. And then, just because, I decide to rock her boat a little. “Good to see you again so soon.”
Winter stares back and forth between us. “You two know each other?”
The question prompts Summer to almost choke on the mini muffin she was eating, making her splutter and cough all over the place, her face turning beetroot red. It remains to be seen if it’s from the lack of oxygen or from embarrassment. Gosh, the woman is terrible at keeping her cool under pressure. She really doesn’t come across as the had-a-months-long-affair-with-my-best-friend’s-boyfriend type.
To put her out of her misery, I say, “We were just partnered up in yoga class.” Then, turning to Winter, I add, “Hard to miss the resemblance.”
Winter narrows her eyes at me and leans forward on her elbows. “Yo, Golden Boy, dial down the charm a notch, won’t you? My sister is off-limits.”
Oops.
Guess this answers my earlier question.
“Hey,” I self-deprecate a little. “I’m sure your sister has better things to do than mingle with the likes of me.”
I give Summer a mischievous wink, and she stares daggers back at me while pretending to sip her latte.
“No, you’re right,” Winter says. “My sister isn’t looking for a relationship right now.”
“Oh, is that the case?” I ask.
This is so much fun.
“Yes,” Winter replies. “Sammy has sworn off men for a while.”
“Has she?” I ask. “And how’s that working out for you, Sammy?”
And if looks could kill…
Summer’s lips part in a kill-them-with-kindness smile so viciously polite it lets me know just how much dirt I’ll have to eat later. “Best decision of my life,” she says.
That’s when Logan rejoins the table, asking, “What did I miss?”
And I’d pay gold to know what everyone is thinking. Winter is clueless about the tension between me and her sister. Tucker is looking at me funny; he may suspect something. And Summer is turning my insides out with the fierceness of her blue glare. I can’t wait to have some angry sex with her later. Today I’m in the mood for a little bite.
“I was about to tell the Jordan story,” I say, finally cutting Summer a break.
“Do you really have to?” Logan protests. “I still cringe every time I think about it.”
“What did you guys do?” Winter asks.
After an imperceptible “you’re welcome I got you off the hook” nod at Summer, I launch into my narration. “Let me set the mood first. Imagine the sun setting on a scorching day while two lone figures come back from the desert. Rid of their mounts, they walk the city on foot. The men are sweaty, dusty, and, frankly, in need of a good shower. But also famished.”
“You can stop speaking in third person,” Winter says.
“Okay, Snowflake, but you’re ruining my storytelling mojo,” I say, and resume my narration, switching to first person. “End of the day, we were dirty and exhausted, but even hungrier, so at the first open-air restaurant we saw on the way back to the hotel, we forfeited personal hygiene in favor of a good meal and sat at a table.”
Logan puts a hand over his eyes and shakes his head.
“Problem was,” I continue, “our Arabic wasn’t up to par, and neither was the servers’ English at this particular establishment. Our only option left to order was to point at other people’s plates and, what do you know, it worked. They brought us food and water, and only then we noticed there wasn’t any cutlery on the table. We tried asking a server with various degrees of gesticulating, but it became the dude’s turn to point at the other patrons of the restaurant, who were all eating with their hands. Okay, we said, now convinced we were at some kind of super traditional restaurant, and ate with our hands. The dish turned out to be delicious, a mysterious mix of meat and rice and spices and whatnot. When we finished our portion, they brought us more, and not just once but twice. At this point, Logan and I began to wonder if we hadn’t fall victim to a scam and how much the bill was going to be. But, as per the language barrier, we had no way of explaining we were full. So, we sat and finished everything they brought us, down to the final dessert and tea.”
Logan scoffs. “The cake should’ve been our clue, man.”
“Why?” Winter asks, looking between me and her husband-to-be. “What happened?”
“In a minute,” I say. “We finished eating and asked for the bill, of course without success. To make the server understand, I took a wad of cash out of my wallet and waved it in his face. My gosh, the humiliation.” I pass a hand over my face. “The waiter stubbornly refused to take my money. I was about to get up and forcibly stick the bills in his pocket when the music started and, tah-dah… the bride and groom walked center stage and began to dance…” I pause a moment for suspense. “And that’s how Logan and I accidentally crashed a Jordan wedding, ate traditional mansaf with our hands, and lived another day to tell the tale.”
Everyone around the table chuckles. Even Summer’s lips are curled up in the hint of a smile that positively disappears when I wink at her.
***
The breakfast party breaks up soon afterward. Summer escapes to her room the moment she’s taken her last bite of toast, claiming she has to go get changed. Winter and Logan are already dressed for the day, so they spend more time enjoying their coffee and the view while Tucker and I leave a few minutes after Summer. Our rooms are adjoining, so we walk together through the reception toward the elevators. We’re about to get in when a tall, slender woman with light-brown skin, a halo of curls, and striking aquamarine eyes calls after us, “Excuse me? Are you the wedding planner for the Spencer Knowles wedding?”
Tucker sighs. “I’m not a wedding planner, I work logistics, and okay, I’m good with checklists and in-depth planning, stocking, organizing… but I never asked for this job. And I can’t remember how they roped me into it, but now I’m stuck having to organize themes, color schemes, frocks, seating arrangements…”
“Fair enough,” the gorgeous lady says… and if I didn’t have my hands already full for the week, I’d probably choose this moment to make a brilliant comment and woo the missus. Instead, I keep quiet as she continues, “But you did plan this wedding, right?” And before Tucker can reply, she raises her hands, adding, “And before you tell me your entire life’s history again, this is a simple yes or no question.”