Two Bar Mitzvahs (No Weddings #3)(63)

“I’ll be next door for the duration if you need anything,” Darren commented to Rick as he stepped out from the booth they’d created. He turned toward me. “All set in both rooms.”

We headed out the door. “What, didn’t want to ‘pop-out’ in the Bieber room?”

The hard-edged rocker shot me a deadpan look, his shaggy head of hair and tribal tattoos making the question comically rhetorical. “Wearing earplugs at the party is rude, right?”

I barked out a laugh as we stepped into the other room. Darren headed straight for his sound booth as Kiki and Kendall descended on me at once.

“The photo booth’s not working,” they complained in unison.

Before I had a chance to ask if they’d plugged it in, they ran off shouting orders at people in different parts of the room.

I pulled out my phone, texting Suzanne.



Need electrician in Jared’s room. STAT.



Seconds later, a reply popped up.



On her way.



The parents of the guests of honor appeared in the doorway, John and Jared coming in right behind them, along with an entourage of what looked to be family and a group of boys and girls their age.

“Mr. and Mrs. Stewart, Jared, John.” I spread my arms wide, welcoming them. They were twenty minutes early, but we were on schedule enough to accommodate the incoming flow.

Taking a needed few seconds, I sent rapid-fire texts to my sisters and Suzanne.



They’re here.



And Madison still wasn’t.

Straightening my shoulders, I took a deep breath. Then I smiled at our clients. Showtime.





25


Ebb and Flow


Hannah and her crew wheeled in the second cake right before I escorted Jared and his father into their room. Both boys already had their official bar mitzvah at their temple, and, as if by divine proclamation, each boy held an air of importance, like the experience had elevated them.

My only comparison was when I’d gotten laid: my official induction into manhood.

But I understood their custom. My family had never been overtly religious, but my Roman Catholic grandmother, Irene, God rest her soul, had insisted that her grandchildren have exposure with the Church, even if we chose not to belong. To which my mother promptly exposed us to a variety of other religions, ensuring we were well aware of our choices.

In the end, neither Mom nor Dad went to church regularly or often, and none of us had ever been exposed to the Jewish religion, aside from a couple of friends at the club growing up. My learning curve for this double bar mitzvah had been a trail-by-fire, Google-aided endeavor. But the Stewarts had been eager to help whenever I stumbled or found a roadblock. Having helpful and understanding clients, who were invested in their kids’ happiness, made all the difference in a successful event.

As Hannah’s crew positioned the cake into the back next to the buffet, I gravitated toward this mysterious cake Hannah had teased me with. Catching flashes of sugar crystals in between Daniel and Chloe as they inched it safely onto its designated table, it wasn’t until I approached closer that I made out the theme of the cake.

Magnified into quadruple ordinary size, a regal black-and-silver chess set stood in cake form. As Daniel and Chloe wheeled the cart away, and Hannah inspected the cake for any needed last-minute repairs, I stepped behind her.

Needing closeness, but unable to sneak away with both parties revving up, I put my tablet down on the table beside the cake and slid my hands onto her hips, pulling her back into me—nothing lewd with kids and parents arriving, but enough to establish connection, possession.

She hummed a low note and leaned back against my chest, covering my hands with hers.

I bent my head down and brushed her hair back with my chin, sliding my lips across her jaw until I found her ear. My rumbled growl made her shiver. “I love the cake, Maestro. Reminds me of games we’ve played.”

My tone was illicit. While my mind meant the chess games I’d taught her to play, my body touching hers, behind hers, made me wish we could play all kinds of less-innocent games.

She turned her head and gazed up at me, smiling. “Thought you’d like it. With every stroke of icing, I thought of us. ”

My mind guttered yet again. I swallowed hard. “Stroke. Icing.”

“Mmm-hmm…” Her low tone was loaded with sensuality.

The new frosting condiment she’d recently added to our naughty pantry had a world of possibilities. In my struggle to be good, I tried to focus on the cake.

“Break it up, lovebirds. We’ve got a party to conduct.” Kiki grabbed our shoulders, separating us and shoving me backward.

I laughed and pulled both girls into a big hug. “Go be wonderful, girls. Here, Kiki, hold on to this.” I gave her my tablet for safekeeping.

An hour later, both parties were buzzing with energy. Music blared—thank f*ck in my room that meant rock music. We all stood by the cake again, the one spot in the room that seemed to be home base when we needed to catch our breath and oversee the party as a whole.

My gaze locked on to a potential hazard. “A chair is being dragged onto the dance floor. I need to make sure no one gets hurt during the hora.”

A crowd gathered on the floor, ushering the man of honor into the center and onto the chair. I glanced up at Darren who’d just faded out a song from Metallica. The popular song of “Hava Nagila” streamed out as the room cheered and gathered to form a circle, holding hands.