My Big Fat Fake Wedding(83)

I don’t bother correcting her that I’m so far from a princess, it’s comical. We grew up struggling, and even now that we’re all comfortable financially, I’m not a fussy, prissy type. Nope, not a princess, Mom.

But she’s still talking as I’m having a mental dissection of Princess vs. Violet. I don’t compare to Diana, Caroline, Kate, Cinderella . . . wait, that last one’s not real. “I’m so happy for you, and I gotta say, the triplets are furiously practicing their asses off. They know this’ll be huge exposure for them!”

“Mom, about that. With the orchestra and all—”

“Oh, don’t worry, honey. Vanessa called the orchestra this morning,” Mom says gleefully. “She explained it all to them, and get this . . . the director’s really big into cross-genre stuff. His comment to ‘Nessa was that if Guns N’ Roses, Queen, and Toni Braxton can do songs with symphonies, then why not do the same for your wedding? The girls are already over there talking songs and arrangements. It’s going to be great!”

Shit . . . what next, pyro and laser lights?

I pinch myself as punishment for even thinking that, not wanting to tempt the universe into delivering that level of craziness.

I hear a commotion outside the office, and I look out to see a small group of paparazzi surrounding a man who’s marching with a purpose as he pushes a rack of garment bags. Seems my next dress appointment is here.

I open the door and yell out, “Please leave him alone.” Thankfully, I managed to hold the phone away from my ear so I didn’t deafen my mother with my shout.

The paps turn toward my voice and I think, for one second, that they’re going to comply. Instead, their cameras all point at me and start clicking away as they call out questions.

“Where are you going for the honeymoon?”

“Are you marrying Ross for his money?”

“When’s the baby due?”

“How’d you snag the city’s hottest bachelor?”

“You still haven’t found a dress?”

“Ugh, no comment. No comment,” I tell the vultures. To the stone-faced bridal assistant, I wave a hand, hurrying him. “Come on before they eat you alive.” He tosses a withering look over his shoulder like there might actually be zombie monsters coming after him but that he’d gladly take them on.

Putting the phone back to my ear, I say, “Mom, you there? This is crazy. I’ve worked with clients who have paparazzi following them everywhere, but it’s never been me. How do celebrities do this? I just want to be left alone.”

“Oh, hush!” Mom crows, giggling. “Just sit back and take it all in. Use it to your advantage.”

That might be wise advice if I had any idea how to do that. As it is, I just feel like the increased visibility is going to come back and bite me in the ass because there’s no way we can pull off a fake wedding with their constant scrutiny and sneaking around.

“I’ll try, Mom. I need to go, though. I’ve got dress trying-on to do.”

We hang up and I turn to the bridal assistant who’s been waiting patiently.

He sticks out his hand. “Weston Worthington, Ms. Russo. Considering our timeline, are you ready to get to it?” I like him instantly, all business and professional, not a word said or a care given about the circus outside my office.

“Yes, that’d be perfect.”

“If you’re comfortable, perhaps you can change into your foundational garments and let me evaluate your shape. I find that to be most efficient so that we can focus on gowns that will flatter you personally.”

I know an order when I hear one, so I turn to head back into my office, which we’ve been using as a makeshift dressing room. “Certainly. If you wouldn’t mind, could you close the curtains? They’re one-way visibility, but I don’t want to risk anyone getting a shot of me in my underwear.”

I swear I see Weston’s lips twitch like he’s holding back a laugh. See? Obviously, not a princess, and barely fit for polite company with this sassy mouth.

I strip and wiggle into the bodysuit I’ve been using as my mainstay for the wedding gowns. It’s nothing crazy like the Spanx that almost killed me under my red gala dress. This set is more smoothing than compression, so it’s comfortable and all one piece, which makes it easy.

I open the door slowly, making sure the front room is fluorescent-lit only before coming out in what equates to a flesh-toned colored swimsuit. Archie’s droll voice greets me. “That one. You should absolutely wear that and nothing else.” He points my way, making a spinning motion, which I answer with a middle finger.

I know he’s exhausted with doing all the dress shopping and wedding stuff on top of our full schedule of actual work. He’s been a saint, doing so much at Mrs. Montgomery’s while we both keep all the juggling balls in the air. I did at least get Ross’s couch ordered yesterday, making the most of our ‘lazy’ Sunday by working diligently on my laptop all afternoon.

Abi interjects, apparently having arrived with Archie while I was changing. “Okay, let’s get to work. Snap, snap, people.”

She’s in boss mode, which makes me worry she’s got too much on her plate with all she’s doing to help with the wedding, but then she smiles at me and I can see the joy she’s taking in planning this. I know she loves working with flowers, but I think she really loves weddings.