Brown-Eyed Girl (Travis Family #4)(69)

Sofia turned briefly from the television and grinned at me over her shoulder. “You look great on TV,” she said.

“Your personality is larger than life,” Ree-Ann added.

“So is my ass,” I muttered as the television-me walked away and the camera focused on my backside.

Joe, who would tolerate no criticism of my posterior, discreetly pinched my rear. “Hush,” he whispered.

For the next four minutes, I watched with growing dismay as my professional image was demolished by quick-cut editing and whimsical music. I looked like a screwball comedy actress as I repositioned microphones, adjusted flower arrangements, and went out to the street to direct traffic so the photographer could get a shot of the wedding party outside the church.

The camera showed me talking to a groomsman who had insisted on wearing a cowboy hat with his tux. He was clutching his hat as if fearing I might rip it from him. As I argued and gestured, Coco stared up at the obstinate groomsman with a grumpy expression, her front paws flopping up and down in perfect timing to the opera music.

Everyone in the room chuckled. “They weren’t supposed to film me with Coco,” I said with a scowl. “I made that clear. I only brought her because the pet hotel didn’t have room that day.”

They cut back to the interview. “You’ve said that part of your job is to prepare for the unexpected,” the reporter said. “How exactly do you do that?”

“I try to think in terms of worst-case scenarios,” I replied. “Unexpected weather, vendor mistakes, technical difficulties…”

“Technical difficulties such as…”

“Oh, it could be anything. Issues with the dance floor, problems with zippers or buttons… even an off-center ornament on the wedding cake.”

I was shown walking into the reception site kitchen, which had been declared off-limits to the camera crew. But someone had followed me with a head-cam.

“I didn’t say anyone could film me with a head-cam,” I protested. “They didn’t do that to Judith Lord!”

Everyone shushed me again.

On the TV screen, I approached two deliverymen who were settling a four-tiered wedding cake on the counter. I told them they had brought it inside too soon – the cake was supposed to stay in the refrigerated truck or the buttercream would melt.

“No one told us,” one of them replied.

“I’m telling you. Take it back to the truck and —” My eyes widened as the heavy wedding cake topper began to slide and tilt. I reached up and leaned forward to catch it before it could damage all four tiers on the way down.

Someone in editing had bleeped out my swearing.

Noticing the way the deliverymen were staring at me, I followed their avid gazes, discovering I had leaned so close to the cake that my breasts were covered with white buttercream swirls.

By this point, everyone in the room was cracking up. Even Joe was trying manfully to choke back his amusement.

On the TV screen, the reporter asked me a question about the challenges of my job. I paraphrased General Patton, saying you had to accept the challenges so you could experience the exhilaration of victory.

“But what about the romance of the wedding day?” the reporter asked. “Doesn’t that get lost when you treat it like a military campaign?”

“The bride and groom supply the romance,” I replied confidently. “I worry about every detail, so they don’t have to. A wedding is a celebration of love, and that’s what they should be free to focus on.”

“And while everyone else is celebrating,” the reported said in a voice-over, “Avery Crosslin is taking care of business.”

I was shown making a beeline to the back of the church, where the chain-smoking father of the bride was lurking with a lit cigarette in his mouth. Without a word, I took the can of Evian from my bag and extinguished the cigarette while he stood there blinking. Next I was kneeling on the floor, duct-taping the torn hem of one of the bridesmaid’s dresses. Finally the camera panned to the groomsman’s cowboy hat shoved under a chair, where I’d secretly stashed it.

Someone had turned the hat upside down, and Coco was sitting in it. She stared directly into the camera, her eyes bright, her tongue hanging out, while the piece concluded with a grand orchestral finale.

I picked up the remote controller and turned off the TV. “Who put Coco in that hat?” I demanded. “She couldn’t have gotten in there by herself. Sofia, did you do it?”

She shook her head, snickering.

“Then who?”

No one would admit to it. I looked around the room at the entire lot of them. I had never seen them so collectively entertained. “I’m glad you all find this so amusing, since we’ll probably be out of business in a matter of days.”

“Are you kidding?” Steven asked. “We’re going to get more business from this than we can handle.”

“They made me look incompetent.”

“No, they didn’t.”

“What about the frosting?” I demanded.

“You saved the cake,” Steven pointed out. “While at the same time boosting the testosterone level of every guy in the audience.”

“It was a wedding show,” I said. “You, Tank, and Joe are the only three straight men in Houston who watched it.”