I gasp and blush, not because I’m a prude but my fiancé, August L. Whitney III, or Augie as everyone calls him, is very old-fashioned. We’ve done…lots of things, right up to the thing. But, we’ve done less and less of those other things ever since I moved to Las Vegas and started winning awards. So, moving here hasn’t helped the physical side of our relationship, obviously. But that can’t be the sole focus. Mutual support, respect, and friendship come first. Right?
I say, “Sorry, that just caught me off guard.”
She laughs, “Well, we’re going to have to have a conversation about your trousseau, plus honeymoon outfits, boudoir photos. But we can talk about the sexy stuff later.”
Wow, I had never even put in the time to think of all that. “Never in a million years will you get me to do boudoir photos. For the honeymoon cruise, I was just going to wear some nice dresses I already have. As for the wedding night? I’m sorry, I have no clue.”
Henrietta looks me squarely in the face. “Honey. This is Vegas, and you have Bishop Frye’s money to spend. You need to think big about your wedding night.”
At the mention of Bishop’s name, my chest feels hot, and my palms begin to sweat.
Over the past week, Bishop has ordered my cinnamon buns for breakfast every day. Sometimes I bring the buns to the conference room for morning meetings, and he talks me up to everyone in the room. Other times, he strolls into the kitchen and makes me smile when he looks around at all the goodies. Bishop has quite a sweet tooth, and it makes me happy to bake for him as we playfully banter.
Once, he ordered the buns up to his office, and I found myself jumping at the chance to deliver them personally. That was a mistake. Not because I felt uncomfortable being alone with him in his office, but because I felt too comfortable. No inappropriate remarks or glances. He’d invited me to sit and have coffee and buns with him — with his office door open. He’d sat and listened to me ramble on about food, with that calm, stoic face intently fixed on me. He’d been a professional. A complete gentleman. It was me who was the problem. I’d left feeling guilty about our interaction later and didn’t know why.
Based on what I know of Bishop, I know he’d probably love it if I went to a local boutique and picked out a killer outfit for my honeymoon.
But the mention of lingerie is too much. Augie would be utterly freaked out at the expense and offended that my boss paid for them. And yet, it would be nice to feel a little bit sexy and naughty in something I can’t afford for myself. Naughty is definitely how I would feel if Bishop was paying for me to drape my body in lace and satin, and…heck, I don’t even know what lingerie looks like these days. I’ve never worn it, and I wouldn’t even know what looks good on me. Perhaps I should let Henrietta at least make suggestions, and I could choose something small… The backs of my knees sweat now, and I feel a strange pulse inside my panties at the thought of a lingerie store charge appearing on Bishop’s credit card. At the idea of him investigating what the charge was and then knowing what I’m wearing on my wedding night. My body reacts to how wrong it is that it thrills me. What is wrong with you? You are engaged! Not tangled up in some kind of Indecent Proposal scenario.
Wait, am I? I hardly know the man, and he’s making all kinds of offers to pay for this wedding for no other reason than he stumbled upon me and my big mouth telling him my problems. That’s precisely what got Demi Moore in trouble in Las Vegas.
No, that’s not what this is. I’m paranoid.
“Honey?” Henrietta has caught me daydreaming. Oops.
Moving right along.
“You’re right about the honeymoon dresses, at least. As a matter of fact, I think I will get a new outfit. There’s one I’ve had my eye on downtown, in fact.”
She goes on to describe the one she thinks I’m talking about, and I’m thrilled and shocked that she is spot on.
Opening the binder, we talk about a string quartet for the ceremony and multicolored flowers everywhere: irises, daisies, snapdragons, and coneflowers. She shows me pictures of miles of bunting and a massive poster for guests to sign.
“I know you like big band, and I happen to have snagged the perfect musicians to play at the reception.”
Everything is happening so fast and so efficiently, I find myself feeling the need to press the brakes. Can I really allow my boss to spend this much money? It’s weird and inappropriate, right?
“We’re not super-sentimental people, so no need to go overboard with flowers and musicians. A DJ is fine. And basic white roses, I think.”
Henrietta nods and goes quiet, then closes the binder and looks at me thoughtfully. “I hope you don’t mind me saying this,” Henrietta says. “But you have such lovely skin, and your dress is so simple and elegant. I think an entire wall of wildflowers would look amazing with you in it. You would look like a fairy princess.”
That phrase punches me in the gut, and I’m not prepared for it. When I was a little girl, I had an entire spiral notebook filled with drawings. It was labeled “My fairy princess wedding,” and I had drawn myself wearing a long, flowing gown made of floral lace, with angel sleeves that draped down to the floor. On my head, I had drawn a flower crown with diamonds and pearls mixed in. I hadn’t thought about that since I was ten years old.
“That sounds very pretty. But I’m not… we’re not…fairytale people. After all, fairytales aren’t real,” I say, looking up at one of the wall hangings. The bride in the portrait looks a little like me. I wonder if that bride and groom ever argued over wedding plans. Doubt it; they look as carefree as any newlyweds could possibly look. “We’re more—“
As I say this, my phone bleats.
I apologize and tell Henrietta I have to take the call. “It’s my fiancé; he and his mother are flying in today because she wants to see the venue for herself.”
Henrietta nods in understanding. “Of course, take the call.”
I answer, and Augie jumps in without any sort of polite greeting. “My mother got lost on the way here.”
My hand goes to my cheek, horrified. “What?” I have a picture in my head of sixteen different possible terrible scenarios involving the conservative seventy-year-old matriarch of the Whitney family.
Augie continues, “She ended up at a place called The Orchid Room Burlesque Revue, and she is fucking traumatized.”
I cover my mouth to stifle a laugh. He seldom swears, this usually polite Southern gentleman. “No, that place is on the Strip. Orchid, the hotel, is downtown. Remember?”