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“Which means he has a pulse?” I quipped, finally making it to the peony lined aisle. I tried to not take the glare the blonde at the end incinerated me with personally, since I may or may not have stepped on her toe. “Sorry,” I muttered.
“No apologies necessary,” Tamara assured me with a sigh. “I can’t help myself. I must have been a dude in a past life.”
“I wasn’t talking to-” I forced a smile on my face when I met the caffeinated gaze of the wedding planner, Jessie Stone. Her onyx brows drew together like she was debating whether or not she should give me the third degree about why I wasn’t in my seat with fifteen minutes until showtime, but she tilted her head away from me, having her own side conversation.
I continued my own convo, trying to not move too quickly because I had my muscles down there on shaky lockdown. I still moved with a purpose because there was way too much riding on this event to become The Caterer Who Wet Her Pants. And speaking of those pants, choosing them had been a no-no from the stares I’d been getting, even though they were evening, palazzo pants that had cost me a small fortune, and I’d paired them with an even more expensive designer blouse.
“Look, Tam, it’s bad enough that I’ve been judged by every one here and they haven’t even tasted the cupcakes yet-”
“Fuck those rich bitches,” Tam proclaimed with all the crass, straight up, take no prisoners charm that drew me to her in the first place. Our sophomore year of college, she’d called out a fellow classmate who had the nerve to laugh at someone in the middle of their presentation. Tamara Reynolds didn’t tolerate bullying, then or now. “They wish they were half as awesome as you.”
I came to a hard stop in the lobby, trying to remember if the bathrooms were downstairs or at the end of the corridor. “That’s sweet. Almost sweet enough to make me forget that I’m pissed at you.” My bladder twitched at my poor choice of words and I barreled down the staircase with a renewed sense of purpose. I remembered there was at least one (hopefully unoccupied) bathroom near the service entrance.
“What did I do?” Tamara asked, feigning innocence. “I just commented that if the delivery man was down to barter-”
“You asked me if it was cool to offer the delivery man your vagina in lieu of payment.”
I picked up the pace, grateful that I was pretty much the only one in the hall. The only one that was thinking about bathrooms instead of wedding bells.
The Mitchell Wedding was heralded as the most exclusive event of the year and my catering company, Madison Creations, had not only been chosen to cover the desserts, but the bride and I had bonded over cupcakes and she’d insisted that I come to the ceremony as well. So while Tamara offering sex instead of cash would save us some money, I had a feeling the wedding planner would lose her shit if one of her minions spotted Tamara and the delivery guy humping behind the cupcake display.
“Just pay the guy and start setting up.”
“But he has this tear drop tattoo beneath his eye-”
“That means he’s killed someone, Tamara!” I let out the breath that I’d been holding when I saw the bathroom shining at the end of the hall.
“Maybe it’s a heart and not a tear drop,” she mused hopefully. “I’m getting vibes from him. He’s definitely a lover, not a fighter.”
Despite my best friend working my very last nerve, I couldn’t stop the smile from teasing my lips. “Don’t make me laugh! I’ve gotta pee so bad and I’m almost to the bathroom.”
“Wait, isn’t the ceremony in a few minutes?” she asked, forgetting the fact that she’d called me, knowing full well I was probably sandwiched between socialites, waiting for ‘Here Comes The Bride’ when she called to ask for my permission to get her freak on. “Why didn’t you go earlier?”
“Because I didn’t have to-” I stopped mid-explanation. “Look, you just handle the delivery. Without propositioning the delivery man.”
I hung up on her before she tried to sell her case, knowing that she was mostly kidding. Her taste (or lack thereof) in men was definitely questionable, but she would never screw up an event. She’d been there with me from the start, when we were operating on a shoe string budget and wondering if we’d branch out beyond kid’s parties and making cookies for business meetings. After she revamped our website and we rocked out at a couple of food truck events in the city, our phone had been ringing off the hook. Our inbox was flooded with inquiries and orders to the point where I was going to have to hire an extra staff member just to keep up. And now with the Mitchell wedding, we’d be introduced to a whole new world of clients who would pay high dollar for our baked delights.
We were gonna rock this event.
First things first...
I gripped the door knob, twisting it.
Or tried to twist it, but it didn’t go anywhere.
My heart sank when I realized it wasn’t budging because it was locked.
The melodic soundtrack that hummed from the speakers attached to the walls may have muted my tell-tale jiggle, so I knocked on the door too so whomever was on the other side knew someone was waiting. After I announced myself, my knuckles lingered when I heard what sounded like...a laugh? High pitched, feminine, and definitely oblivious and unmoved by the gravity of my situation.
So I knocked again.
Harder.
“O-One minute!” Even muffled, with the barrier of the door between us I knew that she wasn’t remotely interested in keeping that promise.
I debated hunting down the other bathroom, but paused when a new set of sounds floated through the door.
Slap.
