Page 40 of The Trouble with Love and Ink
A velvet loveseat for the bride and groom sat in the front of the room. Perhaps throne was a better word, as the loveseat waited on a raised platform with a backdrop of fresh banana leaves and hibiscus flowers so vibrant that they looked to have been plucked in Hawaii and flown over that very morning. A neon sign added a pop of fun to the tropical stage: All you need is love.
Caterers had set up warmers along a long wall, and a dessert table flourished under a full balloon arch of emerald and gold. A five-tiered cake stood proudly at the top, one of those artfully naked confections.
On the tables, floating candles sat in vases of water and ferns—more greenery, more life to the room. Even the chairs were dressed well for the event, tied with neat magenta and pink bows. All of this beneath the light of grand crystal chandeliers.
For a wavering minute, I wondered if I’d been confused, that this wasn’t the shower but the wedding itself. But then again, Atteridge money made Victoria a different breed from the rest of us.
A hand ran self-consciously down the side of my skirt. I’d painstakingly picked the outfit, wanting to look professional but not too stiff. I’d finally decided on a floral midi skirt and a cropped white sweater. Now I wished I’d gone with slacks and a button-down so I could blend in with the other vendors. Be a fly on the wall.
Beck noticed I wasn’t right behind him and doubled back. “Hey, are you okay?” he asked.
“It’s a lot.” My eyes trailed along the wall of vendors.
Beck scoffed. “Victoria tends to be a little extra.” His eyes roamed over my face. “You look pale, Lane.” Then those eyes widened. “You aren’t going to pass out, are you?”
“No!” The question surprised me, but then I remembered the meeting where Wesley had insinuated my fainting spells were a regular occurrence.
Beck didn’t seem convinced by my answer. He wrenched the rolling cart from me—no easy task since I had the handle in a death grip. After he parked it off to the side, he took my hand and steered me back into the lobby. I followed him into a dimly lit side hall and then to an empty conference room.
“Sit,” he commanded. Part of me wanted to be obstinate and refuse, but the rolling sea in my stomach told me to listen to him.
Water bottles lined the center of the table. Beck took one, then opened it for me. “Drink,” he said before taking the seat next to me.
“Are you this bossy to all your girlfriends? Or just the fake ones?” I asked before glugging half the bottle.
“What’s going on?” he asked, ignoring my attempt at humor.
I screwed the cap back on the water and then rested my forehead against the table. “I don’t know if I can do this,” I admitted.
“Fake dating me or the calligraphy?”
“Both. But mainly the calligraphy part.” I raised my head, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “I don’t think I can pull this off.” I inhaled sharply. “But I have no choice. I signed up for this. People are counting on me. I can’t just—”
“Hey, hey,” Beck put his hand on my arm to halt the tidal wave of my voiced concerns. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”
My brows scrunched together. “But your sister—”
“Will live without someone signing seashells at her party.” His features softened. “Again, I’m not making light of what you do. But no one is going to force you out there. If you aren’t comfortable, I’ll drive you home right now.”
“You’d do that?”
“Of course, I would.”
“But what about Reagan?”
Beck gave an amused smile. “What about her?”
I gave my own smile—a knowing one. He wanted to make her jealous, which meant he probably still had feelings for her.
“Listen,” Beck continued, “it’s your decision. And if you want to leave, I’ll take you. But you belong here. I’ve seen your work. It’s incredible.”
I blushed, but not one to take a compliment, said, “Says the guy who thinks cursive and calligraphy are the same thing.”
“You’re right. I have limited knowledge of calligraphy. But how many professional calligraphers do you expect to be in attendance today?” My lips parted, ready to reply. But he was right. I felt like I could breathe deeply for the first time since I stepped into the hotel. “I suspect you are a pro at your trade, but even if you aren’t, it doesn’t matter. You’ll be the leading authority on calligraphy at this event.”
And that’s how Beckett Atteridge coaxed me out of hiding and back into the ballroom. Still fighting the residual effects of imposter syndrome, I gripped the handle of my rolling cart, scanning the room for Amanda or Victoria, and nearly jumped out of my skin when someone shrieked behind us.
“No, Jason! Seven. We are doing seven seats per table. Not eight!”
