I’m spared having to answer when the waiter returns with our champagne. It’s hard to imagine how this guy managed to charm my mom into—oh, who am I kidding? At twenty-six, I’m as good as a spinster. Ma would’ve dished me out to any guy as long as he has a pulse. I’m so nervous by now that I take a gulp of champagne before Jake says, “Cheers.”
“Right, sorry. Cheers.” I clink my glass against his and down it. If I’m going to get through tonight, I’m going to need a lot of champagne.
Maybe it’s the champagne, or maybe it’s the fact that the food at the restaurant is excellent; whatever it is, halfway through dinner I realize that I’m actually having an okay time. Jake has a way of dropping little obnoxious hints about how rich he is—“so rich that when I sweat, I drip diamonds”—but aside from that, he’s actually got a good sense of humor, and he does seem to be genuinely interested in me, which is a pleasant surprise. What I do doesn’t normally interest men; in fact, most men seem to think that just because I’m in the wedding industry, that must mean I’m in a rush to get married myself. The truth is, being in the wedding industry is a surefire way of making me not want to get married.
I tell Jake as much, and he laughs. “Maybe it’s just that you haven’t met the right guy,” he says.
My heart gives a squeeze, and my smile wanes. It’s not that I haven’t met the right guy, I want to tell him. It’s that I’ve met him, and I know that no one else compares. But I have just enough sense not to blurt that out. Plus, it’s been four years since Nathan and I split up, and I seriously need to forget him. Pretty sure being hung up on an ex for four years counts as, if not pathetic, then at least bordering on creepy.
“You must meet so many bridezillas,” Jake says.
“Actually, the brides have largely been okay, save for one or two exceptions. Surprisingly, it’s been the grooms who have been trickier to handle.”
“Really? I find that hard to believe. Don’t you often get brides asking you to Photoshop them to look thinner, or whatever?”
I shrug, taking another swallow of champagne. “Sure, sometimes. But thinning down’s easy. Know what’s really tricky? When grooms ask me to make them taller. I can make them look more swole, but height is a real pain to edit.” Uh-oh, I’m straying too close to ranting about my favorite subject: groomzillas. There are just so many of them, but for some reason, brides get all the bad rep. “What about you? You must deal with difficult customers a lot of the time.”
“Nah, I’ve got people to deal with them for me. That’s why we’ve got a whole customer service team, you know?” He laughs again. It’s starting to grate on me. I drink more champagne.
By the time we’re done with the meal, I’m tipsy enough to know that I probably shouldn’t drive home. “I’m gonna call a Lyft,” I tell him, taking my phone out and noticing, with some dismay, that the battery is at 4 percent.
“What? No. Let me drive you. Give me your keys.”
“That’s okay, really. I’ll take a Lyft and then come back for my car in the morning.”
“The parking structure opens at eight a.m. Didn’t you say you need to be at the harbor by eight-thirty tomorrow? You won’t make it in time.”
I curse under my breath. He’s right. I need my car early tomorrow morning. Damn it, self! Why’d you have to go and get all tipsy? “But what about you? Don’t you need your car in the morning? I don’t want everything to come screeching to a halt because I’ve made you late.”
“I have other cars I can drive, and the hotel should be running smoothly enough by now not to fall apart just because I’m a couple of hours late. In fact, you probably won’t see much of me tomorrow. I’ll be mostly working behind the scenes,” he answers easily, holding out his hand. I can’t see a way out of this. If I keep refusing his offer, he’s bound to get offended, and then there goes our big wedding weekend. I mean, one would hope that he’s professional enough not to let a bad date get in the way of business, but can I really risk my family’s biggest wedding of the year? And anyway, it’s just a drive home. It’s really not a big deal. I live with Ma, so if he tries to weasel his way inside, I can always use her as an excuse.
As I fumble for my car keys, my hand brushes against the heavy Taser that I carry everywhere. I really should stop taking it everywhere I go; it’s heavy, it’s cumbersome, and it probably makes me seem like a paranoid idiot. Still, as I hand over the keys to my Subaru, I can’t help feeling glad that I have that Taser. And then, of course, I feel silly for feeling relieved.