“What kind of ‘inside’ are we talking?” Emma asked. “Look how bonkers they went when they saw the drone on their property. What do think will happen if Mr. Angelini finds you in bed with his wife?”
“I don’t think it’s going to matter.” Chloe looked up from her phone. “There might not be a wedding. Bella posted on her social asking for recommendations for a new wedding planner because she had to fire her last one. If she doesn’t find someone soon, she’s going to postpone the wedding.”
An idea niggled at the back of my mind. I’d never planned a wedding on my own, but I’d been dragged into preparations for the weddings of numerous relatives and had attended dozens—maybe even hundreds—more. Wedding season in the South Asian community started in May and went until September. I spent every weekend and most Thursday and Friday nights at welcome dinners, sangeets, mehendi ceremonies, and then Saturdays and the occasional Sunday attending the wedding itself. Granted, they involved South Asian traditions, but at their essence, weren’t all weddings the same?
“What about us?” I suggested. “We could plan her wedding.”
“I hate weddings,” Emma grumbled. “All that fake happiness, drunk dancing, family feuds, cringeworthy speeches, and shoving cake in people’s mouths isn’t for me. And then after you spend the equivalent of a down payment on a house for one stupid day, he cheats on you with your best friend when you’re at the hospital with your mom who has just been injured in a motor vehicle accident, runs up all your credit cards so you can’t pay for her medical treatment, and skips town in the car you and your dad built together before he got cancer and died.”
“Wow,” Cristian said. “Is that what happened to you?”
“No.” Emma shrugged. “It’s just something that might happen that makes the whole wedding idea a total waste of time.”
“I thought we were planning a heist.” Gage folded his arms across his chest. “Not a wedding.”
“The wedding is the perfect cover for our heist. We can plan both.”
“We can’t just message her randomly and offer our services,” Chloe pointed out. “She’s been through some of the biggest event planners in the city. We have no street cred. We don’t even have a website or a social media footprint.”
“We can set all that up,” I said. “The biggest problem is finding a way to meet her. We can’t just show up at her door.”
“Not unless we want to get attacked by killer Bees.” Anil gave a dejected sigh. “Honey never had a chance and neither do we. I say we give up and go home.”
“I say we crash the Summer Garden Charity Ball.” Chloe looked up from her phone. “Bella is going to be there on Thursday night with her fiancé. She’s been posting pictures of dresses.”
“You need an invitation for that event,” Cristian said. “I have clients who go every year. It’s only for the rich and famous.”
Gage shot him a sideways glance. “Thought you were an escort. Can’t you find some single rich lady who needs a date?”
Cristian stroked his chin. “I could make a few calls.”
“I can get an invitation.” Jack’s gaze dropped to my worn sneakers, then up my torn jeans to my faded white T-shirt and flannel shirt. “Do you have something nice to wear?”
I gave an affronted sniff. “Are you saying my clothes aren’t nice?”
By way of answer, he held out a black card with bloomingdale’s on one side and the name Clare Richards—Stylist written in gold script on the back. “Clare will take care of you.”
I stared at the card, aghast. “I can buy my own clothes.”
“It’s black tie and you gotta dress to impress.” He tucked the card in my shirt pocket. His fingers may or may not have brushed my breast. My nipples didn’t care. They reacted with enthusiasm.
“Is this one of those prank shows where I go to the store and people jump out and laugh at the naive candy store clerk slash suit salesperson who thought she’d met her Daddy Warbucks?”
He patted the card in my pocket. Another touch. Another sizzle of heat through my veins. “You wanna run with the big dogs, sweetheart, you have to look the part.”
“What big dogs? Where am I running?” Was he asking me out on a date? If so, shouldn’t I be offended that he didn’t accept me for who I was? Or that he assumed I didn’t have a dress fancy enough to wear to a high-society black tie event? And did I want to go out on a date with a man who kept a stash of “Clare” cards in his pocket, all ready to whip out when he wanted a hookup with someone but didn’t like the clothes she wore?
“I thought you wanted to be Bella Angelini’s wedding planner,” he said.
“I do.”
“This is how you’ll get the job.”
Eleven
My parents and my grandmother were eating dinner in the kitchen when I returned home after our boat ride from Hell.
“Here she is,” Nani called out after spotting me in the hallway. “Were you selling suits or candy today or were you out looking for a proper job?” In her usual dramatic fashion, she pressed a hand to her chest. “What is the world coming to when women have to sell suits to men? It’s the end of days.”
“I would have picked world wars, climate change, food insecurity, the rise of AI, or the fall of capitalism as indicators of the fall of civilization as we know it.” I slipped off my sandals. Suit-selling aside, the world truly would end if I walked into the house wearing shoes. “Or even my arrest as an accessory to burglary.”
“I called Riswan’s mother.” Mom gave an absent wave of the chutney spoon. “She says it’s all a misunderstanding and he’ll make it go away.”
“I’m almost thirty years old. I don’t need you calling people’s mothers when I get into trouble. I’ve got a plan to solve my problem.” I grabbed a plate and joined them at the table.
“What is your plan?” Mom asked. “Why do you need a plan when you have a cousin who is a criminal lawyer?”
“Lawyers cost money.”
“He’s family. Your father gave his father a suit for his brother’s wedding at a 10 percent discount. The least he could do is waive his fees.”
My dad shoved an entire samosa in his mouth as if he knew what was coming.
“Is he going to charge her, Rohan?” Mom glared at my dad. “His own cousin? Should I call his mother again?” She leaned across the table, shaking her finger at Dad. “He’s your side of the family. How could you let this happen?”
“I told you,” Nani muttered. “If only you’d married that doctor from Detroit . . .”
“His fees are going to be about one thousand times the suit discount if it goes to trial,” I said. “I want to pay him for his work. He has to earn a living, too.”
“At least he’s using his degree.” Nani smiled as if she hadn’t just sliced my heart with her cutting remark. “How is it? Too spicy?”
“I like spice.” I didn’t like the inquisition, but I needed a proper meal after eating five bowls of sex mousse so it didn’t go to waste.