The Wedding Game Page 2

  Which we have, but we’ve had to be creative.

  Every inch of our walls is covered in shelves, dowels, and organizational storage, holding all my supplies in a decorative and stylish way. I’ve actually gained thousands of followers on Instagram for my creative storage techniques alone. Organizational hashtags are very popular.

  But it drives Cohen crazy; he’s very neat and . . . plain when it comes to decorating. He and Declan are minimalists, to say the least.

  “Leave my ribbons alone, unless you want me to go all the way to Queens and put glitter handprints all over your walls.”

  “No crafts allowed,” Declan says, walking around me with a smile and going straight to a bouquet I’ve been working on for a bride. She sent me about a hundred acrylic flower brooches and asked me to make bouquets and boutonnieres for her vintage wedding. It’s been painstakingly hard—especially since I’m so particular about where each and every one of them is placed—but I’m almost done, thankfully. “This looks interesting.” Declan holds up the bouquet. “Still have fingers left?”

  I lift my hands and wiggle my fingers at him.

  “Barely.”

  Cohen heads to the kitchen, where I’ve prepared our favorite goulash dish. It’s his one request whenever he comes over.

  He doesn’t turn to me to defend him when people take a second look at him and Declan. He doesn’t ask me to protest his rights with him, nor does he ever look for my help when I know he needs it. But when he makes the trek from Astoria to the Upper West Side to sit in the middle of a craft explosion for the whole night, he asks for our family’s special Italian version of hearty goulash.

  He doesn’t even have to ask at this point. It’s my favorite too. Farrah is ravenous for it and usually has to fight Cohen for rights to leftovers. Farrah claims roommate privileges. Cohen slams down the sibling card. It’s an epic battle that I look forward to watching every time I hover over the pot as it cooks.

  Declan glances in the pot and says, “Shocking . . . goulash again.”

  “Hey.” I playfully push his shoulder. “Are you knocking an age-old recipe?”

  “Age old?” Declan asks, a lift to his brow. He walks over to my sink and lifts up an empty jar of Prego. “When did jarred spaghetti sauce become age old?”

  “Prego is age old, since 1981.”

  “Holy crap—1981? That’s unheard of,” Declan says full of sarcasm, making us all laugh. “If you want an age-old recipe, try my grandma’s recipe for egg drop soup.” He leans down and kisses the top of my head. “But I do love your goulash, even if you don’t slave over homemade sauce.”

  He winks at me, and I smile back. “One day, Declan. Also, grab that egg drop soup recipe for me.”

  “It’s sacred. I don’t think Grandma will hand it over too kindly.”

  “Tell her it’s for your future sister-in-law who wants to honor your side of the family as well.”

  “Well, in that case, consider it done.” He gives me a side hug while Cohen walks over to the pot on the stove and takes in a deep breath.

  “Smells good, Luna. Almost ready?”

  “The big boy is hungry,” Declan says. “Was bitching the entire train ride over here that he only had a ham sandwich at work today.”

  I glance over at my brawny brother and chuckle. He’s always had an appetite.

  “Let me guess; it was a measly sandwich that barely sated your ravenous hunger?”

  I head to the tiny kitchen, where I lay out a few Campagna Sea Blue bowls—a gift from our nonna before she passed—and ladle heaping servings into each of them, topping them with some freshly grated parmesan that I picked up at the delicatessen this morning.

  Cohen takes two bowls from the counter and hands one to Declan. We all take a seat at the bar top, me on one side, the boys on the other, and we dig in.

  Cohen closes his eyes and quietly moans to himself. “This is so much better than a ham sandwich.”

  “Maybe you should try bringing more than just a sandwich to work. You do realize you burn a lot of calories with all the physical labor you put in.”

  “We don’t have much time to take a break, so a hearty lunch isn’t easy to take down in the middle of the day.” Cohen scoops his goulash so fast into his mouth, and I have to chuckle as the broth drips down his chiseled chin. When you think of Cohen, think of the Italian version of the Brawny man—flannel and all—with a hint of that heavy New York accent.

  In a matter of minutes, Cohen is hopping off his chair and heading for seconds while Declan and I stare at each other in horror, both of our bowls still mostly full.

  “Uh, slow down there, buddy,” I say as Cohen hops back up on his stool, bowl full.

  Instead of responding, he starts in on his second bowl. “So, bouquets, huh?” he asks between gulps of elbow noodles.

  Oh, Cohen. Goulash gets him every time.

  “Yeah. Thousand-dollar commission. It’s taken me about two days so far. Put me a bit behind on my other projects and stock in the shop, but I really wanted the challenge. So, I’m okay with the minor setback. I’ll catch up.”

  “A thousand dollars for two days of work, which you do from home, where you can watch TV all day.” Declan shakes his head. “Boy, did I go into the wrong profession.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask. “Sure, you get paid shit, come home with a head cold at least once a month, and have been kicked in the shin at least a few dozen times. But you get to shape the minds of future generations. How is that not rewarding?”

  He laughs. “When you put it like that . . .”

  “Did Declan tell you about the parent who’s raising a shitstorm with the principal?”

  “Cohen,” Declan warns.

  “What?”

  They have one of those silent conversations, using only their eyes—the kind of conversation only a couple that’s been together for years can have.

  Leaning in, I break up the eye contact. “He hasn’t, but please, do enlighten me.”

  “It’s nothing,” Declan says, going back to his spoon.

  I sigh. “Declan, you can either tell me now, or Cohen can tell me when you’re not around. You know how things are with us. We share every last detail.” I raise an eyebrow. “Every detail.”

  “Not every detail,” Cohen quickly says, placing his hand on Declan’s thigh, under the counter. “Trust me . . . not every detail.”

  “Better not be. Some things need to stay between a man and a man, you know.”

  I rest my chin on my hand and take in my favorite couple of all time. God, I love them so much. The give-and-take between them. The teasing, the little knowing looks, the silent exchanges. The comforting, loving touches here and there that I only get to see when we’re out of the public eye. They’re not in your face, but you can see it in their eyes, in the way they care for each other: they’re deeply in love—another reason I really want to make this wedding competition happen for them.

  “This doesn’t need to stay between a man and a man, though.” Cohen turns toward me. “A parent in Declan’s class found out about the engagement party the faculty threw for Declan and me and flipped his lid.” Cohen’s jaw grows tight as he stares down at his bowl. “He doesn’t want his child being educated by a gay man.”

  “Oh Jesus.” I roll my eyes, annoyed with the ignorance that still runs rampant in the world. Just absurd. I’m about to brush off my soapbox and go off, and then I realize that the last thing Declan and Cohen need is a tirade. They need someone to comfort them—and in the best way we know how. “That douche parent must have read that one article.”

  Declan’s brow creases. “What article?”

  “You know, the one about catching ‘the gay.’ Didn’t you read it? It was all about how if you’re touched by a gay man while he’s drinking a cup of tea, pinkie up, you can transform into one yourself. Devastating read. Looks like there was an outbreak of ‘the gay’ down in SoHo, at a poetry reading. Pinkie-up gays were attacking hipsters one at a t
ime. Downright travesty. They had to shut down the snapping, hemp-loving tea shop, fumigate it with testosterone, and then reopen it as an exclusive biker bar slash fight club that no one is supposed to know about, but everyone knows about.” I take a bite as Declan and Cohen both fold their arms across their chests, grinning despite themselves. “You really didn’t catch that article . . . on your gaydar? Man, you guys must be getting old if you’re missing breaking news like that.”

  Cohen frowns. “That’s not how gaydar works.”

  “In my head it does.” I wink, and they both shake their heads at me as they go back to their dinner. “Don’t even worry about it, Declan,” I say, getting serious. “That parent is an idiot. At some point, he’ll realize his ignorance and then regret not only taking away an opportunity for his child to learn about the differences in humanity, but also not getting to know what a true gem you are.”

  Declan softly smiles. “Thanks, Luna.”

  I wink. “Anything for my future brother-in-law. Which brings me to the main event.” I rub my hands together, and Cohen’s eyes narrow.

  “I don’t like it when you rub your hands together. Rubbing hands means trouble for me.”

  “Not trouble, brother. Opportunity.”

  “Opportunity equals trouble.”

  “Just hear me out.”

  His shoulders visibly tense. “Whenever you start a sentence with ‘Just hear me out,’ I know it’s going to involve working with a glue gun.”

  He may have helped me on occasion when I’ve been behind on orders. That’s neither here nor there right now.

  “This might involve a glue gun—”

  “Count me out.” Cohen dismisses me with a shake of his head. “Not going to happen, whatever it is. Nope. Sorry, sis.”

  “Just hear her out,” Declan says, nudging Cohen with his shoulder. And this is one of the many reasons I love the man so much. When Cohen gets salty or closed off, Declan has a way of easing him out of his shell.

  Cohen picks up his napkin and wipes his mouth, then sits up, arms crossed. He gives me that look, the one that I grew up watching, the thoughtful but guarded expression as he waits for my next “madcap” idea—at least that’s what he calls it. “Okay, why am I firing up the glue gun?”

  “Well.” I place my hands on the counter and lean forward. “You know how you guys have always wanted to live in Manhattan, in a large apartment, and start a family?”

  “Yes . . . ?” Cohen drags out skeptically.

  “What if I told you that you could win a penthouse in Manhattan, just by getting married?”

  “I’d say, ‘Not interested.’” Cohen goes back to his bowl, not even giving me a second thought. Declan, the kind soul that he is, elbows Cohen, making my brother roll his eyes and say, “Spit it out, Luna.”

  I guess it’s now or never. I prepare for one hell of an epic letdown and spill the beans.

  “So. The Wedding Game . . . you know, the show on the DIY Network? It’s looking for contestants in New York City. You must be getting married in the next few months, you must live in New York City, and you must be willing to plan a wedding under ten thousand dollars. Winners are chosen by America—and just from the ruggedly handsome lumber-gay vibe you’ve got going on, the win is in the bag—then you go home with keys to a fantastic apartment to start your life in.”

  Cohen stares at me.

  Blinks.

  Chews another spoonful of noodles and says, “No.”

  “Ugh, why not?” I whine. “This could be your chance, Cohen. You could get the wedding you always dreamed of. Remember? You told me you don’t want a court—”

  “Luna,” Cohen firmly says. “No.”

  “You don’t want what?” Declan asks, turning in his chair.

  Uh-oh . . .

  Did Declan not know?

  Crap.

  I shrink into my seat, trying to become one with my stool. Getting caught between my brother and Declan is never good. It never ends well, and I usually earn a good lecture afterward. From the way Cohen’s staring daggers at me, I should probably pencil in a ten p.m. bedtime lecture now.

  “Nothing,” Cohen says through clenched teeth.

  Maybe I should make it for nine thirty.

  “You don’t want a courthouse wedding?” Declan asks, and Cohen looks over at me again, his eyebrows almost touching in the middle of his forehead.

  Gulp.

  Nine. Yup, it’s going to be a nine o’clock tongue-lashing.

  With a deep sigh, he turns to Declan. “It’s nothing you need to worry about, and nothing Luna should be sticking her nose in. I said no, and that’s final.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  ALEC

  “I cannot believe you scored the Hamptons house,” Lucas, my coworker and friend, says as he leans back on the couch in my office, awestruck eyes directed at the ceiling. “How the fuck did you get the asshole to cave?”

  Pleased with my showing in arbitration today, I kick my feet up on my desk and smile. “Threw down a file of photographic evidence.”

  “Oh shit.” Lucas chuckles. “Who was it this time? The assistant?”

  “Maid. In the solarium. With a vibrator up the ass.”

  “His ass or her ass?”

  “His.”

  Lucas sits up and folds his hands in front of him.

  “You’re telling me you caught the president of Markman and Wire, the most prestigious advertising company in New York City, with a vibrator up his ass in a sunroom?”

  I nod.

  Lucas lets out a low whistle and leans back again. “You need to pay your private investigator more.”

  “I think that every goddamn day. Then again, if I were Elijah Markman, I wouldn’t be cheating on my wife in a sunroom, where anyone could take pictures from surrounding bushes.” Then again, I would never cheat on my wife either . . . or even have a wife, for that matter.

  Marriage is not for blackhearted, realistic assholes like me. Marriage is for naive, love-blinded fools who believe another soul can make them happy. Fact: the only person who can make you happy is yourself.

  Being the top divorce attorney in New York City will enlighten you: men are pigs. Granted, there are some great men out there, and women screw them over, but in my profession, it’s usually the man. He’s usually cheating, and he wants to fuck over the wife as much as possible when it comes to the divorce proceedings. Not on my watch.

  To sum it up: I’m never getting married.

  “I’m getting married!”

  The door to my office busts open, startling both Lucas and me. Our eyes zero in on the door as Thaddeus floats—yes, floats—in, arms spread, before taking a huge, idiotic bow.

  “Thad, what are you doing here?” I ask, standing from my desk, hands on the cool glass surface.

  “Came to delight my big brother with the news of my engagement.”

  “I know you’re engaged. You called me two months ago with the news.”

  “Yes, well, I’m still waiting on that engagement gift. Thought you forgot.”

  How could I possibly forget about Thad’s engagement? He bawled on the phone, recounting every last detail. And the only reason I picked up the phone was because he texted me at least a dozen times beforehand, telling me he was going to call me at 8:00 p.m. sharp, and I’d better answer.

  For a brief second, I considered letting the call go to voice mail, just to make his blood pressure skyrocket—the brotherly thing to do—but I thought better of it and answered.

  In all honesty, I question Naomi’s sanity. Thad is an interesting character. A man’s man when he wants to be, a ladies’ man in college, and a whiny baby for the majority of his day-to-day life. Maybe some of it’s my fault. I did baby him when we were kids, but someone had to make sure he didn’t become as jaded as me. I still saw the hope in his eyes that we could have the perfect family, despite our parents’ constant screaming matches.

  Dad was a workaholic on Wall Street; Mom was an emotionless trophy wife. They
were picture perfect on the outside, a tragedy of a marriage on the inside. It was rare that we saw them happy together. It was rare that they were in the same room and not arguing.

  Always about money.

  It’s what everyone fights about. Money.

  It’s why I despise it.

  I hate that I need it to uphold a certain image for my job, and I hate that it’s what makes the world go round.

  I sit back down in my chair and cross my ankle over my knee while picking up a pen to fiddle around with. “Didn’t forget. Didn’t think it was necessary.”

  “Not necess—” Thad stops abruptly when he spots Lucas, finally. My friend looks like he has whiplash from our conversation. “Hey, man.” He holds his hand out. “Thaddeus.”

  Lucas stands and takes Thad’s hand, giving it a good shake. “Lucas. Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise.” Thad adjusts his suit jacket. “Ever buy an engagement present for a sibling?”

  “Don’t have any. Sorry, man,” Lucas answers, a slight hitch in his voice.

  “Would you?” Thad asks, clearly trying to prove a point.

  A smirk crosses Lucas’s face, and I know he’s about to make things exponentially worse for me. “I would throw a party.”

  Slowly, Thad swivels on his heel, hands on his hips, nostrils flared. Speaking through his clenched teeth, he says, “Did you hear that, Alec? A GD party.”

  I stare down at my ankle. “Yeah, I heard the asshole.” I lift my head just enough so I can see the giant smirk on Lucas’s face. “You can leave now.”

  He salutes me with two fingers. “My work here is done. Let me know if you’re still on for lunch.”

  “You’re buying!” I call out right before he exits.

  Thad stares after him and then turns back to me. “He seems like a stand-up guy.” Not waiting for an invite, Thad rounds one of the chairs in front of my desk and plops down. “I have a favor to ask.”

  Hell . . . this can’t be a favor that I’m going to like. Just from the excitement in his eyes and the fact that he came to my office, I can tell that this isn’t only a big favor but one that’s most likely going to make my life a billion times harder.