“A certain famous American talk show host who runs her own media empire?”
“Yeah, everybody knows Oprah has a place on the island.”
“Oh, well then,” he says, sounding taken aback.
“I’m going to start filming the next season in a couple of weeks. I get my danger bonus as soon as we wrap up. If you can just give me another month, I’ll have the cash.”
He makes a clicking sound with his teeth, then sighs. “All right. I’ll give you thirty days. Oprah’s getting her place re-carpeted so I doubt it’ll go on the market for a few weeks, anyway.”
“Thanks, Stew,” I say, relief flooding my veins. “I’ll get you the money. I promise.”
“Honestly, I don’t care. Either way, the boat’ll be sold,” he says. “Now, if you could do me a favour and put that little hottie on the phone, I’d appreciate it.”
“Sorry, my battery’s dying.”
With that, I hang up and shove my phone back in my pocket.
“I don’t have all damn day!” Emma yells at me.
Letting out a long sigh, I walk toward Bridezilla. One problem at a time. First Emma, then the network, thenMatilda.
* * *
Wednesday Evening - 9 p.m.
Text from Emma to Me:Do you need me to come by and help you pack?
Me (after some serious eye-rolling):No need, I’m already done.
Emma:Did you use the list?
Me:What list?
My phone rings and I see Emma’s name. Damn, I took it too far. We leave first thing tomorrow morning, which means I should probably start packing, especially since I won’t be coming back until after I film the next season of my show. I sit on the bed and swipe the screen to answer. “Heya, sis.”
“Don’t mess with me, Will. I’m not above murder at this point,” Emma says.
“Jokes! I have the list, I’ve checked it twice,” I say, walking over to the desk that sits in the far corner of my bedroom. I pick up the envelope and open it for the first time.
“No more jokes. The shuttle leaves at seven a.m. SHARP. You’ll be in front of the lobby on time, yes?”
“You can count on it.”
“You sure you don’t need a wake-up call?”
“I already set my bedside alarmandthe alarm on my mobile phone,” I say, leaning over to my nightstand and setting my alarm.
“Did you shave yet?”
“No, but only because I want to have the freshest shave possible when I meet your future in-laws,” I say, walking into my bathroom and grabbing my razor and a can of shaving cream. I deposit them in my toiletries kit and zip it up. “Don’t worry. I promise I’ll be my most presentable self when we go see the fancy-schmancies.”
Emma sighs and when she speaks, her voice cracks a bit. “I know this is a joke to you, but I’m really nervous about this. We’re not like them, Will. They’re all so posh and…elegant.”
“You’re every bit as good as they are, Em.”
“Ha! Not exactly.”
“What are you talking about? You’re a world-renowned chef, you’re well-educated, and, despite what I used to tell you when we were growing up, you’re not all that ugly.”
