* * *
The weddingI was photographing that evening was in full swing. I-Dos had been said, and I had just finished the nerve-wracking reception entrance shots. For me, those were more difficult than the ceremony shots. The ceremony moved fairly slowly, so I could be sure to compose the best photos.
But during the reception entrance, the lighting was usually something fun, meaning something difficult to photograph nicely, plus the bride and groom were dancing and moving erratically.
Now the speeches were starting while Elsie and the catering staff began bringing out the food. I caught my breath in a corner of the room, snapping a few pictures of the crowd while I mentally calculated the best shots for the cake cutting, the grand exit, and the various candid family shots with the bride and groom that were always popular gifts for family members.
“Excuse me?” an elderly man said, tapping me on the shoulder. “I was wondering if there were any more snacks from the reception left?”
I turned and lowered my camera.
“My apologies, my dear!” the dapper elderly man exclaimed.
“Horace!” his wife hissed from a nearby table. “Horace, stop bothering the photographer!”
“I thought she was part of the caterers,” he said in a stage whisper. “I’m starving, and my brother loves to talk.” He motioned to the front of the room, where another elderly man was on minute ten of a very long but heartfelt speech.
“Sit down!” Horace’s wife insisted.
“It’s all right!” I said, smiling. “I’m good friends with the caterer. I’ll fetch you something.”
“Thank you!” He beamed at me.
I begged a plate of the cocktail-hour snacks from Elsie and snuck it back to the reception. I bent down and slid the plate on the table.
“You’re doing the Lord’s work,” the man said, thanking me.
I stood up to find another angle of the stage and slammed into a broad muscular chest.
“Excuse me,” I mumbled, trying to duck out of the way. Then I peered into the darkness.
“Chris.”
12
Chris
Idon’t like weddings—the pageantry, the crying, the long boring speeches. It was a waste of time and money. Unfortunately, I seemed to be at that life stage where all my friends from high school and college were getting married in droves. I had a wedding practically every other weekend.
I always pep-talked myself that it was a networking opportunity. And it was. These were high-society weddings. I had gone to the best private schools and Ivy League colleges and graduate programs. We were all from the same social class, and I wasn’t the only billionaire in attendance.
I had just been fetching a drink for Horace, one of my late grandfather’s friends, listening to the world’s most boring wedding speech, and musing on how I was going to convince Grace not to take me to the cleaners when, like a bad dream, there she was.
I cursed as the drink sloshed in my hand.
“Watch your mouth!” Horace chastised me. “There are ladies present. Your grandfather taught you better than that!”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I drawled, sliding the drink on the table.
Horace sipped it appreciatively while I grabbed Grace by the arm.
“Can we talk?”
“I’m working,” she hissed at me.
“That’s Horace’s brother,” I said, jerking my head to the stage. “He doesn’t talk less than thirty minutes at a time. There are only so many pictures of bored faces you can take.”
“Are you stalking me?” she demanded when I had led her off to a side hallway at the fancy Connecticut country club. “First you accuse me of trying to scam you out of a cheeseburger and fries, and now you’re showing up where I work.”
