Chapter Eight
Jonah
I grapple with the giant peach. Unlike most of our props—which are typically made from Styrofoam—this is freaking heavy. Not too heavy for me, of course. Finally getting a good grip on the thing, I lift it over my head. “Where does this go?”
My boss smirks as she studies me. “You and your muscles. Damn.”
“Nat,” I complain with a grunt, “where?”
She taps her chin like she’s thinking, but I’m not fooled. Nat always has a plan. She gestures for me to follow and leads me into the storage room full of discarded wedding props. The usual plastic flowers and candles mix in with sonic screwdrivers and glasses that sayDrink Me. Moving around the TARDIS left over from a Doctor Who themed wedding, she points. “Put it next to the giant cucumber.”
I do as she asks and stretch out my arms. “Is this a weird emoji-themed porn wedding?”
“Believe it or not, it’sVeggie Tales.”
“Aren’t peaches a fruit?”
“There are fruit-themed characters inVeggie Tales. Madam Blueberry is one. But no peaches.” She scoffs. “Their wedding is based on a children’s show, so logic doesn’t seem to matter. IsBarneynext? Should we dress you up as a purple dinosaur?” Nat pauses and takes a deep breath. Then another. “The Bridezilla is always right. That’s our motto.” She taps her chin again. “Or is it, ‘Give the Bridezilla—and their momma—whatever they want.’ Maybe it’s ‘give us enough money, and we’ll make anything work.’ In fact?—”
I raise my hand. She could go on forever.
“You’re not in school anymore, Jonah.” Nat rolls her eyes and smooths her pants as if she’s the one hauling giant fruit around. She leads me out of the storage room. “What do you need?”
I wait until we reach the door to her office. “Time off.”
“Really?” Her eyes widen a fraction, and then she smiles. I haven’t seen her smile a lot—usually only when she talks about her boyfriend Raoul—so it makes me a little uneasy. I planned this conversation, knew exactly how it would go, so being thrown this early in the game is a bit unsettling. Nat sounds way too gleeful. “You never take time off. Mr. Bishop will be thrilled.”
She isn’t wrong. The owner of Bishop Fields, Garrett Bishop, has been more insistent lately that all employees take time off to, quote, “live their lives.” A few years ago, he moved home and built an event venue out of an old barn. It quickly became one of the hottest wedding venues east of Kansas City.
I blame his new husband and previous brother-in-law, Aidyn Christy, for his new positive attitude. They tied each other for the title of grumpiest person in Mule Creek, but now that they’re together—officially and not hiding—they’ve mellowed.
It’s sickening. But heck, maybe I’d be that happy too if I were regularly getting some. Or any at all.
But I’d be just as happy to get some sleep. Yesterday, my roommates decided that Lost Sock Memorial Day was a goodreason to have a party. I’d give my entire paycheck for a full night’s sleep.
I shift to my other foot, working up the courage to tell her the part of my request that the big boss will not be thrilled with. “We’re going on a family road trip.”
She sits at her desk and jiggles the mouse to wake it up. “That should be fun,” she says with an absent tone. Is she already checking her email?
I snort, and she glances up. “Yeah, fun. Stuck in a vehicle for ten days with my dad, stepmom, little sister, and…” I wave my hand, unable to finish my sentence. Just thinking about him raises my blood pressure.
Her brows shoot up. “Vivian’s going?” When I nod, she laughs. “Do your dad and stepmom have a death wish? You two fight so much that you almost destroyed the boss’s family Christmas.”
“Not true.” I try to stop there, but the words have a mind of their own. “And he started it.”
She laughs. A full-on belly laugh with her gasping and clutching her knees. I almost leave. But I need to get this settled.
“Nat.”
“Sorry,” she says, wiping the tears from her eyes. “I would love to be a fly on the wall for that trip. I could watch but then leave when things start flying.”
“That Christmas tree was not our fault.”
She gives one last chuckle. “Well, good luck. Don’t kill anyone.” Her words are dismissive.
“Hold on.” I plant my feet and cross my arms. This is it. “We’re going to San Diego Pridefest.”
Her brow furrows. “Sounds like fun.” Right. She doesn’t get it.
