Bridezilla vs. Kai Kemmerlin by D. H. Dehel
Coming Sept. 10th
In an epic battle to get to the altar, who will win?
Being a bridesmaid ain’t easy. It’s even harder when all the other bridesmaids have bailed and left you to deal with Angela Stevens, a bridezilla who outdoes them all.
When I arrived at the hotel where the wedding would take place, I found Angie, arms crossed, cheeks sucked in, menacing head tilt directed at the poor man standing in front of her wringing his hands.
“I’m sorry.” He wrung so hard his knuckles were white, probably with sheer terror.
“Do you know who my fiancé is?” Her hands went to her hips. “Mr. Kaiser Kemmerlin.”
It had taken me a while to figure out that Kaiser was his first name and not some weird European honorific. The guy was Austrian, after all.
“Yes. I know.” The concierge swallowed. “But there is nothing I can do.”
“Nothing?” One of Angie’s eyebrows rocketed toward her perfectly wispy bangs.
Uh-oh. I had to intervene before someone got hurt, probably Mr. Concierge. The man was cowering so deeply it wouldn’t be long before he piddled on the shiny blue and white tiles that covered the lobby.
“Hey, Annnngelaaaa!” My voice rang off the bungalow-style ceiling, and heads turned. “Where is my beautiful BFF bride?” I dropped my bags and held open my arms.
It worked. It always worked.
“Here!” She perked up and pointed to herself, then scooted toward me on impossibly high heels.
I met her halfway. If she toppled over, there’d be hell to pay.
“Yay! You’re getting married!” I jumped up and down in my sensible flip-flops.
If any of my other adult friends saw me, they would think that I was on drugs. I never acted like this…except around Angie, but they didn’t know her. I’d made sure of that. Boundaries had to be drawn somewhere.
She couldn’t jump, so she bounced, and her curls bounced in time. “I’m the bride.” Then she snatched my hand, threw an evil look over her shoulder at the manager, and turned to me with a pout. “But some people are trying to ruin my Big Day.” She spoke like that…in caps.
“Oh no.” I hugged her and tried to tell the manager I was sorry with my eyes. “What happened? Are the flowers wrong? Can’t they get as much Dom Perignon as you need?” I wracked my brain for some other tragedy but failed.
“No,” She fake sniffed. “The ceremony is ruined.”
“How? The weather is supposed to be gorgeous.”
“Yes, I know.” She dabbed at non-existent tears with the flowy sleeve of her flowery shirt. “There’s just…” She sighed and flung out her arms. “There’s just too much sand.”
“On the beach?” I could not keep the sarcasm from my voice. “There’s too much sand on the beach?”
“When you put it that way, it sounds so silly.” She tugged her sleeves down, a move that let me know she was about to shift into high dudgeon. “But my gown has a train, you see.”
I held up my hands. “Got it.”