Wrong Bag, Right Man

Wrong Bag, Right Man. Chapter 1: The Wrong Bag. Josie Okafor had planned four hundred weddings, survived two fires and one rogue swan, and had never once lost a bride. She was not about to lose her mind over a suitcase. "It's black," she told the baggage carousel. "It has a purple ribbon. It is mine." Seventeen identical black suitcases rolled past, mocking her. She lunged at the one with a purple ribbon, hauled it off the belt, and nearly dislocated her shoulder. "Ow. What did I pack, a body?" She dragged it through customs, past the pastry stand, and out into the blinding Lisbon sun, where a man in a rumpled linen suit was sprinting toward her, wild-eyed, waving both arms. "Ma'am! Ma'am, stop! That's my bag!" "I'm sure it's a common mistake," Josie said, not stopping. She had a bride arriving in three days and a florist who had stopped answering her calls. "It's really my bag." He caught up, panting. Up close, he was annoyingly good-looking in the way of men who didn't know it: dark curls, a crooked nose, a coffee stain on his collar shaped like Australia. He seized the handle. She did not let go. "Sir, I will scream." "Please don't. Please, please don't scream." He glanced over his shoulder with an expression she'd only seen on grooms the night before a wedding. "Look, I'll explain everything, but we need to walk. Casually. Like a couple." "Absolutely not." "Then like two people who've just met and are having a perfectly normal conversation." "That's literally what this is." "It's not, though," he said, and nodded behind her. Josie turned. Across the terminal, six men in matching teal tracksuits had stopped dead. Every one of them was staring at the suitcase. The tallest slowly, deliberately, unzipped his jacket. "Ah," said Josie. "Are they with the bag?" "They are very much after the bag." "And what's in the bag?" The man winced. "Technically? Probably nothing." "Technically." "Okay, it's a Fabergé egg." Josie looked at him. She looked at the suitcase. She looked at the tracksuits, who had begun to walk, and then, ominously, to jog. "I'm Sam," he added weakly. "Josie," she said, and grabbed the handle with both hands. "Run." They hit the taxi rank at full speed, tumbled into the back of a green cab, and Sam shouted something in terrible Portuguese that translated, as far as she could tell, to "drive like the wind, please, thank you very much." Behind them, a tracksuit leapt onto the hood of a parked car, slid off, and took out a gelato cart. "Is this your job?" Josie panted, clutching the suitcase. "Are you a spy?" "Insurance investigator. Technically." "Technically." "It's a long story." "I have a wedding in three days, a bride who hates me, and an egg worth four million euros on my lap." She unzipped the suitcase a c***k. On top of the egg's velvet case sat a note in shaky handwriting, and beside it a toupee. "Why is there a toupee?" "That's... also a long story." Josie read the note aloud: "Don't trust Daniel." She looked up. Sam had gone very pale. "Josie," he said slowly. "What's the groom's name?"