Ten
Sam pokes a fork in the direction of my plate. “Can I have your mushrooms?”
“Please. Eat all the mushrooms.”
We’ve survived the rehearsal dinner, though one of the softboxes did take a direct hit of groom’s cake. Now that it’s washed clean and Nicolette Meyer is tucked safely away in her suite, Sam and I are stuffing our faces with a late dinner in my hotel room while our cameras take turns downloading the night’s images.
An image pops on the screen of Nikki’s face contorted in open-mouthed despair just after a blob of groom’s cake has landed on her bare shoulder.
Sam snorts. “Now THAT is the weekend’s Pulitzer,” he says through a mouthful of steamed asparagus.
“I probably shouldn’t have taken that shot, but …”
“We are here to document. That is our mandate. And document we are.”
