I stride toward him, forcing a smile even though my nerves are shot and we haven’t even unpacked yet. “Hi. We’ve just arrived.”
He beams back, all enthusiasm. “Daisy’s group, right?”
“That’s us,” I confirm, relieved someone’s excited about this weekend.
“Fantastic. Welcome to The Gilded Glade Retreat.” He thrusts a glossy brochure into my hands. It’s all lush nature scenes and beaming faces—none of which resemble the grumpy bridesmaids I left behind.
“I’ll give you the full tour soon,” he adds, “but let’s get you settled first. Your spot’s just behind the farmhouse.”
Great. Right next to that mystery neighing in the dark.
I follow him past the charming farmhouse, and he flings open the flap of a tent—our tent, apparently—with the flair of someone unveiling Narnia.
“This is yours,” he announces cheerfully.
I step inside.
And stop dead.
Rows ofsingle bedsstretch out in military-grade precision.
I blink.
It’s a dormitory. An actual dormitory. The kind you’d find on a school trip. I half expect a matron to appear, barking orders about lights-out.
“This is . . . ours?” I manage, my voice barely a whimper.
“Isn’t it great?” He crosses his arms over his chest, proud of himself.
Sure, it’s technically cute. But for a group of adults, one of whom casually rents private villas in the Maldives for “a quick reset”? It’s a nightmare. A sweaty, snoring, farting, shared space nightmare.
“No,” I mutter, shaking my head like I can wish it away. “This isn’t right. We’re supposed to have the private tents—the luxury ones up front.”
His smile falters. He pulls out his phone, scrolls . . . scrolls . . . keeps scrolling.
Then he delivers the final blow.
“This is the one you booked.”
My heart slams against my ribs as I take in the rows of dorm beds. “But these are much more basic. This can’t be right. There’s been a mistake. Look at the bill—clearly, we’re supposed to be in the glam ones.”
He takes my phone, glances at the booking confirmation, then shrugs with the detached ease of someone who doesnothave to deal with Imogen. “Not for that price. This is about a quarter of what those tents cost.”
My mouth opens.
No sound comes out.
I’ve made a Titanic-sized mistake.
I’ve dragged everyone here, hyped up this weekend—
And I’ve booked them into aglorified youth hostel.
I can already see Imogen’s face when she steps inside. The slow, incredulous blink. The inevitableDaisy, what have you done?And Bernice? She’s going to faint.
And—oh god—Edward.
I’ve booked a very senior surgeon in a top London hospital into a dormitory.
