A rolling cart full of lemon and lime wedges, maraschino cherries, fresh simple syrup, and other cocktail supplies is waiting for me. “Thanks for this.”
“Anything to make this easier for one of my girls.”
I appreciate that everyone around here is rallying around Campbell. It says a lot about her.
I push my goods to the bar. Tables are butted together and surrounded by chairs. Campbell talked them into serving the family meal in the bar so the drinks can flow. The bar’s ambiance has a more classic Western vibe than the dining room, and I’d rather work behind a counter than a little cart.
I spend the time putting my supplies away and lining up the bottles I’m going to use, making sure the labels are visible. Eventually, people start filtering in.
A young woman flops onto a stool. Her shoulder-length blond hair flares out at the ends. “Is it too early to order?”
“Sydney.” An older woman with a severe bob, wearing black slacks and a loose cardigan, glares at her. “We are sitting at the table, not thebar. There’s no need to be drinking yet.”
Sydney’s shoulders go rigid. “There isn’t going to be enough liquor for tonight.” She pushes away from the counter and drags her feet to the table.
“Is there a seating arrangement?” another woman asks, smoothing her hands over her black cocktail dress. The pearls at her neck catch the light.
Mother of the groom? She has the same pointy chin, and the hair in her chignon is only two shades lighter than his. A man strides in, a hand in his slacks pocket and his charcoal sport coat hanging open. He stops beside the elegant woman and scowls at the setup.
Stanford sweeps in, January hot on his loafers. The back of her hair is mussed, and her face is red. Stanford’s fly is half open.
He stops, frowning. “Where’s the planner?”
“You mean your ex?” Sydney mutters.
I almost fail at holding back my smile.
“Late like always.” Stanford stomps to the bar. “Vodka raspberry lemonade.”
January stands on the same side of Stanford that Sydney’s on. “I’ll have one too.”
Sydney leans over. “Wanna tell your beau that the barn door’s open?”
“Jesus, Syd,” January snaps. “What?”
Sydney recoils and looks around. Everyone’s attention is on them, their disapproving stares on Sydney. “His fly’s open.” She says it loudly and wiggles her index finger by her head. “And you might wanna fix your hair. What were you both doing out in that barn anyway?”
My stomach sinks. The barn. Did Campbell have to witness what they were doing, or had she finished with Hailstorm by then?
I crush the raspberries, grateful that she isn’t here to witness the casual bickering. She’d probably get blamed for it.
“Where do I sit?” January’s mom says louder than before.
When the attention switches to her, Stanford jerks his zipper up. I finish making his drink.
“She’s late again.” Stanford rubbernecks toward the door.
“As always,” January says in a snide tone.
I slide the bride’s cocktail over and toss two raspberries in. They plop, creating a tiny splash. Her dainty frown is no match for the lack of shits I have to give.
Stanford gulps half of his, but his gaze is plastered on the doorway.
Finally, Campbell arrives. Her hair is pulled back in ahigh ponytail, and she paired her lilac summer dress with a loose-knit cream sweater. Instead of cowboy boots, she has on suede ankle boots. A long necklace makes her ensemble fit the classy Western vibe of the bar. No one would know she was dusty and smelling like horse sweat a little over an hour ago.
Her cheeks are still flushed, like she ran here from her parents’ house, but with the tension around her eyes and the tautness of her movements, it’s not from her afternoon ride.
“Campbell,” Stanford says smoothly. “Nice of you to join us.” Her cheeks pinken even more, but she doesn’t respond. Stanford lifts his cocktail. “Help yourself to drinks, everyone, while we get this seating arrangement figured out.”
