Rolling his eyes, Calvin walks backward toward the elevator. “I’llget out of your way.”
Miles watches him disappear behind the elevator doors. Just that short, simple conversation with him was enough to fuel his energy for the rest of the day. This is going to be the best damn wedding Ridgeford’s ever seen.
Which, of course, it isn’t.
Everything only goes downhill as the hours tick by.
The florist, the band, the photographers and videographers—they’re all stuck on the damn freeway, and Bridget’s lower lip is quivering as she tries not to bawl. It’ll ruin her make-up, her maid-of-honor tells her.
At least the cake’s accounted for. Matthew arrives an hour before the wedding starts, delivering a three-tier cake. Miles doesn’t know much about cakes, but it looks beautiful. The staff puts it on a table that’s set-up under the massive outdoor tent meant for the wedding party. While the tables, chair, and a stage are already prepared, the tent still looks awfully empty without any flowers.
That traffic jam should clear up soon. Hopefully.
“There are some teenagers out front very excitedly talking about how a bridesmaid freaked out about a stained dress,” Matthew tells Miles.
“Why the heck are they excited about that?”
“Because their livestream now has a hundred viewers. Wedding fiascos are an interesting drama, I guess. I swear to god, everything’s a livestream these days.”
“They’re live streaming this? Our inn’s being watched right now?” His hands are suddenly very, very cold. “What the hell?”
Matthew eyes him. “Teenagers are something else. It’s not your inn’s fault. “
“Watch it become our fault, anyway. Jesus.” He breathes in, attempting to calm himself.
“Matthew!” Gabby strides up to them. Her hair’s tied back, and she’s wearing a uniform similar to Miles. “Are you staying?”
“No?”
“You’re staying,” she says, not-so-gently prodding him toward the inn. “We’ve got extra uniforms. Go get changed. I think your old name tag’s still here, from when you worked with us for summer vacations. We need more people who are familiar with the inn—these part-timers don’t know what’s going on.”
“Fine. But you both owe me one.” Sighing, Matthew sluggishly and defeatedly nods.
“The florists arrived, thank goodness.” She points to a group scurrying about with boxes of flowers in their arms. One of them is handing out bouquets to the bridal party. “Did you see those teenagers out front? I would have chased them off if I wasn’t scared they’d blast my face all over the internet.”
“Yeah, what the hell is that about? Anyway, where’s my mom?”
“She’s with the wedding coordinator.” Who, apparently, is still not with Bridget. “The pastor, the band, and Bridget’s parents are still stuck on the freeway… Why exactly did they decide to hire people outside the town? And why didn’t her parents arrive yesterday? When did they even move out of Ridgeford!?”
“All great questions.” Miles holds her by the shoulders and twists her around toward the lobby. “Tell me what you need.”
“Get those teenagers to stop live-streaming.”
“Yeah, can’t do that.”
The guests soon arrive and start dawdling around the lobby and the lake, a few of them already taking their seats. Miles finally spots the wedding coordinator, a mousy-looking lady who’s running here and there. He overhears her say they’ve found another pastor, since the original one is still stuck in traffic. That’s one down.
“What do you mean you won’t be on time!?” the maid-of-honor shrieks at her phone. She’s all dolled up and dressed in her gown, but the way she’s pulling at her hair might ruin her look. “I finally convinced the bride to get ready, and you’re telling me you won’t fucking make it!?”
“What’s going on?” Miles asks the wedding coordinator.
“The band’s still stuck on the freeway,” she says. “We might not have live music is all. It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine!” The maid-of-honor zeroes in on her, and Miles can see why she’s Bridget’s friend. “That was one of Bridget’s non-negotiables. She wants a live band.”
Okay, but honestly, it seems like everything’s non-negotiable at this point. Miles sighs, ducks out of view to let the coordinator deal with that instead. All the inn needs to take care of is the venue and the catering, all other suppliers and performers weren’t their issue.
At least that’s what he believes, until he goes back to the lobby and overhears the two video-streaming teenage girls. Identical twins. One of them holds the phone up as they talk to it.
