She looked up, and I caught the tail end of a genuine smile—the kind she'd been wearing while reading the screen—before it faded into something polite. "Fine. Just..." She set the phone facedown on the table. "Family stuff."
"Want to talk about it?"
"Not really." She took a bite of toast, then shrugged. "So what's the game plan for today?"
I was about to answer when my phone started buzzing like it had a personal vendetta against me.
Hudson. Four texts in rapid succession.
Everything. Flowers are wrong, photographer's late, one bridesmaid's having a boyfriend meltdown. And the spray tans—Jesus, Hunter. They're ORANGE. Traffic cone orange.
I nearly choked on my coffee.It'll be fine. You'll still get married.
Easy for you to say. Eight bridesmaids who look like Cheetos.
Need me to do anything?
Don't forget your speech. Show up on time. Please.
I'll be there.
How are things with Dixie? You seem different with her.
I hesitated.Good. Really good actually.
Don't screw this up, okay?
I set the phone down. Dixie caught my gaze over her coffee cup. "Everything okay?"
"Hudson's freaking out. Apparently the spray tans went catastrophically wrong."
"How wrong?"
"Orange. Very orange."
She laughed, quick and easy. "This is going to be entertaining."
"That's one word for it."
We finished breakfast and headed toward the elevator. The lobby buzzed with activity—florists hauling armloads of roses toward the ballroom, a photographer arguing with someone about lighting, hotel staff weaving through clusters of guests with the energy of people who'd done this a hundred times but never quite like this. But the commotion near the east corridor stopped us.
A bridesmaid stumbled out of a doorway, crying. Hard. And orange.
Not a subtle sun-kissed glow—a deep, aggressive orange that coated her arms and neck in streaky waves. Her mascara had already begun its descent, cutting dark tracks through the color. Behind her, three more bridesmaids came pouring out of the conference room Laverne had commandeered as a temporary salon.
One had white handprints on her forearms where she'd clearly been gripping something—or someone—while the spray dried. Another's neck was a patchwork of orange and skin, like someone had applied it with a garden hose and called it a day. A third was crying so hard her mascara had given up entirely—the bridesmaid having the boyfriend meltdown, if I had to guess.
Laverne swept out behind them, leopard print blazing, holding a can of hairspray like a scepter. "Ladies! It is not that bad! It fades! Give it an hour!"
"Laverne, I have a STRAPLESS DRESS," one bridesmaid choked out, turning her back to reveal a solid panel of orange interrupted only by two perfect white ovals where her shoulder blades had been pressed against the drying booth.
"That just means your dress is really going to pop against the color!" Laverne said brightly.
May materialized from somewhere, phone out, documenting the exodus with the dedication of a war correspondent. "This is incredible content, Mama. Incredible."
Dixie pressed her lips together so hard I thought she might crack. I caught her gaze and saw the exact same thing reflected back—the desperate, silent effort not to laugh in front of eight devastated women.
Then Beauregard Montrose III appeared at the end of the hallway.
