“Fuck,” Josh mutters under his breath.
I do some quick math. It’s March twenty-third today, which means we have exactly eight weeks to pull off the wedding Bess has been dreaming of. I’ve seen her Pinterest board—a wedding that grand and over-the-top is next to impossible without throwing a ridiculous amount of manpower and money at it.
My stomach sinks. She’s going to want all the pre-wedding events—bachelorette parties, kitchen teas, tastings, fittings, everything. And as maid of honor, I’m responsible for planning and executing every single one of them.
Bess picks up a stack of booklets and starts handing them out. “As you can see, we’ve delegated tasks to everyone. We’ve also included all of our event dates—including tastings, fittings, and, of course, the parties.” She bounces on her feet, flashing a dazzling grin. “I’ve set up a website and a group chat. I’ll send the calendar invites shortly. The videographer will be capturing every part of this journey, so enjoy brunch, and we’ll get started shortly.”
“Get started?” I ask, staring at the booklet in my hand. It even has bios, photos, contact details, and measurements for every member of the wedding party.
“This is some next-level Bridezilla shit,” Candy mutters, flipping to page three of her booklet. “We’re attending the engagement photo shoottoday.” She glances at me, flicking her hair back with an impatient hand. “I’m never going to make half of these events. She’s going to freak. I should pull out.”
“Bess, how many people are you inviting?” I ask, setting the booklet down.
Bess and Pete exchange a look. “The venue can fit eight hundred, but our guest list is sitting at about five.”
I blink. “F-f-five hundred?”
Bess smiles, resting her hand on Pete’s arm. “It’s a great opportunity for Petey to invite all his business contacts. They’ll feel special, and we’ll get some networking opportunities.”
“Ahlemna,” Josh mutters beside me, reaching for the mimosa jug. “I wasn’t planning on drinking today, but this is…” He trails off as he pours a glass and downs it in one go.
Breakfast arrives, a waiter placing a beautiful plate of waffles and bacon in front of me. I shovel a bite into my mouth, drowning my anxiety in syrup and carbs. Beside me, Candy attacks her pancakes with her fork, muttering curses between bites.
The videographer arrives, followed by an official photographer, three makeup artists, and a stylist.
Oh yes, a stylist. She comes complete with backup outfits for everyone in the bridal party.
“You know how I said the speed dating was hell?” Josh whispers three hours later through gritted, smiling teeth. We’re in front of the photographer, all of us arranged in different “casual” poses that feel anything but casual.
“Mm?” I hum, barely moving my lips.
“I take it back.Thisis hell.”
I laugh, which immediately causes the photographer to lower his camera in frustration.
“I said,don’t move!”
“Sorry.” I bump Josh lightly, trying to stifle my amusement as I shift back into position. “Thanks for that.”
The day drags on, and any hope I have of doing groceries, relaxing, catching up on work, or even diving into Netflix issquashed when a caterer arrives to set up an elaborate picnic scene outside.
Finally, as the sun dips low in the sky and the shadows stretch long across the grass, Bess and Pete call it a day. The wedding party trudges off, exhausted, while the happy couple heads back to their apartment for a couples’ shoot.
“When I get married,” Josh says, pulling out his phone to order us a car, “it’s going to be a small, intimate wedding. And I’m not subjecting anyone to photos outside of the actual wedding day.”
“What if your future wife wants something like this?” I tease, gesturing at the rest of the worn-out bridal party. “She might want a five-hundred-person wedding with a twelve-tier cake and a horse-drawn carriage.”
“Do you?” He gives me a look so hot it practically burns.
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “No.”
“Happy with an intimate wedding?”
The blush deepens. “Yes.”
He watches me for a long moment, raw desire flickering in his darkening eyes. “Honeymoon?”
“Somewhere warm,” I whisper, feeling my body lean toward his almost involuntarily. “With a place to swim.”
