“Umm…”
Before they can answer, they take off running. Kids. I love getting to be fun Aunt Georgia. I get to shower them with all the love and presents, and when they start crying, I get to give them back to their parents. Being a mom is not something I ever want for myself.
At least we’re at the ranch. Maybe there will be enough time to use a hair dryer on my dress. I have no idea if this satin material will hold up under the heat.
Not wanting to risk getting rammed into again, I head out the side door of the dining room. Except I’m not so lucky. I run into someone else as I push the door out and they push in.
This time, someone carrying a plate of food.
Fuck my life.
It’s one of the same kids, this time with another group. Clearly they didn’t get the memo the first time.
A big red splat stains the front of my dress. Strings of spaghetti stick to the light green satin.
“Seriously? Okay, where are your parents?”
This time, I can’t contain my annoyance. From what Kade told us, all guests are fully aware the dining room is off-limits. Everyone said they would respect the event happening. Clearly the baseball kids didn’t get the memo.
“She’s pissed,” one of them says.
“Oh, I wonder why,” I mutter to myself.
“You got something on your dress,” one of them snickers.
Deep breaths, Georgia. Deep breaths. Losing your cool on kids isn’t the solution.
“Where are your parents?” I ask again.
They dart off before I can get another word in. This time, it’s hard to contain my anger. There’s no rescuing my dressnow. I can’t go home because there isn’t enough time before the ceremony starts, and I have nothing else to wear, having come in my sweats to get ready with the girls.
The only thing to do is to try and find the parents of these kids to make sure they don’t ruin the wedding. My guess is I’ll find someone’s parents at the bar.
A few people are grouped around a high top table in the back corner, laughing. I’ll start there, I guess.
“Excuse me,” I interrupt their conversation and they all stop to look at me.
A few have the gall to look irritated.
“Can we help you?” one of the dads asks.
“Are your kids running around in the dining room?”
“Our kids? They wouldn’t.” A woman shakes her head. “We told them not to.”
“They’re not disrespectful,” another woman adds.
“Do any of the team belong to you?” I ask, pinning each of them with a fierce stare. “Because this happened”—I wave a hand in front of my dress—“and I don’t want them messing up this wedding.”
“You might want to get that taken care of,” one of the women says.
“Are you?—”
Someone grabs my bicep and pulls me away.
I’m fuming. Their kids are the ones wreaking havoc and she points out my dress?
“Look—”
