My stomach drops, coffee turning to acid. “Define accident.”
“Our van hit a deer. We’re okay, but the vehicle’s totaled and—” His voice is shaking, young and scared.
“Where are you?” I’m already moving toward my keys.
“Route 9, about forty minutes out. The food’s mostly intact, but we can’t—”
“Text me your exact location. Don’t move.” I hang up before he can protest.
I stare at the ceiling. Count to five. Breathe through the surge of adrenaline.
Then I grab my keys.
Mason’s in the hallway, adjusting his tie for the fifteenth time. His hands are shaking slightly. “Where you going?”
“Errand.” I don’t slow down.
“Now? The ceremony’s in—” He checks his watch, panic edging into his voice.
“I know when the ceremony is.” The words come out sharper than intended.
He narrows his eyes, that brotherly radar activating. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Practice the processional again. Your transition’s still rough.” I’m already pulling on my jacket.
“Dean—”
But I’m already out the door, gravel crunching under my shoes as I jog to the car.
The drive takes thirty-seven minutes. I know because I watch every minute tick by on the dashboard clock. I find the catering van on the shoulder, front end crumpled like a crushed soda can, the driver looking shell-shocked and pale.
“Mr. Whitaker?”
“Tom?” I climb out of my car, assessing the damage.
“Yeah. I’m so sorry, we’ve never—” He’s young, maybe twenty-five, looking like he might cry or throw up.
“Is the food salvageable?” I cut through his panic with efficiency.
He blinks at me, surprised by the question. “Most of it. The appetizers took a hit, but the main courses are in the back—”
“Good. Help me load my car.” I’m already popping my trunk.
“Sir?” He stares at me like I’ve suggested we fly.
“We’re transferring everything. Now.” I start pulling out the first container, still warm.
It takes two trips to get it all safely loaded. My BMW smells like salmon and anxiety, the leather seats probably ruined. Tom rides with me on the last run, clutching a tray of something that might be bruschetta like it’s a newborn.
“I should call your brother—” he starts, voice uncertain.
“No.” The word is final.
“But—” He shifts in his seat, uncomfortable.
“You call no one. Got it?” I bark, eyes on the road as I push the speed limit.
He nods, terrified, shrinking against the passenger door.
