A Pack for the Wedding (Why Choose Romcom Standalones #1)

Chapter 1

Beth

The shrimp is excellent. Buttery, well-seasoned, probably worth whatever obscene amount Harper paid per head for this catering.

"—and I told her, honestly, the hydrangeas were a better choice, but you know how brides get about peonies."

I freeze mid-chew.

Mrs. Patterson is standing in front of me, champagne flute in hand, eyebrows raised in that waiting-for-a-response way that means I've missed my cue.

I swallow a bit too fast and reach for my water on the buffet table.

"Absolutely," I manage. "Hydrangeas are... very bridal."

This is not a take. It's barely a sentence. But Mrs. Patterson beams at the response.

"Exactly! Especially when—oh, there's Dorothy, I absolutely need to catch her before she leaves—"

And she's gone. Mid-sentence.

I stand there for a second, blinking. I had a whole thing about stem length queued up, but I guess she won't be needing my professional opinion.

I sigh.

I'm on the sixth version of the same conversation tonight anyway.

The topics rotate—flowers, the venue, how gorgeous the sunset looks over Lake Vienne—but the structure is always the same: small talk, and the inevitable sidelong glance at my ringless finger.

At least we didn't get to that part this time.

But enough complaining, tonight is not about me.

It's about Harper and Ben. And I'm happy to report their engagement party is in full swing. Champagne is flowing. Across the venue, Harper's dad is clinking a fork against his glass, gearing up for what I can only assume will be an extensively researched toast about the couple's first meeting.

The party's a hit. My best friend really outdid herself.

"Still guarding the buffet?"

Speak of the bride. Harper appears beside me, and for a second I just stare. She’s in an ivory dress with her golden-brown hair down in loose waves, wearing the kind of smile you’d see in a toothpaste commercial.

She's radiant.

And I'm genuinely, completely happy for her. Even if a tiny, petty gremlin in my brain whispers it's cosmically unfair for one person to get that much distribution of good fortune.

But that's the gremlin talking, and we don't listen to it.

"You know you're allowed to mingle, right? You know, with other humans," she continues, her warm amber eyes shining.

"Mingle? At a party?" I press a hand to my chest, scandalized. "Bold suggestion for your maid of honor, who is clearly very busy protecting your sustenance from potential party crashers."

"We're at a private venue, Beth," she puffs. "There's literally a guy with a clipboard at the door."

"The shrimp is that good. Word gets around. Clipboard guy can be bribed."

She laughs and gives me warm look. The one she's been giving me since we met two years ago, when I showed up in Lakeview trailing an alpha I was stupid in love with and a mighty collection of houseplants I couldn't bring myself to leave behind.

Harper was the first person who actually talked to me. Not at me, the way most of the town did.

It's hard to explain how we clicked instantly. Sometimes you meet someone and it feels like you've known them your entire life, or maybe like you should have known them, and you're just catching up on lost time.

Harper's one of those.

"On a more serious note," she says, "how are you doing?"

The honest answer involves words like "existential dread" and "emotional wreckage." I mean, what else would anyone expect when your fiancé dumps you but suggests you stay friends with benefits in the same sentence?

But again, this is her night, and I'm not about to spoil it.

"I'm great," I say, and I make it sound true. "I still can't believe you'll officially be Harper Mitchell in three months!"

Nice deflection, Beth.

"Sometimes I still can't believe it either," she replies, her smile going soft and a little dreamy.

"Well, believe it. You found one of the good ones. Probably the best one." I squeeze her hand. "I'm happy for you. Like, genuinely. I might ugly-cry at the wedding, but that's a future-Beth problem."

She smiles and looks like she's about to say something when a voice cuts through the party.

"Harper, sweetie! Photo time!"

It's Ben's mother. Camera in hand.

"Go," I tell Harper. "Photo ops wait for no bride."

She hesitates.

"I promise I'm fine," I smile, and that seems to be enough.

She gives my hand a quick squeeze and heads toward the mother of her groom, and, once again I'm left standing by the buffet like the world's most overdressed shrimp guardian.

I exhale and turn back to the table, noticing a messy napkin stack that I immediately start rearranging.

This is my life now, apparently. Attending a growing number of engagement parties and weddings while pretending I have my shit together. To be fair, things could be worse. At least my misery comes with frequent open bars and excellent appetizers.

"Special delivery, fresh from the oven."

I turn to see Maren smiling over a tray of pastries that smell like a cinnamon-infused hug.

She's traded her usual flour-dusted apron for an emerald silk dress tonight, and the contrast of the deep green against her copper hair is absolutely gorgeous. But beneath the glam, she’s still radiating that signature omega warmth—the kind that makes you want to curl up and tell her all your problems. Which, for the record, I have done. Extensively.

"So this is what you snuck into the kitchen earlier," I say, grinning.

"And I somehow nailed the timing with the reheating." She slides the plate in front of me. "You know, given how you look like you could use emergency carbohydrates."

"Too bad I'm already full," I say, even as my hand drifts toward the plate.

"Which means that hand has a mind of its own?" she teases.

"My hand has gone completely rogue," I smile. If I'm being honest, there's always room for a puff. Just like dessert. Especially when the baker is one of my very talented best friends.

I take a bite, and it takes every ounce of willpower I have to not roll my eyes back into my skull.

Oh my god.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is obscene.

"What did you put in this?" I manage, still chewing.

"Just brown butter and sea salt." She steals one for herself and takes a bite. "Anyway, how's the hiding going?"

"Does standing near food really look like hiding?" I ask.

"You've been here for at least forty-five—"

A roar of laughter erupts from the bar and we both turn.

Near the far end of the venue, Ben is being hoisted onto someone's shoulders—no, onto multiple shoulders—by three alphas, his best men, pack Leroy, who are enthusiastically chanting what sounds like an off-key rendition of "What Do You Do with a Drunken Sailor", which is definitely an odd choice for an engagement party.

On dry land. For a man who I know for a fact has never been on a boat in his life.

But since half the room joins in on the chorus, laughing and clapping along, I guess the best men know better.

Mason, broad-shouldered and built like he could bench-press a sedan.

Knox, with his perfectly coiffed light brown hair and intelligent hazel eyes.

And Arthur, easy grin, the bartender at The Lake's Edge who once made me a cocktail called "The Florist's Funeral" after spent an hour mourning a dead peony shipment.

They look like they're having a great time. Which is strange, because I heard their omega left them a few months back... You really wouldn't know it from looking at them.

Not that handling heartbreak better than I am is a bad thing, on the contrary...

I sigh, pushing another pastry into my mouth.

Maybe if I eat enough carbs, I'll manifest that level of casual.

"Finally escaped," a voice says behind me and Maren.

We turn and see Luna. Her dark hair is pinned up, her cheeks flushed, and she's slightly breathless, like she just speed-walked across the venue.

"Luna!" Maren and I pull her into a hug. "How are you?"

"Well, I was taken hostage by Kevin." She takes a puff from Maren's plate on the buffet table. "He cornered me by the ice sculpture near the entrance. Apparently he's very taken with my—" she makes air quotes— "'porcelain complexion and intoxicating scent.' Direct quote."

Maren's eyes sparkle with mischief. "On the bright side, if he's detecting your scent that precisely, that means you might've just met your scent match."

Luna wrinkles her nose. "If my scent match smelled like a musty old book, I'd have married the reference section at the library by now."

I snort, and Luna's gaze shifts to me, softer, assessing me for a beat.

"You okay, babe?" she asks.

The question catches me off guard. Between Harper's gentle probing and now this, I'm starting to wonder if I have some kind of distress signal written across my forehead. "I'm fine... why?"

"You look like you're working very hard to look fine," she replies.

Well. I guess that's... accurate.

"I'm just a little... peopled out," I admit. "You know how it is."

A server passes with a tray of champagne. Luna snags two without breaking eye contact and hands me one.

"Here, have a drink," she says as she hands me a flute. "Try to enjoy tonight."

Maren's hand touches my arm. "And by the way, the guest room's all set up for you tonight. Fresh sheets, the good pillows, and I even put out that lavender candle you like."

I could cry. Honestly. Luna has been an absolute saint for letting me crash, but my thirty-something back can no longer handle sleeping on a couch for a week.

Not that I'm complaining, I genuinely appreciate her hospitality.

Especially since, without it, I'd have had to sleep in my flower shop, which has a lot of things going for it but notably lacks a bed, a shower, and a kitchen.

"Thank you so much guys, you're too good to me." I blink rapidly, suddenly feeling a little too overwhelmed. "I promise I'm actively looking for a new apartment and—"

Do not cry. Do NOT cry.

Maren pulls me into a quick side-hug and Luna joins in. "Take all the time you need, Beth."

***