Chapter Four
Hunter
Iwoke up Saturday morning with Dixie Lane ten feet away in the same bed.
We'd stayed on our sides like we'd agreed, but somewhere during the night I'd rolled toward the middle. She was closer than she should have been. I should have moved back.
I didn't.
I checked my phone. Nine o'clock. The ceremony started at two. Plenty of time.
Dixie was already stirring. She rolled over, eyes still closed, hair a mess of tangles across the pillow. One strap of her tank top had slipped off her shoulder.
"Morning," I said quietly.
Her eyes opened, unfocused and sleepy. For half a second, she smiled at me like waking up together was normal. Then reality caught up and the warmth drained out of her face.
"Morning." She sat up, tugging the strap back into place. "What time is it?"
"Nine. We've got time."
"Good." She swung her legs out of bed, stretching. The tank top rode up, exposing her stomach and the curve of her hip. I wondered what her skin would taste like. Felt like a damn idiot for wondering.
"Bathroom first?" she asked.
"All yours."
She grabbed her phone from the nightstand and disappeared into the bathroom. Water ran. I lay there trying to cool down and failing.
When she came out, hair damp and face scrubbed clean, I was already dressed—jeans, boots, a simple button-down with the sleeves rolled up. "Hungry?" I asked. "I saw a restaurant off the lobby when we checked in yesterday."
"Starving, actually."
The restaurant was packed. Wedding guests clustered at nearly every table—I recognized two of Hudson's college buddies nursing coffees and hangovers near the window, and Kendall's aunt waved enthusiastically from a corner booth.
Staff hurried past with trays of pastries, and someone had already set up a mimosa station near the entrance.
We found one of the last open booths, tucked by a window overlooking the manicured gardens—the boxwood topiaries and marble cupids looking slightly absurd in the pale February sunshine.
One of Hudson's groomsmen spotted us and gave an exaggerated thumbs up from across the room.
I flipped him off without looking up from my menu.
Dixie ordered eggs and toast. I got coffee, black, and was halfway through my second cup when she pulled out her phone, frowning at the screen.
"You okay?"
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.
He moved with grim determination, a man who'd spotted a crisis from fifty yards away and was already three steps ahead of it. His three-piece suit was immaculate—not a thread out of place—and his expression carried controlled fury that suggested someone, somewhere, was about to have a very bad day.
"Eliza-Grace!" he called, not breaking stride. "The kit from the Savannah Debutante Ball crisis of 2019. Now."
His assistant materialized at his elbow, nodded once, and vanished.
Kendall appeared from around the corner—she must have heard the commotion from the bridal suite down the hall.
She was in a silk robe, hair half-pinned in rollers, mascara-streaked and clutching a tissue.
She spotted us and waved frantically. "Hunter!
Dixie! Oh thank goodness—did you see them?
Did you SEE? My beautiful bridesmaids look like they've been dipped in nacho cheese! "
"In Kendall's defense," Beauregard said, appearing at her side with barely a pause, "this is exactly why I recommended a professional colorist from Atlanta rather than a local salon.
" His gaze found Laverne, who had followed the bridesmaids down the hall.
A look passed between them that could have melted steel.
Laverne met it with a smile that was all teeth.
Within half an hour, Beauregard and Laverne worked through all eight bridesmaids with color corrector. They weren't perfect—one bridesmaid's elbows would stay tangerine through the weekend—but they no longer looked like safety equipment.
The boyfriend-meltdown bridesmaid had it worst. Apparently her boyfriend had escalated from their earlier fight by texting a breakup during the color correction. Laverne announced to anyone within earshot that it was "the rudest thing anyone's ever done on a Saturday."
Kendall had stopped crying. "Beauregard, you saved my wedding."
"I saved your wedding from one of its many potential catastrophes, Miss Kendall. Laverne—standard volume hair only. Nothing experimental."
Laverne nodded without arguing.
We made our excuses and headed for the elevator. We'd almost made it when I heard a woman's voice—sharp, panicked—coming from a service corridor where a door had been propped open.
"—I don't care, we need someone NOW. Someone who can handle sugar flowers without crushing them—yes, I know what day it is, that's precisely the problem—"
I knew that voice. The Garrett sisters—Ruby and Pearl—had been running Dough & Arrow bakery since before I was born. Everyone in Bitter Root knew them. I'd eaten their pie at every church social and county fair for thirty years.
I stopped. Through the open door, I could see Ruby pacing in front of a five-tiered wedding cake, phone pressed to her ear, free hand gesturing wildly. Pearl stood beside her wringing a towel between her hands.
Ruby hung up and turned to her sister. "Nobody. Not a single person available on a Saturday morning in February."
"We can do it ourselves," Pearl said softly. "We've done it before."
"Pearl, we have thirty-two sugar flowers to place, a full piping sequence on tiers three and four, and my hands have been shaking since Thursday.
My eyes aren't what they used to be." Ruby pressed the heels of her palms against her forehead.
"This cake has to be perfect. It's Kendall Blanchette's cake. If we mess this up—"
I started to walk past. Not my problem. I was the groom's brother, not a wedding coordinator. They'd been making cakes for fifty years—they'd figure it out.
I'd almost cleared the doorway when I noticed Dixie.
She was watching Ruby and Pearl through the open door, and there it was again—that intent look from last night when Kendall mentioned the sugar work. Like she was itching to get her hands on it.
"Hey," I said quietly, touching her arm. "You want to help them?"
She blinked. "What?"
"You've been staring at that cake like it owes you money. And you knew exactly what questions to ask Kendall last night." I shrugged. "Just a hunch."
Something flickered across her face—surprise, maybe, that I'd noticed. Then she squared her shoulders and walked toward the service corridor.
Ruby looked up, startled. "Can I help you?"