Willa's Wedding Daddy

1. Willa

WILLA

The groom’s mother wore a cream dress, because of course she did.

It wasn’t a subtle cream, either. It was the kind that was basically white in photographs and dared anyone to call her out on it.

Add to that the taffeta sleeves and the world’s most strategic push-up bra, and you had the textbook definition of a “moment.”

That alone made my blood boil and the processional hadn’t even started.

“Miss Brandt?” The hotel event coordinator sidled up to me, nervously twisting a walkie-talkie in his hands. “MOG is asking if she can get a peek at the seating chart.”

I kept my gaze on the door at the end of the hall and sucked in a long breath. “Tell her it’s been set and approved for weeks, and that if she touches it, her son is contractually obligated to not call her for Christmas.”

“Seriously?” The poor kid looked confused, like he couldn’t tell if I was joking or not. At six foot one, he still hadn’t mastered the art of not flinching when a five-foot-two woman in a severe ponytail barked orders at him.

“Just tell her you don’t have access to it. She can ask me if she wants.” I narrowed my eyes, hoping to convey the importance of her not coming to me with such a ridiculous request. “Thank you, Steve.”

I’d been planning luxury weddings for years and they were almost always the same.

A version of organized psychological warfare.

For as much as people paid me, my job wasn’t all about arranging flowers or serving the right canapés.

Hell, it wasn’t even about getting the happy couple down the aisle without someone fainting from nerves.

My job was really about keeping a few hundred warring egos pointed in the same direction for three to five consecutive hours.

It was a miracle I wasn’t in an institution.

My phone dinged with one of my many daily reminders. Drink water.

I had that exact reminder set to go off every two hours because if I didn’t, I could go an entire day with a drop of water and not realize it until my head was pounding, my lips were cracked, and I couldn’t form a coherent thought.

Fortunately, past Willa was smart enough to take care of present Willa or I’d never make it through the day. I downed half of my giant bottle then scanned the ballroom for anything out of place. So far, so good.

People think being a wedding planner was easy but it was anything but. The trick was to look so completely in control that people didn’t realize I was putting out infernos with my bare hands.

My earpiece crackled with the update I was dreading. “They’re fighting in the vestibule.”

I pulled the lapel mic to my lips and adopted my ‘calm for the security footage’ voice. “Copy. Who is ‘they’?”

“The mothers.” Of course it was the mothers. They’d been at odds since the first florist interview months earlier.

“On my way.” As I walked to the scene, I took a quick scan of the cake the bakers were setting up.

It was fondant perfection. Four tiers that were each hand-painted with something called a watercolor ombre effect.

Expensive and a bit pretentious for my taste, but most of my clients leaned toward flagrant consumerism over understated charm.

I continued to the vestibule, clapping my hands loudly to interrupt the shouting match happening between the two menopausal matriarchs.

“Excuse me, ladies. How can I help you?”

“Miss Brandt.” Beatrice Goodwin, the bride’s mother was the first to turn toward me with her arms crossed over her shoulders. “There seems to be some confusion about the cake.”

Sweet Jesus. “And what is that?” I made my face into its politest, most neutral setting. Fake.

She relaxed her stance as if trying to butter me up. “Martin’s mother is under the impression they went with chocolate, but my son doesn’t like chocolate. Never has. Not even when he was little.”

I nodded and took a step to the left, blocking her view of the gorgeous chocolate cake.

“Actually, Evelyn is right. Martin and Amber did go with chocolate for two of the layers and they both seemed to really enjoy them at the tasting.” I smiled and tried to soften the blow.

“Maybe his taste buds have evolved or maybe he’ll stick with the boston creme layer but either way, it’s a beautiful cake that the guests will enjoy. ”

She looked past me and narrowed her eyes at the cake. “It’s not too late to change the top tier, is it?”

“I’ll ask.” I lied through my teeth as I waved over one of the ushers. “Let’s get you seated so we can get this wedding started.”

My phone vibrated against my hip with a new alert. Sugar level?

Excellent question, reminder app. It had been a while since I ate anything, so I popped an Altoid and forced myself to chew it. It was sugar, technically.

On my way to check with the caterers, I passed the best man. He was already rosy as he hit a flask and then slipped it back into his breast pocket. “Hey, Willa! You’re the fucking best!”

“Save something for the toast.” I kept going until Beatrice was seated on one side of the aisle and Evelyn was on the other side.

One crisis at a time.

I just had to keep my shit together for a few more hours.

The rest of the wedding went pretty well. There were the usual tears and drunken outbursts, but nothing a cup of coffee and slice of cake couldn’t fix. The bride had a tiny meltdown over a stain on her dress, but after two spritzes of club soda, it was invisible for the rest of the party.

The DJ tried to sneak in one of the forbidden songs, but I shut that shit down before the first verse was over so all in all, it was a great event.

If I ever got married—which I was pretty sure I wouldn’t—this venue wouldn’t be terrible.

In fact, it was in my top five locations.

Right after Poppy’s Place and a private beach.

Three more reminders popped up on my phone between before seven and I was grateful for each one.

Deep breaths, protein time, and stand up & stretch all came just when I needed them.

The only one I ignored and was seriously regretting when it was time to cut the cake was the reminder to go potty.

I hated stopping what I was doing to go find a bathroom.

Life was too short to be running to the toilet ten times a day.

When the last of the cake was boxed up and the guests had drifted away to their after parties, I stayed behind to supervise the teardown.

The hotel crew moved in with a practiced efficiency, stacking chairs and stripping linens faster than could bark orders at them.

And before I left, I took my checklist from corner to corner, collecting leftover centerpieces and making sure nobody left anything behind.

At exactly five after nine, I stepped out into the warm evening and slipped off my heels. I was officially off duty and that meant I could wear my flipflops.

I wanted to go home, take off my clothes, and not put them back on until Monday.

My plan for the rest of the weekend was to crawl onto my oversized beanbag and watch cartoons with my stuffed elephant until I had to adult again.

Eating cereal straight from the box was still eating and letting my body uncoil from all the pretending and holding it together was the only thing I could think about.

But home was a twenty-minute walk away, and the lights of the bar across the street were a dangerous lure.

I’d ignored my nine o’clock hydrate reminder so stopping for a quick cocktail was really just self-care. One drink would be enough to help knock me out for the night.

I went inside in my little black dress and flippys and immediately caught the attention of the bartender. He winked at me and was cute enough so I slid onto a stool in the corner and ordered a cosmo.

“Long day?” He pulled a bowl of pretzels out from behind the counter and put it in front of me.

“Way too long.” I sighed and popped a pretzel into my mouth. “Just need something to help me turn off my brain so I can fall asleep tonight.

He cocked an eyebrow as he pulled a bottle of Grey Goose off the shelf and started making my drink.

While he worked, I pulled out my phone and scrolled through the day’s reminders.

There was a comfort in the repetition of those tiny acts of kindness I’d programmed for myself.

Being perpetually single meant no one was around to remind me to wear something soft when I was gonna be in meetings all day or to not, under any circumstances, check my email after ten at night.

My virtual Daddy was my pathetic attempt at a stand-in for someone who cared about me and would tell me I was a good girl now and then.

A drink appeared in front of me and my shoulders immediately dropped. It was pretty pink with a sugared rim and a maraschino cherry. Exactly what I needed.

The bar was nearly empty with just a few people spread out in the place. That’s why I was startled when I took my first sip and a man dropped onto the stool beside me. Right beside me. As if he didn’t notice the ten empty spaces that would allow a little breathing room.

“Uh, hi.” I tried to conjure my snark but I was too tired.

“Hello, beautiful. Mind if I sit here for a little while? I could use some company.” When he put it like that, I couldn’t really say no.

“Sure.” I shrugged and took a bigger drink. “I’m not gonna be here long.”