Accidentally Married for Christmas in July (You've Got a Match #4)

1. Katerina

Chapter one

Katerina

Istep out of the rideshare onto a sidewalk that has apparently decided it’s hosting a summer festival I did not order.

The humidity hits first, like I’ve stepped inside a thick velvet curtain that swallows me whole.

I inhale, and the air tastes faintly of fried dough, barbecue smoke, and something vaguely sweet that might be beignet sugar or might be a swirling ghost of last night’s revelers. Hard to say.

My phone pings in my tote, but I ignore it because I need every spare brain cell to handle my luggage and sidestep a small brass ensemble that marches directly behind me.

There’s a parade, of course. A second-line band with trombones and trumpets turns an ordinary block intersection into something out of a travel show.

Tourists gather to watch and stumble into my path.

My rolling suitcase catches in a sidewalk crack, and for a moment I’m balancing on one foot, trying not to topple into the curb.

This is precisely why I included a contingency for footwear in my itinerary. Flat sandals in my carry-on, just in case the city decided to test me less than five minutes after arrival. New Orleans is living up to its reputation: big, brassy, unstoppable.

I glance at my watch. Right on schedule, but only barely. The itinerary, safely tucked inside a sheet protector in my tote, says I should be at the hotel at 6:00 p.m. It’s 6:02.

I steer my suitcase through the large wooden doors of LaVieille, a small but elegant hotel in the French Quarter.

Once the doors close behind me, the noise from outside becomes a muffled blur.

The lobby is all polished floors, wrought-iron fixtures, and a single vintage chandelier overhead, casting warm light across the tile.

The desk clerk greets me with a practiced smile.

“Good evening,” he says. “Checking in?”

I nod. “Yes, I booked under Bennett. Katerina Bennett.”

He types for a moment, slides a form for me to sign.

While he processes my card, I close my eyes briefly and run through the upcoming schedule: deposit luggage in my room, hang dresses so they don’t wrinkle, meet the bridal party in the lounge near the bar, confirm dinner location… This is the easy part.

The clerk hands me my room key. As I wait for the elevator, a wave of brass music sneaks beneath the door and glances off the walls.

I resist the urge to check my phone again.

Instead, I straighten my posture, because I can feel my shoulders creeping up toward my ears. I’m not tense. I’m simply attuned.

Upstairs, my room is small but comfortable.

One queen bed with crisp white linens, a half-moon balcony that overlooks a courtyard, a narrow closet with enough wooden hangers to accommodate the range of dresses I’ve planned for the weekend.

Coming here for Sofia’s bachelorette is a precursor to the wedding itself, three weeks out, when we all converge on Hollyvale Inn it’s Sofia, my friend of nearly a decade, whose smile is a half-second slow to reach her eyes.

She’s an expert at warmth, at forging connections. Her parents’ silence has to sting.

“It’ll be perfect,” I say. Because that’s what she needs to hear. “Jordan and you will shine no matter who shows up.”

She exhales, some tension leaving her shoulders. “Thank you, Kit.”

I squeeze her arm gently, then shift into hostess mode and clink my fingernails on the nearest glass. “Okay, everyone, dinner reservations in forty-five minutes. We need to check in with each other, freshen up if necessary, and rally in the lobby by seven.”

I hold up the corner of my sheet protector, about to read the restaurant address. That’s my big mistake.

Bex is the last to arrive, as usual.

The front door whooshes open, and a swirl of all that brass-laden humidity spills with her into the lobby.

She’s wearing a dark denim jacket, undone over a black tank top, black jeans, and battered sneakers.

Hair down, the ends brushing her shoulders, a few colorful tattoos peeking out along the underside of her sleeves.

She moves like a person who is never worried about a sidewalk crack catching her heel.

If she tripped, she’d probably land with a grin anyway.

Her gaze flashes around the group, instantly brightening when she spots Sofia.

“Hey, you hopeless romantic,” she calls, throwing her arms around her sister’s shoulders.

Sofia theatrically staggers, as if so much affection is physically heavy.

Bex says something in rapid-fire Italian that I catch maybe every other word of.

She moves around, greeting each person with that same easy warmth. Casey beckons her in for a side hug. Lexi high-fives her for reasons that remain unclear. Then Bex’s eyes settle on me.

“Kit,” she says, framing my name like it’s an unexpected cameo. She glances down, and I realize I’m still holding up my sheet protector.

I flatten the plastic to my side. “Rebecca,” I reply, because I always call her by her full name. Or at least I used to, back when we were all living in the same city and Bex was just the rebellious younger sister of my friend Sofia.

Bex snorts. “Man, I forgot you love formality.” Her gaze flicks to the sheet protector. “Tell me that’s not an actual printed itinerary.”

I swallow. “It’s a reference document.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”

Behind her, the entire group of wedding-adjacent people giggles at my phrasing.

My face heats in a distinctly unprofessional way.

I open my mouth to say something quite reasonable, like the fact that no one complains about schedules when they’re hungry and everything is running smoothly, but decide it’s not worth the back-and-forth.

Bex shrugs, smirking as though to say she’s amused. “Welcome to New Orleans, Ms. Organized. Let’s see if your references help you now.”

I muster a laugh. We’ve done this dance for years: me as the structured presence, her as the unstoppable force. I suspect neither of us quite knows how to break that pattern, so we just keep pressing repeat.

“All right, folks,” Lexi chimes in. “We have dinner in less than an hour. And after that: party time.” She swirls her half-empty cocktail glass. “We’re starting at Bourbon, right?”

Bex snorts. “Please. We’re not doing the tourist trap. We’re going somewhere else.”

Sofia half-lifts a finger to protest, then lowers it.

She looks at me, as if checking if I object.

I hesitate. Do I object? I had a plan for dinner and a recommended jazz club after.

But I suppose letting Bex direct us to one of her local haunts might not be the worst idea.

Trying to quell a sense of impending chaos, I nod. “Fine. That’s all right.”

She smirks again. “Glad to hear you’re flexible, Kit.”