Chapter 7
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Georgie’s voice cuts through the peaceful spa atmosphere like a foghorn.
We’re out here on the expansive front lawn of the Country Cottage Inn at the Gossip and Polish event that the newly crowned Bridal Rescue Squad dreamed up.
And Georgie looks as if she’s about to launch us into chaos in spectacular style.
She stands up dramatically from her pedicure chair, her toes spaced out with cotton balls, her champagne glass raised high, and from the split in her hot pink robe we get a glimpse of a matching pink kaftan covered in rhinestone palm trees that could blind just about anyone with corneas. “I have an announcement!”
The collective groan from the assembled women could probably be heard in the next county. Why do I get the feeling they’ve all met Georgie?
“I’ve had an epiphany about my career trajectory,” Georgie declares, striking a pose that looks as if she’s accepting an Academy Award rather than revealing her latest harebrained scheme.
And what career trajectory? She’s been retired for the last twenty years.
“I’m launching Georgie’s Bridal Blitz Boot Camp! ”
Okay, so more chaos is on order for the week. That’s not a shocker. Although I think I’d rather deal with the killer again.
Macy nearly drops her mimosa. “Please tell me you’re not about to do what I think you’re about to do.”
“I’m declaring myself an official member of the Bridal Rescue Squad!
Older, wiser, and someone who takes on more of a consultant role.
I’m the new wedding planner!” Georgie announces with confidence despite the fact that she’s never actually planned anything more complex than a grocery list. And even those have been questionable.
“My qualifications include watching seventeen seasons of wedding reality shows, maintaining a Pinterest board with over four thousand wedding pins, and having an innate understanding of bridal chaos dynamics seeing that I’ve been a bride more times than I can count on my fingers and toes. ”
“And she certainly understands chaos,” Mom mutters. Mostly because she causes it.
I nod because I happen to agree.
The nail techs exchange glances that suggest they’re considering early retirement.
“But wait, there’s more!” Georgie continues, because apparently, we haven’t suffered enough.
“I’m also implementing a comprehensive multi-day plan that includes Conrad surveillance operations for the bride’s protection, and leveraging this tragic situation for my new social media empire.
Think of it as wedding planning meets investigative journalism meets influencer marketing! ”
“It does sound brilliant,” I mutter.
Charlotte finally looks up from her phone. “Did she just say Conrad surveillance?”
“Oh yes.” Georgie grins with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever who’s just discovered a tennis ball factory. “Someone needs to keep an eye on that devastatingly handsome best man, and I volunteer as tribute.”
“This is going to be a disaster,” Camila mutters, but she’s fighting back a smile because there’s nothing Camila Ryder can appreciate more than a Georgie-shaped disaster—and that’s mostly because of how it affects me.
Camila loves disasters almost as much as Georgie loves chaos.
“Speaking of disasters,” Charlotte holds up her phone with all the drama of a magician revealing their best trick, “want to see my latest content? I was just updating my followers on the wedding week drama.”
She starts scrolling through her Hot Mess Heiress Insta Pictures account with the pride of a parent showing off honor roll certificates. “Here’s my Rich Girl Problems series from yesterday. See this post about my champagne going flat at the engagement dinner? It got three million views!”
The crowd oohs and ahhs again. I get the feeling they adore anything this woman has to say. It makes me question if these are friends and family or outright fans. Maybe all of the above.
I peer over at her screen. The production value is actually impressive—perfect lighting, designer everything, and Charlotte looking gorgeously flustered as she holds up a glass of allegedly flat champagne.
“And this one,” she continues, swiping to the next post, “is from my Oops, I Did It Again collection. I accidentally booked first-class tickets to Paris, Tennessee, instead of Paris, France, for my honeymoon research trip. The comments are hilarious. Everyone thinks I’m so relatably ditzy.
” She winks my way, and the crowd is thoroughly regaled once again.
The irony is alive and well. Charlotte has built an empire on being the relatable rich girl who makes expensive mistakes, but watching her scroll through those comments with genuine anxiety about her image, I’m starting to think there’s more to her oops moments than meets the eye.
According to those likes, it’s clear her followers eat up every disaster, every spilled champagne and backwards designer dress, even though she swears it’s performed relatability.
“Your follower engagement is insane,” I tell her, watching the likes climb in real time. “You’ve got some serious business savvy going on here.”
Charlotte’s smile falters for just a second. If they only knew how real these mistakes actually are, she thinks, and I catch the thought crystal clear. There are days I’d forget my head if it wasn’t attached. Ooh, speaking of my head, I really should touch up my highlights.
“Well,” she recovers quickly, “when life gives you lemons, make content, right?”
“Speaking of life giving us things,” Macy pipes up with the gleeful expression of someone about to start some premium piping hot tea, “we never finished our gossip fest. I think maybe we should dish on what collectively should be our favorite topic—men. And after meeting Conrad, I think we need to establish some ground rules about men with commitment issues. Everyone knows that man is a player.”
“Oh, this should be good.” Camila laughs, settling back in her chair.
“I’ll start,” Macy announces as if she’s been waiting for this moment since birth.
“Let’s talk exes.” She looks my way. “Remember Johnson? The guy who broke up with me via PowerPoint presentation? He had twenty-three slides detailing why our relationship wasn’t synergizing optimally. Clearly, the man was an idiot.”
“You’re kidding.” Georgie gasps.
Macy shakes her head. “Slide seventeen was called Why This Isn’t Working Out, and it had actual pie charts showing how we weren’t compatible. Pie charts. About our relationship. Had he bought me an actual pie, we might still be dating today.”
The laughter ripples across the deck like a wave.
“Okay, that’s horrible, but I can top it,” Camila jumps in.
“I once dated a guy who seemed normal until our third date, when he asked if he could appreciate my feet. Turns out, he had a whole Insta Pictures account dedicated to rating women’s toes.
He gave mine a six out of ten and suggested I invest in better pedicures.
And here I am today, doing just that without him. ”
Everyone out on the lawn explodes with laughter so hard that our mimosas threaten to come out through our noses.
“I got one,” Georgie declares, standing up again despite her nail tech’s protests this time.
“I dated a man named Leftie who was perfect except for one tiny detail,” she says with a knowing look.
“Every time we went out, men in pinstripe suits would kiss his ring and call him Mr. Torrino. I thought he was just really respected in the community until I realized his import business didn’t actually involve any paperwork, and everyone paid him in cash.
Turns out, I was dating the head of the most powerful crime family in Boston, and apparently, mob bosses have a thing for sparkly jewelry and women over seventy. ”
“Who knew?” Mom says, looking truly gobsmacked. Most likely she’s terrified the mob might be trailing them.
“I knew,” Georgie says with a wink and a smile.
The mob showing up at the inn is the last thing I need to worry about—but probably not the scariest.
“Men are just...” Camila starts, then pauses dramatically, “completely insane. Like one of my exes, who was obsessed with alien conspiracy theories and insisted on role-playing different sci-fi scenarios in bed. I’m talking full costumes, weird accents, the works.
One night I’m supposedly an alien princess from Zorgon, the next I’m a space marine fighting off intergalactic invaders. ”
Wait just a sci-fi loving minute… I’ve played the role of an alien princess a night or two before myself. I’m going to have a serious word with Jasper when I get home. That is, if I can pull him away from the sci-fi channel.
Charlotte shrieks with laughter. “Was he trying to seduce you or audition for Comic-Con?”
“But wait, it gets worse,” Camila continues with a roll of her eyes.
“He had this whole elaborate point system for staying in character. Apparently, I lost points for laughing when he tried to speak ‘authentic Klingon’ during what he called our ‘interspecies diplomatic relations.’ The man had a laminated chart rating my performance as various alien species.”
Klingon and laminated charts? That is so not Jasper. And I breathe a sigh of relief because of it.
I’ve always thought Camila was from another planet, and apparently, I’m not alone in that theory. And why is there a Klingon theme here today?
Macy nearly spills her champagne. “That’s nothing compared to my ex, Trevor, who thought he was some kind of bedroom feng shui master.
He rearranged my entire apartment based on optimal energy flow for romantic encounters.
I came home one day to find my bed facing magnetic north and crystals arranged in what he called ‘passion formations’ on every surface. ”
“Did it work?” Georgie asks with genuine curiosity.
“The only thing it attracted was my landlord’s complaints about the furniture marks on the hardwood floors,” Macy deadpans. “I never did get my deposit back.”