Chapter 19
If there’s one thing I’ve learned about hosting weddings, it’s that no amount of planning can prepare you for the moment when your peaceful inn gets transformed into what appears to be the love child of a Pinterest board and a circus.
“Fish, stop trying to eat your bow,” I say sweetly as I sprint across the cove at a little after twelve in the afternoon, the salt air already thick with the competing scents of blooming beach roses, industrial-strength sunscreen, and enough hairspray that could probably deflect aliens from space.
The morning sun glints off white silk draping that’s been hung between every available palm tree—and most of those palm trees have arrived on the scene just for the wedding—creating what Georgie insists is ethereal romantic ambiance, but looks more like someone gift-wrapped the beach.
This pink monstrosity is an insult to my dignity, Fish informs me, pawing at the elaborate bow Charlotte insisted all pets wear for the ceremony. It’s taking away from my natural beauty. Not only that, but it’s giving me tunnel vision.
I think I look festive, Sherlock says cheerfully, his bow already askew and decorated with sand. Very wedding-y.
Truffle belts out a few spastic yips and trots in a circle.
I can’t see properly, and it’s slipping and sliding all over my head and tickling my ears, and OH MY GOSH, what if I miss something important because of this bow situation?
What if there’s a squirrel or a dropped snack or a SUSPICIOUS PERSON and I can’t see them because of this pink thing covering my eyeballs?
This is definitely a safety hazard, and also, it’s really itchy, and why do hoomans think we need accessories, anyway? she chatters frantically.
“Because you all look adorable,” I say, giving her a quick scratch between the ears.
Macy distributed the bows this morning and said they were mandatory for any pet that wanted to be admitted to the wedding. The only thing she seemed to have overlooked was that each bow was the exact same size—about the size of Truffle, to be exact.
But Macy isn’t the only member of the Bridal Rescue Squad running amok.
The beach itself has been transformed by what can only be described as Georgie’s interpretation of an elegant seaside wedding.
She’s bedazzled the aisle runner with actual rhinestones that sparkle in the morning light, hung twinkle lights from driftwood arches, and somehow managed to incorporate enough tropical flowers to make the entire setup look like a luau designed by someone who confused tropical elegance with a Vegas showroom.
“Bizzy!” Georgie calls out from where she’s adjusting what appears to be a glittery starfish attached to the altar. “Do you think we need more sparkle on the unity candle setup?”
I glance over at the glowing tabletop that glitters in every shade of the rainbow.
“Georgie, the unity candle setup can double as a lighthouse,” I tell her, tugging at my emerald green dress that seemed elegant this morning but now feels completely inadequate for the level of glamour currently overtaking my beach. “I think we’re good.”
“Perfect! Visibility is key for Charlotte’s social media coverage.”
I scan the gathering crowd of guests, all of whom have clearly taken the black-tie designation seriously.
Mom and Ben look absolutely stunning. Mom is in navy silk, and Ben is wearing a perfectly tailored tux that makes him look distinguished and vaguely dangerous.
Other guests mill around in elegant summer formal wear, chatting and admiring the setup while trying not to get their designer shoes full of sand—that is, those who are brave enough to wear shoes.
The hoomans are all dressed like they’re going to a fancy dinner, Cinnamon points out from her position near the guest seating. But yet most of them are barefoot. Hooman logic is confusing—and so are their fashion choices.
At least the food smells good, Gatsby adds, eyeing the catering setup with professional interest.
I have to agree. But it doesn’t just smell good, it smells divine. Emmie and her staff have outdone themselves.
Dad and Gwyneth appear near the café, Dad looking handsome in his tux, as does Gwyneth in a crimson gown.
And she just so happens to be expertly juggling baby Ella, who’s wearing what appears to be a miniature version of a wedding dress complete with tiny pearl accessories.
That is not the outfit I put her in this morning.
Oh geez. Leave it to Gwyneth to pull a fast one and land both the baby and me in one serious fashion emergency.
“She’s going to lose her mind when she sees Jasper in his tux,” Gwyneth calls out to me. “We’ll bring her down right before the ceremony starts.”
“Perfect!” I call back, then nearly collide with Jasper as he emerges from the cottage looking like he stepped off the cover of a romance novel. The man cleans up ridiculously well.
“You look incredible,” he says, pulling me close for a kiss that makes me temporarily forget I’m hosting a wedding that could potentially feature multiple murders. I look down at my glitzy emerald green number and wiggle my shoulders so the dress shimmers in the sunshine.
“Thank you,” I say. “You look like you should be on the cover of GQ,” I reply, straightening his bow tie.
“Try not to meet the Grim Reaper before or after the ceremony, okay?” I’m only half-teasing.
I’ve had a nagging feeling all morning that something disastrous was destined to happen today—outside of all of the disastrous things that are already slated to happen today.
“I’ll do my best,” he says with a dark laugh. “Though given your track record with weddings...”
“My track record with weddings is excellent. It’s my track record with murders that’s problematic.”
“Fair point. Be careful. I’ll try to keep an eye on you.” He lands a far steamier kiss on my lips, then heads off toward where the groomsmen are gathering, leaving me with the lingering scent of his cologne and the reminder that I need to keep everyone alive for the next few hours.
I’m making one final check of the seating arrangements when I realize I need to grab extra programs from the utility shed behind the inn. I hurry across the sand, emerald dress swishing around my legs, and push open the shed door.
“Oh my word,” I breathe, then immediately back out of the doorway and press myself against the wall.
Inside the utility shed, Charlotte Van Buren—bride of the hour, social media princess, and supposed innocent victim of everyone else’s scheming—is locked in what can only be described as a very passionate embrace with Conrad Carrington.
Okay, fine. Her white dress was hiked up, and her legs were wrapped around his waist. It was a very, very enthusiastic embrace.
And they’re not just kissing. They’re kissing like people who’ve done this before. A lot.
I stand there for approximately three seconds, processing this information while my brain tries to recalibrate everything I thought I knew about this wedding. Then I quietly back away from the shed and speed-walk toward the ceremony area with my mind racing at a million dangerous miles an hour.
What the heck is happening? And on her wedding day?
Will she have a wedding day? Is she insane?
Clearly, Conrad has a death wish. I have half a mind to send Piers to the shed to get those extra programs for me.
Of course, once he gets an eyeful, we won’t be needing those programs, or the flowers, or the guests, or the wedding cake in general.
Unless his need for her trust fund supersedes his need for a loyal bride.
Charlotte and Conrad.
Charlotte, who’s supposed to be marrying Piers in approximately thirty minutes, and Conrad, who’s supposed to be Piers’s best man. Charlotte, who everyone thinks is naive and innocent, and Conrad, who everyone knows is a predatory cad.
This is a recipe for disaster—and technically, the disaster is currently taking place.
“Bizzy!” Buffy, looking stunning in a soft blue dress, appears at my elbow as I’m halfway down the beach. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I guess you could say it’s just wedding jitters,” I manage, though my voice sounds strained even to my own ears.
Buffy studies my face with a concerned expression as if she knows exactly what wedding jitters looks like, and this isn’t it. “Are you sure? Because you look more like you’ve discovered something earth-shattering.”
“You’re right,” I say with a heavy sigh. I’m about to spill all the red-hot tea when Bea approaches us, resplendent in a champagne-colored silk gown and looking more relaxed than I’ve seen her all week.
“Good day, ladies,” she trills. “Isn’t this lovely?” she says, gesturing to the faux tropical surroundings on the beach. “Charlotte is going to be one happy bride.”
“I’m so glad to hear it,” I say as calmly as I can, but even I can hear the tremor in my voice. “She and Piers are such a... committed couple. I hope they’ll be very happy with everything today.”
“Oh, they’re committed, all right,” Bea says with a knowing smile.
“Although I have to say, I was surprised when Piers finally proposed. The man can barely commit to a dinner reservation, let alone a marriage. I guess love makes us do strange things.” Her expression sours when she says it as if she knows exactly what those strange things are.
Piers is new to commitment? Why am I not surprised? His bride isn’t exactly shining in it either.
The sound of string quartet music drifts from the area next to the makeshift altar, signaling that the ceremony is about to begin, and Bea takes that as her cue to head to her post. Guests start moving toward their seats, and I watch as Camila positions herself with her phone for optimal filming while Charlotte’s professional photographers set up at multiple angles.
“Places, everyone!” Camila shouts. “We’re starting in five minutes!”