What Could Go Wrong?

Chapter 1

Ruined My Wedding

Worst Decision I’ve Ever Made

Do Not Hire Her

The bold letters shout at me through my phone screen as I compulsively refresh the page in the hopes that they might miraculously disappear.

This scathing, one-star review came in a few months ago, and its placement at the top of my business listing has completely tarnished my reputation as one of the premier wedding photographers in North Carolina.

For there to be a permanent reminder of the worst day of my career stings, but for it to have been written by my best friend—or rather ex-best friend, Phoebe—is like pouring a bottle of Frank’s RedHot on a gaping wound.

It would be one thing if I had ruined Phoebe’s wedding, but besides the fight we had pre-ceremony, the day went off without a hitch.

She and Cliff walked down the aisle, smashed cake in each other’s faces in front of friends and family, and ended the night under a shower of sparklers as they drove off into their happily-ever-after.

These, of course, were all facts I discovered while scrolling through the images my second shooter captured in my absence.

Because yes, even after she ended our seven-year friendship and kicked me out of her wedding, I was still obligated to edit and deliver her gallery within my thirty-day window.

Working in the wedding industry as an event planner, Phoebe knew what a career-ending blow this would be for me. But considering she was the one to thrust me into this life of wedding photography, it was only fitting that she’d be the one to take it away.

I ignore the ache in my stomach as I slip my phone into my pocket and open the door to Finn’s.

The dingy dive bar has bad lighting and worse drinks but it’s been my safe haven since the fight with Phoebe.

A place where I don’t have to be “Mira Maxwell, Luxury Wedding Photographer,” and I can just be myself.

A feat made infinitely easier by the red-headed bartender behind the counter.

“Hey, Mira,” Hudson says cheerily, as I settle onto my favorite barstool, the one by the wall that gives me ample back support. His bright green eyes gleam under the fluorescents as he fills a few pints from the tap, setting each glass on a plastic tray.

“Give me a minute to run these over,” he says, nodding towards the group of guys watching the baseball game at the back of the bar.

“Take your time,” I offer, ignoring the vibration coming from my pocket.

Since her review, I’ve been bombarded with cancelations and not-so-subtle texts from “friends” in the industry prying for details on the fallout.

I’ve barely allowed myself to think about that day, let alone process the lingering trauma, so revisiting it for the sake of quelling the industry gossip mills or assuring clients that it was an isolated event won’t be happening anytime soon.

No, instead I’m going to do what I’ve been doing every night since: avoid it.

“You look nice tonight,” Hudson says, his words catching me off guard, as he takes his place back behind the bar.

Sure, we’ve flirted a little. But neither of us are one for compliments, at least none that are so forward.

“Not that you don’t always look great,” he stumbles, scratching at the scruff against his cheek.

It’s perfectly patchy, a sort of unrefined stubble that adds a distinguished flourish to his childlike sense of style.

Much akin to a toddler who proudly dresses himself each morning, Hudson’s ensemble tonight consists of green bootcut pants, a “Middle Earth Hiking Society” shirt that’s faded and moth-eaten, and a pair of red-and-white checkered Vans.

A stark contrast to my strictly black-on-black wardrobe.

“Really making a girl feel like she should shower more often,” I say, digging in even further.

“That’s not. I mean . . .” he says, adorably flustered.

“It’s cool,” I say, shaking my curls in his direction. With no editing queue or consultations to worry about, I actually had time to complete the entire six-step process that turns my wavy hair into manageable curls. “I’ll take the compliment.”

Hudson sighs a breath of relief as he reaches for a tumbler, setting it in front of me. “The usual?”

Although I’ve popped into Finn’s a time or two over the years, I’ve become a regular.

At first it was an excuse to get out of my apartment, to give my eyes a break from crying or editing the weddings left on my docket, but after Hudson and I became friendly, stopping in became part of my nightly routine.

“Haven’t decided yet,” I stammer, partly flustered but mostly stalling.

Because as much as I enjoy Hudson’s company, he’s a terrible bartender.

Truly. His concoctions are undrinkable. Last week, I saw him put olives in a tequila soda for what he called a “bit of whimsy.” Needless to say, I’m willing to wait it out for Lilah, the bar manager, to make my drink so that I can actually drink it.

“I know you’re going to order a whiskey sour.

You always do,” he says, stretching to grab a bottle of whiskey from the top shelf.

The reach pulls the fabric of his shirt across his broad shoulders, displaying a slew of toned muscles underneath awarded to him from weekend hiking trips and early morning kayaking.

A patch of perfectly freckled skin peeks out at his midriff and I can’t help but wonder how far down those freckles go.

When he catches me staring, I pretend to peruse the overhead menu. “I got a Negroni that one time.”

“That’s because everyone was ordering them, and you wanted to see what all the hype was about.”

There’s a knowing smile behind his eyes, a familiarity I’m unaccustomed to after years of keeping to myself, but Hudson has slipped past my defenses.

Unlike the mindless conversations I have to endure at weddings, curating responses to fit who my clients and the guests want me to be, there’s never been an artificial moment with Hudson.

He approaches even the most mundane questions with genuine interest, as if what I ate for lunch is just as fascinating as how tintype photographs are developed.

What starts as one drink always ends up becoming hours of conversation, one subject flowing effortlessly into another, until Finn comes down from his apartment above the bar to kick us out and lock up for the night.

“Maybe I’m feeling adventurous today,” I reason, all too aware of the door I’m opening.

Resting his palms against the bar, Hudson takes my cue, leaning into my personal space. I breathe in the earthy scent of him, a combination of pine and petrichor that makes my knees so weak I’m thankful to be sitting down.

“What type of adventure are we talking about?”

It’s the same challenge we’ve volleyed back and forth over these last few weeks—to take this chemistry between us to the next level. But every time I contemplate stepping up, asking him to go to dinner or to see a movie, or do anything outside the confines of Finn’s, fear stops me.

Besides not wanting to explain why I’m currently blacklisted from the wedding photography world, I haven’t dated in years.

Working in an industry that consumed my nights and weekends, companionship was limited to industry professionals and wedding party members who slid into my DMs—not really options with much viability for long-term success.

Then again, after almost a decade capturing weddings and watching the subsequent divorces, I started to believe that love, the kind that lifts a person up and lasts a lifetime, might just be a fallacy.

A hypothesis confirmed by the disaster that was Phoebe’s wedding.

But sometimes with Hudson, I could swear I feel that spark.

That pulse of electricity that makes me do stupid things like overshare or wonder what it might be like to wake up together on a Sunday morning before meeting friends out for brunch.

I tried to ignore it, but the more we’ve hung out, the more that spark has grown until it’s become perpetual fireworks every time I see him.

But no matter how I feel about him, or how easily he evokes a Fourth of July celebration in my chest, I know better than to get my hopes up.

“How about the kind of drink that provides me with a momentary release from the burdens of reality,” I sigh.

“I’m not sure we serve that here. But Lilah might know a guy you could call if you want the hard stuff.”

“A whiskey sour is fine,” I assure him, nervously playing with my newish bangs.

I cut them in a panic after the review hit, hoping that a change in appearance might lessen the gnawing discomfort in my stomach whenever I looked in the mirror.

But I still saw the same scared girl who flinched every time her phone buzzed.

The same girl who couldn’t help but wonder if there was truth to Phoebe’s words.

“I finally finished those books you gave me,” Hudson says, pulling me from my thoughts.

“How’d you like them?” I ask, watching as he combines three parts sour mix with one part whiskey in a metal shaker, little droplets of whiskey and juice flying out with every pump of his arm.

“I really enjoyed the dragon classifications.”

“You would,” I laugh. From magic regeneration sources to made-up native species of plants, no matter what series I throw at him, Hudson always finds an element to geek out about in every smut-filled fantasy series I recommend.

“And let me guess. Yours was when Tarwyn sacrificed his soul for Alia?”

“Please,” I scoff, offended at the accusation. “I’m not that much of a romantic.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you though?”