Chapter Eighteen

Julia

The mother of the bride—Evelyn, a Goldie Hawn–style iconic blond who seems to think it's her job to ensure my mental demise—and the mother of the groom—Blythe, a regal-looking Emily Gilmore type with the sourest look of disapproval to ever grace a person's face—would love any excuse imaginable to just go ahead and kill each other right here at the bride and groom's dinner table, and it's my job to stop them.

The fathers are engaged in a deep discussion about the most challenging holes on the golf green where they intend to spend the rest of the day. They're itching for release from their wives' death grip, and they aren't doing anything to help mediate the argument over the dream catcher Evelyn wants hung above the bride and groom's table—a topic that has managed to derail our final walk-through of the rehearsal dinner setup and waylay me getting more ibuprofen.

"You can't possibly think this is appropriate," Blythe says, standing at the foot of the ladder with her arms crossed over her black tweed jacket. She's holding a half-empty mimosa in her prim, pink-oval-manicured hand, tapping her wedding band against the glass.

"I don't understand your aversion to keeping our children safe from bad wishes and intentions on their most special day," Evelyn replies, a doe blinking at a hunter. Her eyes trail back to Deanna, a Love, Always staff member who has unwittingly gotten in the middle of this mess. "To the left, use that second hook. We want it evenly hung."

"We don't want it at all," Blythe counters. "We're not Native American. This is appropriation."

"I'm one-sixteenth Chickasaw, Blythe."

"And the rest is white WASP."

"Takes one to know one," Evelyn retorts. She holds her phone up to snap a shot, and then frowns. "I wonder if we can hang flowers from it to make it more decorative."

"Edward, Jesus, will you please chime in." Blythe raises her voice toward the fathers, both of whom now have refreshed glasses of beer. Ten a.m. in wedding time is apparently five p.m. everywhere else. Both Edward—father of the groom—and Grant—father of the bride—look over. They are nearly identical in their pastel polos and dim expressions.

"Whatever you say, darling," Edward replies. When Blythe glares at the dream catcher with meaning, Edward's green eyes follow. But he doesn't follow . "Looks great." He nods.

"Millie's style," Grant responds.

Blythe fumes, just as Evelyn claps in approval. "It's perfect."

The dream catcher stays.

For now.

I press Blythe to turn her attention to the head table décor. "The only element not in place yet is the flowers—" I gesture toward the cart Deanna wheeled over before she got wrangled onto the ladder. "Which we wanted to show you before we return them to the refrigerator."

Blythe blinks her attention reluctantly over to the cart, casting one more stink eye toward the dream catcher and her future family member. The groom's family is taking on the traditional role, paying for the band, food, and all décor at the rehearsal dinner. (The exceptions being that scandalous dream catcher and, of course, Mystic Maven's services.)

We walk over to the cart for Blythe to get a closer look and hopefully sign off on the whole setup. It's the final step in the walk-through, which means I'm counting down to my release. God, my head is pounding. It's not a hangover, thankfully. I think the culprits are exhaustion and dehydration. So, my booze intake last night definitely didn't help. As she takes the arrangements in, cataloging every petal and leaf, I let my eyes drift closed.

I had asked Zoe to take the lead on getting the parents settled and overseeing Homebase until I was up and about. An extra hour of sleep would have been a game changer. But I woke up at my normal time, no alarm clock needed, and the first thing I did while I lay in bed half-awake was check out Kit's Instagram feed. I was too tired to give it a deep dive after I followed her back last night. It was causing enough of a spiral that she had been thinking about me at all, and that thinking prompted her to search for my account.

Let alone follow and like a post.

The one thing I surmised from her feed, before I finally got up to get coffee, was that she is definitely not dating women. A quick scroll revealed a handful of long-term boyfriends over the last few years, and no sign of a single female who could be more than just her friend. For a second I thought the girl she's photographed with all the time—going to the beach, hiking Runyon Canyon, brunching and snuggling close—could be a romantic partner, but a little more sleuthing revealed she's just her friend Nina, who is definitely queer but doesn't appear to be romantically involved with Kit.

And probably doesn't know anything about Kit's onetime dalliance with pussy.

I press my fingers against the point in my temple where most of my headache is localized, when I smell a familiar scent.

Bitter, herbal, and smokey.

Oh great.

"I just need to add some more rose quartz hearts to the tables," Healer Arynne says, huffing past me. I'm nearly knocked down by her beefy entourage, dressed in matching shorts and freshly oiled.

Zoe appears in a stunning twist of perfect timing, directing Healer Arynne and her band of merry men to a corner of the room that's out of earshot of the mothers. God, I hope she stays out of the way this time.

Blythe pinches her features like a dried prune, her focus trailing after Healer Arynne, but fortunately she's not given any more ammunition for her cannon of disdain.

One more careful redirect and I'm out of here.

"I've set you both up with a day at the spa, tailored to your individual preferences, to get you rested and relaxed for tonight's festivities."

That focuses Blythe, livening up her features. All distraction evaporating with the promise of a massage. She focuses back on the list.

I pull my walkie from my waistband, calling for one of the spa staff to come retrieve the mothers. Zoe steps back into my eyeline, giving me a meaningful glare and moving away from the guests.

"I need a dark room and a tranquilizer to get rid of this headache," I say when I reach her.

"That'll have to wait," she says, anxious energy emitting from her like a force field. "Millie has arrived safely at the picnic location ahead of the food. The staff set everything up to your specifications, it's gorgeous—we got some great shots for socials—"

"Why do I feel like you're burying the lead, Zoe?" My voice is sharp with agitation I shouldn't be directing at Zoe.

"Because I am." Zoe sucks in a deep breath like she's prepping to hold it underwater. "The groom and his groomsmen are a no-show."

"What do you mean they're a no-show? They were supposed to be picked up—" I twist my wrist to check the time on my watch. "Half an hour ago."

"The driver just called."

"To say he was on his way to the picnic site?"

"To say the dudes are passed out in their tents." She pauses, correcting. "Except for Cash Kim, who was vomiting into the firepit."

I quickly dispel that image from my brain. Focus, Kelley. A fuckup like this could have a domino effect.

I've seen it before. The groom and groomsmen miss a pivotal prewedding event. They make excuses, but the bride doesn't buy them. She starts to tug at the threads of their relationship, question the validity of his claim on her heart. The groom makes an offhand remark, she spirals it into more, and before we know it the wedding implodes.

I can't let that happen here.

"Cover Homebase," I say.

"Way ahead of you." She hands me my wallet and a bottle of water plus two ibuprofen. The essentials. Zoe never misses. "Got the valet to pull your car around already."

I ignore my pounding head and the rumble of hunger in my stomach, yanking my phone out of my back pocket to put the address of the bachelor party festivities into my GPS as I book it across the venue to my car.