Page 11 of Bridesmaid to Bride

“It means you’re like a Swiss watch—precise, reliable, always ticking on schedule.” Her head somehow rests comfortably against the edge of the bath.

“So romantic,” I scoff, rolling my eyes.

“There’s nothing wrong with being organized.” She’s unfazed by my sarcasm. “Foster is a bossman, and you love being told what to do.”

“Do not!” I snap, though a traitorous part of me wonders if there isn’t a pinch of truth to that. And if there is, Paige doesn’t understand—there’s no way she could. When our mother died, my father was drowning in grief, and Paige didn’t talk for six months. I was only eight myself, but I knew my family was falling apart. Now, Paige and I are obviously not eight anymore, but the fear stays within me.

I work hard to control the chaos by having my lists, keeping things in order, and continuously checking in on my family.

“Look, all I’m saying is Foster’s got his shit together.” Paige is relentless as a telemarketer. “And isn’t that part of the dream? To have someone who raises your profile?”

“Yes?” I say as a question because is it? Is this what it’s come to? Am I destined for a love story scheduled by Google Calendar and written by legal briefs?

“I just want what’s best for you.” She sighs, knowing she’s hit a nerve.

“I know you do.” With the thought of having to try and woo Foster, I groan, saying, “Are you sure you can’t just take over Dad’s firm?”

“No way! I love my job as an assistant DA—I thrive on justice, you know that.”

“I do.” The first day of law school, she knew she wanted to work in the District Attorney’s office. She graduated at the top of her class and had an offer waiting for her, smooth and easy.

“You’re the rock of the family, Eves. You’ve been holding everyone together since Mom...” Her voice trails off, and I know she’s right. It’s always been me, the glue, the fixer, the one who crawled into bed with Paige at night so she could sleep. The one who became the same kind of lawyer Dad is to make him proud.

“Thanks, sis.” My heart pitter-patters at her vulnerability, reminding me of when she was little. The only thing I could do to slowly bring her back to herself was smother her with love.

She acts breezy now, but it’s something she had to adopt to survive. I know the truth—under it all is a soft soul who’s fragile and, when push comes to shove, needs me. I swallow back the tickle in my throat from the nostalgia and say, “Enough already. Between you and Dad, I’m feeling the squeeze, but I said I’d talk to Foster, and I will.”

“Yay!” she claps, and mud flies.

“Here’s to the best wedding week ever.” I raise my cucumber water glass and clink it against hers before sinking back into the warm, murky abyss.

6

Who Let the Dogs Out?

EVA

After selecting the perfect sundress that shows a touch of the girls and carefully applying my makeup for tonight’s cocktail party, I dart through the hotel’s lobby, my heels clicking an SOS on the marble. After an emergency text from a hotel staffer, I’m running to the doggie photoshoot room, which should be a haven of beautiful chaos, but as I skid to a stop, it’s just... chaos.

“Seriously?” My sharp tone is met with guilty looks from three sets of puppy eyes. There’s Coco Chanel, my sister’s pampered poodle, flanked by her partners in crime, Zach’s pug named Balls, and Dior, a chihuahua who thinks she’s a Doberman.

Why did the groomer bring the dogs here unsupervised? He was supposed to leave them with the special hotel staffer assigned to watch the dogs as an extra service we paid for!

“Where is everyone?” I scan the room for any sign of human life, but it seems everyone’s vanished, possibly fearing for their lives—or jobs—after this.

Balls’s jowls lie deep in the pupcakes or, rather, what’s left of them. Once a tower of frosted perfection, it’s now a crumbled mess on the floor, paw prints and snout marks decorating the frosting like abstract art. Dior’s got her tiny teeth sunk into a pumpkin one that’s as big as her head.

At least Balls’s groomsman suit and Dior’s mustard bridesmaid dress only need a good cleaning. Coco Chanel is gnawing on the hemline of hers like it’s jerky.

“Drop it, Coco!” But she prances around with strips of chiffon like she’s auditioning for Project Run-Away. Her tail wags at Mach speed, clearly proud of her handiwork. Once I finally get a hold of the dress, it’s in tatters. I mutter, “Paige is gonna kill me.”

I take a deep breath, channeling my inner MacGyver. This photoshoot can’t end before it starts—not on my watch. I text West, telling him I’m having a doggie emergency, something he and I have dealt with several times before. We helped Skye’s daughter, Sophie, launch her designer petwear company, the very one that made these bridesmaid’s dresses. Because of that, West and I learned how to perform an emergency stitch job.

While I wait for West, I roll up my sleeves and go elbow-deep into frosting, yanking the pupcakes from determined jaws. “No more buffet, ladies and gents,” I scold. When I pluck the crumb-speckled treat from Dior’s diamond collar, she looks at me with those betrayal-filled eyes. If guilt had a flavor, it’d taste like slobber mixed with dog-safe buttercream. With no time to waste, I snatch the nearest rag and wet it. “Let’s make you presentable.” My hands move on autopilot, swirling over silk and chiffon.

The pups sit patiently, probably going into some post-food coma. Wearing a golf polo, West walks in and says, “Oh, shit.”

“Shit is right.” I glance at him. “Can you stitch up Coco Chanel’s dress? I have to remake the pupcakes.” I point to the mound of crumbs.

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