Page 25 of Bridesmaid to Bride

I’m rushing through the foyer when I bump into my dad and Foster. After exchanging pleasantries, I’m itching to leave so I can pick up the decorations for tonight’s bachelorette party. But Dad says, “Eva, Paige told me you’ve got the next two hours free.”

What? Yes, I don’t officially have anything on the calendar, but I have a to-do list a mile high. “I was just about to—”

“Foster has a surprise for you, Eva.” Dad’s gaze is hard. “Surely you can spare a little time for the efforts he’s made?”

I look at Foster’s smiling face, and I know I can’t say no. How long can his surprise be? An hour, at most? I could ask Skye to pick up the decorations and check on my dessert statue, which is in the kitchen’s refrigerator with signage threatening the lives of anyone who touches it. But still—a checkup would be good.

“Brunch,” Foster says, a charming single word. “You look like you could use some air. He gestures out the glass doors where a valet is waiting.

“I could,” I squeak out, my nerves jangling like a set of keys. I can handle crises—florist mix-ups, cake disasters, bridesmaid meltdowns—but leaving the premises? That seems like a bridge too far. But with Dad and Foster looking at me expectantly, I paint on a smile and say, “That would be lovely.”

“Wonderful.” Foster’s eyes brighten.

After Dad leaves, we make our way out the revolving doors. Foster nudges me gently with his elbow as we slip into his Lexus SUV rental. “It’s just brunch, Eva. The world won’t end if you take a break.”

“Tell that to the bridezilla who nearly decapitated the florist for using blush peonies instead of bashful ones.” I laugh, but the what-ifs swarm in my head like wasps. What if the caterer serves shellfish to Aunt Myrna, who’s allergic? What if Olivia—who couldn’t keep her hands off Zach last night—decides to declare her undying love for Zach mid-ceremony?

Foster chuckles as we pull away from the curb. “Write to your people and see how they do during your time away. Consider this an exercise in delegation.”

“Delegation,” I echo, the word tasting like bad fish. “Right. Because I’m not known for my ability to let go.” I sigh. “But you’re right. I need to try it.”

And as we drive, the tension in my shoulders dissipates. Maybe it’s the way Foster seems unfazed by anything. Or maybe it’s the thrill of doing something so against my control-freak nature. Either way, I can’t deny the flutter in my chest that’s less about panic and more about... anticipation?

I find myself actually looking forward to whatever Foster’s idea of brunch might be. Who knows? Maybe today’s the day I learn that letting go isn’t the same as giving up. Maybe I’m just making room for something—or someone—new.

The sleek black car pulls up to a sight that is definitely not a cozy brunch spot. There’s an unmistakable whir of rotors in the distance, and my stomach does a triple-twisting somersault.

“Wait, is that a helicopter?” My voice squeaks.

Foster glances at me, a grin creeping across his face. “Surprise.”

“Oh, wow.” I’m ready to barf up the brunch I haven’t even eaten yet.

“You nervous?”

“Little bit.” Not to mention that we are so, so not going to be back within the hour.

“I’ll be right here by your side.” He guides me with a hand that feels commanding and reassuring on my back.

As we approach the chopper, my heart jackhammers against my ribs. Foster’s hand never leaves me, a welcome touch against the fear threatening to unhinge me.

“Never been a fan of flying,” I confess as we strap in, my words nearly drowned out by the roar of the blades.

Foster leans close enough that his cologne mingles with the scent of aviation fuel. “I’ve got you. We’ll be up and down before you know it.”

“Yup,” I say, but grip the edges of my seat as if they’re the only things keeping me earthbound. “But if I puke, you’re holding the bag.”

“Deal.”

Liftoff is a stomach-dropping, head-spinning affair. St. Sebastian and the Georgia coast stretches beneath us, a tapestry of life and color that feels distant and unreal. My knuckles are white, but Foster’s presence is calming.

After several minutes of engaging in light chit-chat, I still find myself holding my breath and closing my eyes. Then, sure enough, I need a puff from my inhaler.

When I glance at Foster, he’s got a puzzled expression on his face but recovers quickly by saying, “Look at that view.”

“Um. Okay.” I risk a peek, and it’s breathtaking. We’re over Atlanta’s skyline, the city sprawling beneath us like a scene from a movie.

“Almost there.” I can hear the smile in his voice.

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