Page 1 of The Complication with the Best Man

one

HARPER

Iforce my strained smile to stay in place as the groom goes on and on about how important it is that the wedding reflects his steadfast environmentalism and how he won’t be happy with anything less.

I muster all my self-control to resist pointing out that the most effective way to reduce his carbon footprint would be to skip the massive wedding altogether. A wedding with one hundred fifty guests, each invited with paper invitations, seated with paper place cards, and greeted with paper menus on their plates, not to mention the individually wrapped party favors, extravagant floral arrangements, and, of course, the grand finale—an after-dinner fireworks display.

The wordsandmy lunch churn around in my stomach, making me nauseous. I think I may have caught a bug or something because I’ve felt off all day.

Thankfully, the bride returns from the bathroom and sits next to her fiancé.

“Darren was just telling me how important it is to him to make sure we’re thinking of the environment throughout the planning process,” I say to her.

She smiles at him and intertwines her hand with his. “We’re in agreement there.”

Miraculously, I’m still able to hold the smile on my face.

I’ve been a wedding planner for five years, and I’ve learned to identify high-maintenance clients at a glance. The couple sitting across from me is now at the top of my list of clients I’m not planning their second wedding for if this one doesn’t work out. Usually, it’s the brides who make my job harder, while the grooms just go along for the ride—or are dragged along, more likely. But I have a feeling good ol’ Darren here will give Katherine a bit of competition in that department.

We continue with the meeting, and I note all their wants and needs, constructing a mental timeline in my head, working backward from their big day.

Once we finish, I walk Darren and Katherine to the door out to Main Street in my small quaint Alaskan town of Lake Starlight.

I took over Aunt Juno’s office when she retired from matchmaking a few years ago, which has been a blessing. Working out of my parents’ basement didn’t scream professional wedding coordinator. As if I needed a sign that said, “Don’t worry. You can trust me with the biggest day of your life.”

I wave goodbye to my newest clients and go back inside, reaching for my water. I take a small sip, hoping it soothes the nausea that’s been plaguing me today, but it only makes it worse.

I haven’t thrown up yet, but my stomach has felt unsettled all day, and that damn feeling in the back of my throat won’t go away. I vaguely remember one of my cousins texting in the group thread after our big family Sunday dinner about her kid being sick. Maybe I caught something. I better not have. I do not have time to be sick right now.

Summer is winding down, and if I was in the lower forty-eight, that would mean wedding season was too, but in Alaska, a lot of people get married in the fall and winter months. The natural landscapes make for gorgeous backgrounds in wedding pictures. And there’s a growing number of people who choose to travel here during the colder months for a destination wedding rather than have one at a tropical resort.

It’s actually the season that’s grown the most in the past few years and the entire reason I was able to take over Aunt Juno’s office in the first place. I’ve sort of made this time of year my specialty and have put together a social media campaign that brings in a lot of clients.

So while the majority of the wedding industry winds down for a break, I gear up for a busy fall and winter. In fact, I have two new clients who found me online coming into town in the approaching weeks.

I sit at my desk and jot down notes on my computer about my meeting with Darren and Katherine, what their priorities are, and some ideas I want to research so that I can present them at our next meeting. Then, before I forget, I add our next appointment to my phone calendar, along with an alarm to ensure I don’t forget.

I tend not to be the most organized person. One glance down at my desk, which is littered with sticky notes that act as my to-do list, gives it away. I have a garbage truck full of day planners I’ve promised myself I’d use, but I always revert back to scribbling cryptic messages that most times I can’t decipher.

Looking over my sticky notes now, I don’t see anything that requires my urgent attention, so I grab my purse and call it a day, heading to Bloom to chat with Maven about Darren and Katherine’s wedding while their flower preferences are fresh in my head.

Even though it’s a short walk, I get stopped twice for a quick chat.

Taking fifteen minutes or more to get somewhere that should take five comes with being a lifelong resident of a small town. This is especially true for me, as my last name is Bailey. The family name Bailey carries a little more responsibility in this town for several reasons. Not only do a lot of the Bailey family members own businesses here, but also, Bailey Timber was founded by us and employs a substantial number of people in the area. Add on the fact that my dad’s parents were tragically killed in a snowmobile accident when he and his eight siblings were young, and the town sort of adopted them as their own and has a vested interest in their lives—at least that’s how my dad tells it.

The bell over the door rings when I walk in, and Maven looks up from behind a long worktable scattered with flowers. The shop’s walls are painted a rich, deep green, and the floor features a striking black and white checkerboard pattern that adds a touch of classic charm. Lush greenery from a variety of plants cascades from shelves and corners, filling the space. At the back, a large cooler houses an array of fresh flowers.

“Hey, roomie,” I say.

Maven recently moved in with me. She’s three years younger than me, and when she first approached me about leasing the extra room in the house I rent just outside of the downtown area, I wasn’t sure if we’d be a good match. I’m somewhat chaotic and my housekeeping skills lack as much as my day planner keeping. But Maven was desperate to get out of her parents’ house, and I related to how that felt, so I agreed.

Good thing I did because it turns out we’re a great match. Maven is quiet and shy, neat and orderly, and enjoys spending her nights reading on the couch. If anything, I’m probably a little too loud for her. But she doesn’t seem to mind my chaos. In fact, I think she secretly likes it. Maybe since she’s the oldest of her sisters, she appears to enjoy picking up after me. She says she finds cleaning relaxing and therapeutic. I don’t get it, but more power to her because when I look at a room that needs to be cleaned or organized, I feel paralyzed, never knowing where to start.

She sets down the flowers in her hand. Maven is gorgeous, though I don’t think she sees herself that way. Her most striking feature is her dark brown eyes with flecks of gold in the center that are set off by her warm, tawny skin. Today, she has her dark, curly hair pulled back into a ponytail, and she’s wearing the same style overalls she tends to work in every day. These are a khaki green with a repeating daisy pattern.

“How’s your day going?” she asks.

“Well, I just met with a bride and groom who are going to challenge your ability to not put those scissors through your eye.” I shrug. “But they can’t all be easy peasy like Palmer and Hudson were, right?”

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