Page 9 of It Could Happen
“Don’t stress about it,” she insists. “Leslie and Rachel are single too. So, I guess the three of you will have to battle it out for the bouquet.”
Hmm … sounds fun. I actually don’t believe catching the bouquet means anything, but I don’t tell her that.
“We’ll see.”
“Anyway, we have plenty of time to talk about those details,” she continues. “For now we need to get acquainted. Luckily we all live close enough to the Central Florida area.”
I really like Erica so far. She seems positive and upbeat, and Caroline was right about her being on top of everything. Erica obviously cares about her, which is what truly matters.
“Please let me know if you need me to help,” I say. “I’d love to do everything I can to contribute.”
“Yes, for sure,” she says. “We’ll be handling a few of the events down here. Charlotte and the wedding planners are taking care of all the wedding weekend plans in Georgia.”
Charlotte?Oh, she must be talking about Caroline’s mother. I know her as Mrs. Carlisle.
“Perfect,” I say.
Erica gives a few reminders about the kickoff party before dashing off the phone. She reminds me a lot of Caroline. It’s very obvious why they are so close.
* * *
As much as I love wearing all white, it makes me really nervous. Yes, the aesthetic is stunning, but yikes. I have an irrational fear that someone is going to pour red wine or coffee all over me. It’s one of those unlikely scenarios I create in my mind. Doesn’t everyone do this?
March in Florida is usually very pleasant, but tonight might be one of the coldest evenings I can remember. Temps are dipping into the forties, which is absolute madness and makes attire requirements for this dinner more complicated. Luckily, I found a gorgeous white sweater while doing some last-minute shopping, and I decide to pair it with white skinny jeans that I already have as a closet staple. I add a few curls to my hair and go a bit heavier than usual on my makeup. I’m meeting the rest of the wedding party, so of course I want to make a good impression.
The kickoff dinner is at a restaurant called The South on 10th. I read in the latest novel of text messages that they reserved an event room just for us and all the food was pre-selected by Caroline and Andy. The guest list includes the wedding party and some other close friends of the happy couple.
As soon as I pull into the parking lot, I feel a mix of exhilaration and anxiety. I’m especially excited to see Caroline. I’m not even sure why it’s been so long since we got together. I guess life gets in the way sometimes. I find a parking spot near the entrance and take a few minutes to give my makeup one last freshen up and respond to a text message from Parker.
I’m reapplying my lip gloss, when all of a sudden a massively large black truck pulls into the parking space next to me. I look out the window and see that it’s so close I can barely open my door. How rude. Why do people do this?
I put my lip gloss and phone into my clutch purse and attempt to open my door. The edge of my door touches the truck, so I try to wedge myself out of my car, praying I don’t get anything on my white outfit. I haven’t even walked into the party yet, and already my irrational fears are taking over. Car grime, tire marks—ugh. Maybe it’s not too late to valet. Or crawl through the passenger side.
“Seriously, if you’re going to have a truck this size, you need to learn to park,” I say out loud to myself.
“What was that?” a voice says.
I freeze, my body still stuck between the door and the interior of my car. Suddenly, I’m more worried about pulling a muscle than getting my white outfit dirty.
And of course I didn’t know anyone was still out here because I can’t see around this black monstrosity.
My attempts at exiting my car are finally successful after a minute of twisting in a way that feels awkward and uncomfortable.
I let out a loud sigh of relief as if I just hiked a mountain without falling. I continue mumbling to myself about the nerve of some people and stupid big trucks. All of a sudden, I turn around to see a tall, muscular guy standing at the back of the truck.
“Problem?” he asks smugly.
I take in his white pants, T-shirt, and sport coat. Judging by his attire, it’s safe to say he’s one of Caroline’s and Andy’s guests. Lovely.
“Well, this truck is parked over the line, giving me very little room to get out of my car.”
He looks down at the pavement between the vehicles. “The tire is barely over the line.”
Is he serious?
“Actually, the tire is completely over the line,” I reply firmly.
He looks back and forth between the truck and my car.
