Page 87 of A Little Luck

Skidding to a stop, my hands clutch the sides of my hair. My heart pounds so hard in my chest I lean forward to catch my breath, and I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry.

I’m coming down on the side of cry, since it appears half the floral arrangements for the wedding are now smashed to bits in the parking lot or broken on the curb.

“That did not just happen,” I groan.

Feet crunch on gravel, and Alex jogs to where I’m standing. “Was that…?”

“All the flowers for your wedding?” I finish his sentence. “God, I hope not.”

The big guy is breathing hard, sweat coating his face. “I’m sorry.”

He goes to where the van is stuck, climbing inside and attempting to back out of the ravine. The tires only spin, and the original big guy from this morning dashes past us.

“Brett!” He yells in a snarl. “How many times have I told you never to leave the van in neutral?”

My head is light, and I’m pretty sure all the blood has left my face as I walk to where he’s standing. “Please tell me you have backup arrangements?”

It’s the same guy who glowered at me when I arrived, and he looks at me like I’m a bug he’d like to squash. “What do I look like, a greenhouse?”

“You look like a florist.” I’m starting to lose my temper, and he holds up both hands.

Alex is at my side, glaring at the guy and gently touching my arm. “It’s okay—I have an idea. Come with me.”

Turning to him with panic surging through my chest, I follow him into the distillery. He leads me past the bar, past the kitchen, past rows and rows of barrels, all the way to the back storage area of the building.

“We’ve got lots of decorations left over from Aiden and Britt’s wedding, and last year we decorated for Halloween. Maybe we’ll be a little light on flowers, but we can put twinkle lights around the columns and I’m pretty sure I have arches in here somewhere.”

“You’re not supposed to plan your own wedding!” My voice wobbles, and I’m trying not to cry as I curse my bad luck. This is why I’m not in charge of party planning.

“And vans aren’t supposed to fly by and crash into ditches, but that happened.” He shrugs, and we start dragging out boxes of fake pine boughs, plastic arches, sparkling ribbons, and so many twinkle lights.

Inside the venue, the catering crew is setting up in the kitchen, and workers are muttering about ghosts and the distillery being haunted.

“The distillery is not haunted.” The last thing I need on top of bad luck is a bunch of ghosts.

“The florist guy said he put the van in park,” one of the female cater-waiters argues. “Something knocked it into neutral.”

“Probably his big ole butt!” Another girl laughs as she carries a chafing dish out to the waiting tables.

She’s two steps through the door when she stumbles and falls, sending the silver platters crashing and then sliding across the wooden floors with an ear-splitting, metallic clang.

“That’s what you get,” a guy mutters as he passes, returning to the kitchen.

I turn wide eyes on Alex. “This isn’t happening today.”

His brow is lowered as he surveys the scene. “I never considered the place might be haunted, but the old, original structure was here through prohibition. A lot of people were gunned down in those days.”

“Why is this the first time I’m hearing about this?” Both hands are on my head, and now I really am freaking out.

“I’ve only noticed things like flickering lights when I’m alone here at night,” he continues, thoughtfully. “I just assumed I was tired or it was old wiring.”

“Which is a total fire hazard.” I slap my hands against my thighs and go to where the girl is collecting the platters off the floor. “This is just great.”

Bending down, I help her pick up the items. Any other time, I’d be intrigued by the possibility of the distillery being haunted. I’d possibly even consider doing a feature story for Halloween.

Not today. Not when I’m tasked with pulling off the most important day of my best friend’s life.

“Who plans a wedding in a possibly haunted space on Halloween?” The waiter grumbles as she heads back to the kitchen to wash the serving utensils.

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