Page 2 of The Complication with the Best Man

We both laugh. Our cousin Palmer got married last month, and though I was part of the wedding, I also acted as the wedding planner for it, which was a breeze. Neither of them were really picky about the details of their big day. All they cared about was that they’d be married at the end of it.

For a moment, the best man, Hudson’s friend, flashes through my mind. Finn.

I press my thighs together just thinking about him and the night we shared in his hotel room.

Stop it.

I don’t do this. I don’t get hung up on my one-night stands—especially when they live in Vermont. I push Finn out of my mind and get down to business with Maven.

“These particular clients are very concerned about the environmental impact of their wedding, so I wanted to run some ideas by you to see if they’re feasible before I present them at my next meeting with them.”

“Oh, I like a challenge. Let’s hear what you’re thinking.” Maven leans over the worktable, chin propped on her hand.

“I thought for the centerpieces, instead of having flowers, we could have potted plants, so people can take them home, and they’ll last more than a few days. Or even have herbs? Then guests could plant them when they get back home.”

“When is the wedding?” she asks.

“Next spring.”

She nods. “That could absolutely work.”

A flit of excitement ignites in me from fleshing out my ideas for a wedding. Or maybe it’s still my lunch that’s not sitting well.

“I also thought we could source the planters we use for the tables from secondhand shops.”

“I know a cute little vintage shop in Anchorage that we can check out.”

“Perfect.” I clap my hands together in front of me.

Maven’s eyes light up. “You know, I could also use curly willow to keep everything in place, rather than floral foam.”

I point to her. “See? This is why you’re the best florist who ever lived.”

Maven’s expression turns from excitement to cringe, and her hand falls to her tummy. “Give me a second?”

Before I can answer, she rushes through the door to the back of the store.

Shit. Whoever’s kid was sick last Sunday must have given it all to us, if Maven isn’t feeling well either. Damn it. I had a urinary tract infection a couple of months ago, and that was aggravating enough to deal with. I don’t want to be down for the count, hunched over a toilet for three days.

While I wait for her to return, I do a quick sweep of the shop, taking note of what new types of greenery and flowers she’s brought in, constantly looking for inspiration that will showcase my services.

A couple minutes later, she walks through the back door, looking pale.

“Did the toddler bug get you too?” I ask.

She laughs. “No, I just got my period.” She groans. “Do you have a tampon in your purse? All I have left are pads. One of the weekend girls must’ve taken the last tampon and not said anything.”

“Of course.” I set my purse on the scarred wooden worktable and unzip the side pocket of my purse and pull out a tampon for her. “Here you go.”

“Thank you. I’ll be right back.”

She disappears to the back again, and I zip up the pocket of my purse, slinging it over my shoulder.

Then I pause.

Then I think.

Then I calculate.

---