Page 100 of The Wedding Crush

“What is it?” I ask.

The line muffles with curses for a beat before Monica says, “Shit, I need you all to come in for a minute.”

Then the line clicks off.

“Aw hell,” Seneca bites out, which feels wholly accurate.

Monica Mathers is nothing if not the life of every party. She’s electric pink stiletto nails, flawless makeup, glossy natural curls, and that banging Pilates body. She’s the outspoken alpha of our group, who knows how to let loose. If she isn’t ready and waiting on the curb, something is wrong.

The question is, how wrong?

Unbidden, images of a Speedo-wearing Stefano making a surprise appearance rush to mind. That, and either a flooded kitchen or a giant Australian-sized spider on the wall.

I’m already considering where I’m going to get a bucket, a blowtorch, or fainting salts when we pull in front of her house.

“What do you think is happening?” I ask.

Chiara looks as worried as I feel.

“It’ll be a few pounds of chocolate and wine delivery she forgot about,” she says, and I feel like someone’s zapped me with a lightning rod.

I look at her.Really,look at her, down to the sensible heels, muted pink dress, and a single, small section of limp curls that she missed with the leave-in conditioner.

My mouth falls open.

I’m not the only one in a secret mope.

Every atom in my body throbs with the urge to ask her what’s going on with her and her boyfriend, Lamar. This is what I do. I fix other people’s problems. That is, when I’m not going through personal crises.

But then, in rescue mode, Valerie shoulders to the front of the bus with Seneca and Morgan on her heels.

Chiara heaves a small sigh. “I’m fine.”

I smile, letting her exit the bus behind Morgan before I follow suit.

“I know all about fine…”

We march up Monica’s walkway, a dressed to impress, bombshell swat team.

Except, the front door is cracked.

Immediately, Morgan volunteers to be the caboose.

None of us argue.

It is her bachelorette party. The least we can do is spare the glittery wedding pumps she’s breaking in. From water and charred bug guts—or her soon-to-be brother-in-law’s thinly veiled family jewels—we aren’t sure yet.

“Mon!” Seneca calls out, tapping the door then fumbling back into us.

We all shriek.

Meanwhile, I’ve added psychotic murder to the list of dangers I’m listening for.

Thankfully, a few seconds later, Monica yells back, “I’m in the kitchen.”

Since her voice isn’t streaked with terror, we stealthily enter the house, and we’re immediately baffled about what’s going on.

“Um…” Morgan wedges past us into the living room where five chairs are huddled—with a wide berth—around what looks like a raised pedestal of sorts. “What did we miss? And why does it smell like there’s a cook-off underway in your kitchen?”

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