Leanne Quinn

CHAPTER ONE

I stare at the bride’s pet pygmy goat amid the desecrated bouquets, a sprig of baby’s breath hanging guiltily from its fuzzy little mouth.

“Nellie?” I say into my headset.

“Uh-huh?”
“Why is the goat in the drink’s reception?”

I hear my nineteen-year-old assistant’s gasp on the other end, followed by her pounding footsteps until she appears by my side in the lounge, wide-eyed and out of breath.

“Nibbles, no!” she groans. “Bad goat!”

“Nibbles?” I snort, eyeing the frayed rope attached to its bedazzled collar. “Fitting.”

“I’m so sorry, Harper. I swear I secured him outside like you said.” Nellie turns to me and the poor girl looks near tears. She’s only been working with me since she finished university for the summer and it’s not like her to drop the ball on anything. But her repeats are coming up soon and I don’t want her to stress any more than necessary.

“It’s fine,” I tell her, making a mental note to dissuade any future brides from including their pet goats as part of the processional, “but we need to get him out of here and make new bouquets. Fast.”

“I’m on it,” Nellie nods, gently tugging the bleating culprit outside.

“Meet me in the marquee,” I call after her, “we’ll have to pull from the centerpieces.”

I watch until both feet and hooves clop out of sight then close my eyes and count to five. The Henley-Bower wedding starts in exactly forty-seven minutes. And I have at least the same number of things still to do before their guests arrive at this sprawling farmyard wedding venue outside London. I take a quick, deep breath but the sound of hurried footsteps has my eyes springing open again; just in time to catch a young caterer carrying pre-ceremony sandwiches on an antique gold cake stand.

“Excuse me? Where are you going with that?”

“Uh, The Watering Hole?” aka the pub beside the ceremony hall where guests were told to gather.

“Wrong answer,” I usher them back in the direction of the kitchens. “That is the bride’s great-great-grandmother’s precious cake stand that survived two world wars and a global pandemic. Meant for the cake. Get a tray for those instead.”

They disappear down the hall again when another voice calls for my attention.

“Harper?” I spin to find the barman I had words with earlier. “Which uncle can’t hold his drink again?”

“The one with pineapples on his tie.” His brows rise. “Don’t ask. Just remember, water only after 11 p.m., ok?”

According to the groom, his uncle wouldn’t know any different by then.

The barman draws a little pineapple on a notepad and with a click of his pen scurries back to the bar.

Right. What am I doing again? Ah! Bouquets.

I cross the lounge, fishing out some twine and burlap from my bum-bag as I go - because any self-respecting wedding planner must always carry a Holy Shit Kit on their person to fix everything from interior disasters to medical emergencies - and step into the marquee with an involuntary shudder.

The cotton canvas stretches before me, circular tables are draped with pressed linen, eight rustic, wooden chairs with matching cream bows around each one, all surrounding a black and white checkered dance floor with a drop-chandelier over its center. If I had my way, I would have done something about the sharp, contrasting dancefloor. I much prefer a full romantic aesthetic, but it came with the venue, and the bride and groom weren’t interested in changing it.

I head for the centerpiece on Table One when I notice the lighting seems… off.

The backlights should be warm amber, creating that cozy glow I envisioned. But these lights are almost blue.
Well. That won’t do.

Changing course, I stride toward the back of the marquee where the lighting engineer stands with his tall, broad back to me.

“These lights are wrong.” I tell him, not bothering with pleasantries. “I specifically asked for a warm amber, not - ”

“These’ll work better,” his gruff voice interrupts. Huh. That doesn’t sound like the same engineer I spoke to on the phone. And yet, there’s something faintly familiar about the soft, melodic lilt… “Now it’s balanced to prevent any yellow cast in photos.”

“I don’t care what it’s balanced for,” I argue. “I need a warm amber.”

“And I’m telling you -” he continues, talking to his cables, “that warm amber will turn out yellow in photos. And I don’t think your bride will be too happy if - ”

He turns around mid-sentence.
And we both freeze.

The man before me is easily over six feet tall and built like a fridge. He wears a pair of chunky work boots and dark grey Snickers trousers, with more pockets than a person could possibly need, bulging with tools and cables and God only knows what else. His muscular arms test the limits of a tight black t-shirt that stretches across his chest. And he has - a mullet. An actual dark curly mullet bunching at the base of his neck. His thick, wide neck adorned with a thin, silver chain.

Judging by the near zero blade at his temples, the cut appears… intentional.
What kind of grown man sports a mullet?!
And yet, with his bone structure, it bothers me that it’s somehow not terrible on him.
But it’s his eyes that snag my attention. And hold it. Because those green eyes - not the soft lush green of fresh spring leaves but a sharp, glass-bottle green - narrow with recognition.
Those eyes I know.
Because those eyes, and their inability to read a simple floorplan, almost ruined my career.
Those are the eyes of Dean Kelly.

“You,” he accuses in a thick, Irish accent.

“You,” I echo, for lack of a better response.

We stare at each other. And his mouth presses into a thin, hard line. Neither of us speak.