Bridesmaids & Bourbon – Chapter 2
The clatter of silver against china marked the end of the rehearsal dinner. I slipped my iPad into its sleeve, mentally calculating final gratuities while scanning for any forgotten designer purses. Bluegrass Estates’ Magnolia Terrace glowed under string lights, the late June humidity pressing against exposed shoulders like an unwelcome dance partner.
“Attention, everyone!” A champagne flute pinged under Brianna’s manicured nail. “As Emily’s best friend since freshman orientation—“ a pointed glance my way “—I’ve planned a little surprise to kick off this wedding weekend properly!”
My spine straightened. Surprise? Nothing in the itinerary mentioned surprises.
Brianna produced a pink gift bag with theatrical flair. “Since our bride is marrying Kentucky’s most bourbon-obsessed veterinarian—“ appreciative laughter rippled through the crowd as Matt mock-bowed “—I’ve arranged a Bourbon-and-Blush Pub Crawl through Louisville’s finest establishments!”
Cheers erupted. Emily squealed, rushing to hug Brianna. I stood frozen by the service station, vendor receipts clutched in my hand, watching my carefully scheduled evening dissolve.
“But wait!” Brianna pulled matching pale pink t-shirts from the bag. “No pub crawl is complete without proper attire!”
She unfurled the first shirt with a snap. “BRIDE SQUAD” blazed across the front in rose-gold glitter, with “Emily’s Last Ride” in cursive across the back. The bridal party shrieked in delight.
“I had them rush-ordered from my sorority sister’s boutique,” Brianna announced, distributing shirts to the bridesmaids. “Even one for you, Taylor. Though I had to guess your size.” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes as she tossed me a shirt noticeably larger than the others.
I caught it one-handed, forcing a smile. “How thoughtful.”
Dad appeared at my elbow, his champagne sloshing dangerously close to his custom tux. “What’s all this commotion?”
“Surprise pub crawl,” I explained, already calculating potential budget implications. “Not on the schedule.”
He waved dismissively. “Let the girls have their fun. Just make sure Emily doesn’t end up on TMZ.” He lowered his voice. “And keep an eye on the tabs. No need for three-figure bourbon flights.”
“On it,” I replied, the familiar weight of responsibility settling across my shoulders.
Emily bounded over, already halfway into her t-shirt over her rehearsal dress. “Taylor! Isn’t this amazing? Brianna organized everything!” Her eyes sparkled with that pre-wedding glow that made it impossible to disappoint her.
I swallowed my objections. “Super fun. Just let me settle with the catering manager, and I’ll—“
“No way,” Emily grabbed my wrist. “You’re changing now. No more spreadsheets tonight!”
“But the vendor—“
“Can wait until tomorrow,” she insisted. “You’re always working. For once, just be my sister, not my accountant.”
The words landed like a slap, though I knew she hadn’t meant them that way. I nodded, allowing her to drag me toward the ladies’ room, the t-shirt dangling from my fingertips.
Ten minutes later, I emerged in pink cotton that hung awkwardly over my pencil skirt, my carefully selected rehearsal outfit stuffed into a Bluegrass Estates garment bag. The resort’s valet stand had transformed into a staging area for rideshares, bridesmaids giggling as they piled into black SUVs.
“Taylor!” Shelby waved frantically from the second vehicle, her massive floral tote threatening to decapitate anyone within swinging distance. “You’re with us!”
I slid in beside her, wedged between Shelby and Lindsay Chu, the only bridesmaid who’d ever voluntarily asked about my job. My phone buzzed with a catering alert—final invoice due by midnight. I silenced it, promising myself I’d handle it between bars.
“First stop, The Tipsy Thoroughbred!” Brianna announced from the front seat, brandishing a laminated itinerary complete with drink recommendations. Of course, she had a laminated itinerary. For a non-scheduled event.
Downtown Louisville welcomed us with neon signs and the distant thrum of a street musician’s bass. The Tipsy Thoroughbred—all dark wood and equestrian memorabilia—was already packed with Friday night revelers. Brianna somehow secured a corner section, champagne buckets appearing before our group fully settled.
“To Emily!” Brianna raised her glass. “May your marriage be as smooth as Kentucky’s finest small-batch!”
“To Emily!” we chorused.
I sipped cautiously, calculating how to pace myself through multiple venues while remaining alert enough to shepherd six increasingly tipsy women back to Bluegrass Estates. My phone buzzed again—a text from Dad: Confirm final headcount for breakfast. Chef needs by 11p.m.
I typed a quick response, then caught Emily watching me, her smile faltering. I shoved the phone into my pocket.
“Sorry. All done now.”
“Promise?” She linked her pinky with mine, a childhood gesture that still worked its magic.
“Promise.” I squeezed her finger. “Tonight, I’m just your sister.”
Her face lit up. “Then you need another drink!”
Before I could protest, Brianna materialized with shot glasses. “Bourbon 101 for the bride!”
I accepted mine with appropriate enthusiasm, the amber liquid burning pleasantly. Despite myself, I closed my eyes, letting the notes unfold. “Vanilla. Orange peel. Touch of cinnamon.”
Brianna’s eyebrows shot up. “Look who’s a secret bourbon girl.”
I shrugged. “Numbers people notice patterns. That’s all.”
“Well, pattern this,” she challenged, signaling the bartender for another round.
An hour later, we stumbled into our second destination—The Rickhouse Riot, a sleeker establishment with exposed brick and bartenders in suspenders. My phone battery had dipped to 42%, and I’d already fielded three texts from Catherine about tomorrow’s hair appointments.
“Ladies, clutches away!” Shelby announced, patting her enormous tote. “No purses on the dance floor! House rules!”
“Since when?” I asked, clutching my slim wallet.
“Since forever,” Brianna insisted, already dropping her designer clutch into Shelby’s bag. “Don’t be such a control freak, Taylor. Your credit cards will survive one song.”
Emily was already surrendering her bridal emergency kit. “Come on, Tay. I want to dance with my sisters!”
The word “sisters” did it. I reluctantly slipped my wallet into the tote, extracting only my phone. “Don’t let that bag out of your sight, Shelbs.”
“Cross my heart,” she promised, depositing the tote at our reserved table before dragging me toward the pulsing dance floor.
The next two hours blurred into a montage of bass beats, spilled drinks, and increasingly unfocused group selfies. By our third venue—a crowded cocktail lounge called Mint Julep Junction—I found myself laughing at Diego’s terrible horse jokes and actually enjoying the ridiculous t-shirt.
“Low battery,” my phone warned at 28%. I frowned, reaching for my charger before remembering it was in my wallet. In Shelby’s bag. Somewhere.
“Here,” Brianna offered, taking my phone. “Let me turn off that annoying alert. You don’t need it tonight.”
Before I could object, she tapped through my settings, silencing the warnings. “There. No more buzzkill notifications.”
“I should really conserve—“
“Emily!” Brianna called, cutting me off. “Your sister needs another drink!”
Emily appeared, flushed and happy, linking arms with both of us. “My favorite people together! This is the best night!”
The genuine joy in her voice melted my objections. One night of being the fun sister wouldn’t kill me.
By our final stop—The Fleur-de-Bar, a French-inspired lounge with bourbon-infused everything—my professional edge had fully dissolved. I found myself perched on a velvet stool, demonstrating to a wide-eyed bartender how to calculate profit margins on specialty cocktails.
“See, if you adjust the pour by just half an ounce and increase the simple syrup—“
“Taylor!” Shelby interrupted, swaying slightly. “You’re doing math at a bar. On your sister’s bachelorette. Intervention time!”
I blinked, realizing I’d been drawing formulas on a cocktail napkin. “Sorry. Old habits.”
“Speaking of old habits,” Brianna appeared, phone in hand, “it’s almost closing time, and our rides are here.”
I squinted at my watch—nearly midnight. My own phone, now at a concerning 15%, showed three missed calls from the catering manager.
“Where’s Shelby?” I asked, suddenly aware I hadn’t seen my cousin—or her tote containing my wallet—in at least twenty minutes.
“Bathroom line,” Lindsay reported. “She said she’d meet us outside.”
The humid night air hit me like a wet blanket as I stumbled out of The Fleur-de-Bar, my “BRIDE SQUAD” t-shirt sticking to my back. The Louisville sidewalk tilted slightly beneath my bourbon-loosened legs. Neon signs blurred against the night sky, which had darkened from navy to an ominous charcoal. A distant rumble of thunder vibrated through the soles of my heels.
“Ladies, form a line!” Brianna’s voice cut through the chaos of downtown stragglers and bar-hoppers. “Brides to the left, groomsmen to the right!”
I squinted at the curb where two identical black shuttle buses idled, their LED displays scrolling “BLUEGRASS ESTATES RESORT” in electric blue. My alcohol-addled brain registered something off about the situation, but before I could process it, Brianna materialized at my elbow.
“Taylor, honey, you look positively green.” Her voice dripped with concern that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Let’s get you on the first shuttle before you decorate the sidewalk with those fancy bourbon flights.”
“I’m fine,” I protested, scanning the crowd for Emily. “Where’s my sister?”
“Helping Shelby with that ridiculous tote bag.” Brianna’s hand landed firmly between my shoulder blades, propelling me forward. “She’ll be right behind us. Come on, before the rain starts.”
My phone vibrated in my hand—a final battery warning at 10%. I needed to find Shelby and retrieve my charger. “Wait, I should—“
“Up you go!” Brianna practically lifted me onto the first shuttle’s steps. “Front seat for our numbers girl. Wouldn’t want you getting motion sickness in the back.”
I stumbled into the shuttle, the fluorescent interior lights harsh after the dim bar. The smell of industrial cleaner and artificial pine air freshener made my stomach lurch. A handful of strangers already occupied the back rows—none of them bridesmaids.
“Brianna, this isn’t—“ I turned, but the door hissed shut, cutting off my protest. The bus pulled away from the curb as the rest of our group milled on the sidewalk. Through the tinted window, I saw Brianna’s perfectly composed face, her lips forming what looked like “Night-night, Tay!” before she pivoted away.
Something was wrong. I fumbled with my nearly dead phone, thumbs clumsy as I tried to text Emily.
Wrong bus? Where are you?
The message sent just as my battery percentage dropped to 8%. I looked up to see the driver checking his manifest, a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and the resigned expression of someone who’d seen too many drunk wedding parties.
“Excuse me,” I called, leaning forward. “I think there’s been a mix-up. I’m with the Sutton-Caldwell wedding party at Bluegrass Estates.”
He barely glanced up. “This is the Carter Creek Bourbon Resort shuttle. Special event service.”
My stomach dropped. “No, that’s not right. I need to be on the Bluegrass Estates shuttle.”
“Sorry, ma’am. This is the Carter Creek run. Next scheduled stop is the resort, about an hour east.”
An hour east? Panic sliced through my bourbon haze. “There must be a mistake. Can you radio the other shuttle?”
“No radio, ma’am. Company policy is no stops once we’re en route.” He shifted gears, pulling away from the curb.
I twisted in my seat, watching the second shuttle through the rear window. Emily stood on the sidewalk beside it, her face lit by her phone screen. Shelby’s enormous tote—containing my wallet, ID, and charger—swung from her arm. Brianna was gesturing animatedly, pointing at the shuttle door.
They thought I was already on board. Their shuttle.
My phone buzzed with an incoming text. Emily: Where are you? We’re all loaded up.
I started typing frantically: Wrong bus! I’m on Carter Creek shuttle! Tell driver to wait!
The message hung, refusing to send as my battery dropped to 5%. I jabbed at the screen, trying to force it through. The shuttle accelerated, merging into late-night traffic.
You have been reading Bridesmaids & Bourbon...
Wrong shuttle. No wallet. One very annoyed bourbon distiller.
I’m supposed to be sixty miles away managing my stepsister’s wedding crisis, not stranded at Carter Creek Distillery with a man whose quiet intensity makes my overorganized world spin off its axis.
Beau Carter is all weathered denim and patient eyes, the kind of man who ages whiskey with the care I’ve never learned to give myself. When a bridge washes out in the storm, I have no choice but to accept his reluctant hospitality.
He sees through my “numbers girl” armor immediately. Sees the woman who fixes everyone else’s life but can’t figure out her own. The woman who’s been invisible for so long she’s forgotten what it feels like to be truly seen.
I’m not supposed to fall for his slow smiles and the way bourbon tastes like liquid fire on his lips. Not supposed to discover that his cottage feels more like home than anywhere I’ve ever lived.
The wedding is still happening without me. My family still needs their emergency contact…
And I’m starting to wonder if being sabotaged was the best thing that ever happened to me.
