Bridesmaids & Bourbon – Chapter 1

“Taylor! Sweetheart, the florist is absolutely hysterical! Something about peonies and a delivery truck fire? I cannot deal with this right now!” My stepmother, Catherine Sutton, materialized in a whirlwind of ivory silk and stressed-out pheromones, shoving a cell phone at me as if it were radioactive.

I took it without a word, my thumb already scrolling through the vendor spreadsheet on my iPad. “We substituted garden roses weeks ago. Invoice VB-7821. Smells like an invoice padding attempt.”

I pressed the phone to my ear. “Renata? Taylor Ramsey. Let’s cut the drama. Your revised invoice for the Quicksand roses is already approved and paid. Unless your truck spontaneously combusted after delivering perfect blooms to the ballroom at 10 AM this morning, we’re done here.”

I paused, listening to the sputtering on the other end. Humidity pressed against the bridal‑suite windows, turning the view of rolling greens, white horse fences, and the distant bourbon‑barrel barn into a living watercolor.

Chandeliers glittered overhead, reflecting off mirrored sideboards stacked with monogrammed gift bags and rows of champagne flutes sweating in the heat. Somewhere beyond the closed double doors, a string quartet tuned up, its bright notes dueling with the shrieks of a seamstress wrestling last‑second alterations.

And I, Taylor Ramsey, stood in the eye of the storm, clutching an iPad like a life raft, my knuckles white.

“Uh-huh. Thought so. Enjoy the rest of your Thursday.” I ended the call and handed the phone back to Catherine, whose perfectly sculpted brows were arched somewhere near her hairline. This wedding was a week-long extravaganza, and the ceremony wasn’t until Sunday. 3 more days of the madness.

“How do you remember invoice numbers?” she breathed, looking faintly bewildered, and not for the first time.

I shrugged. A practiced, noncommittal gesture honed over years of being the practical ghost haunting the Sutton family events. “It’s my job.”

“Well, thank God for you, darling,” Catherine sighed, patting my shoulder with the distracted affection one might show a particularly useful Roomba. “You’re an angel. Truly. Now, where is Emily? Rehearsal starts in forty minutes!”

As if summoned by maternal panic, my stepsister Emily burst through the suite door, a vision in white‑lace shorts and a “Future Mrs. Caldwell” tank, cheeks flushed with pre‑wedding euphoria.

“Mom! Taylor! You will not believe the cake tasting.” She grabbed my arm, eyes shining. “Matt wants Chef Dubois to add a river of bourbon caramel to the groom’s cake. Imagine it oozing down the tiers!”

I could, far too vividly—like a delicious mudslide across his tux. “Give the man credit,” I said, scrolling to the catering notes on my iPad. “He’s aiming for dessert and dry cleaning in one convenient package.”

Emily laughed, swatting my shoulder. “You’re impossible. But it was so sweet—his face lit up.” She twirled a strand of hair, still glowing. “Oh, you know what he will just love? We should hit a few of the craft distilleries nearby during the honeymoon.”

“Ambitious,” I teased. “First challenge will be prying you two out of the honeymoon suite. Bluegrass Estates may have to send in a search party—and a hydration station.”

Her cheeks pinkened. “Rude,” she whispered, grinning.

Right then, Mom swept in, armed with a can of finishing spray and a familiar air of being on high alert. “Emily, darling, your curls are collapsing. Humidity is the enemy.” She angled Emily toward the gilt mirror, smoothing a stray lock with military precision.

Emily caught my eye in the glass, mouthing “save me.” I offered a helpless shrug just as the suite door opened again, and the room’s temperature seemed to drop a degree—or maybe that was just the storm brewing behind it.

Brianna Lowell swept in like she owned the oxygen in any given room, head‑to‑toe blush‑pink Lululemon that somehow skirted the resort dress code. Her ash‑blonde bun was artfully loose—one of those accidents that takes thirty minutes and two mirrors—and her highlighter refused to acknowledge Kentucky humidity. Balanced on her forearms was a gift box, the size of a wedding cake, its silver paper gleaming under the chandelier light.

“Em‑i‑ly!” she sang, planting airy kisses on each of Emily’s cheeks. “Your glow is off the charts, babe. The Beta Chi bigs sent a little something to keep it going.” She set the box on an ottoman and flicked a glance my way—quick, assessing, already finished with me.

Emily squealed, shredding paper. Out tumbled Dior lip serums, La Mer minis, and a silk eye mask stitched with BRIDE in rose‑gold thread. Brianna dangled a pair of oversized Prada shades under Emily’s nose. “There. Icon status.”

Emily’s laugh rang off the vaulted ceiling. “Bri, this is gorgeous!”

“Just a starter pack,” Brianna said, smoothing an invisible wrinkle in her leggings. “Taylor, what did you land on for the bridal suite surprise? I couldn’t find your name on the group spreadsheet.” The words were sugar; the tilt of her head was a knife.

I smiled, thin but steady. “Thought I’d leave a little room in the spotlight for the rest of Beta Chi.” I let the abbreviation hang—a reminder that I’d never worn their letters.