Bridesmaids & Bourbon – Chapter 3
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard the Carter Creek Bourbon Resort express shuttle,” the driver announced over a crackling speaker. “Our estimated arrival time is 1:15 a.m. For your comfort, there are USB ports beneath your seats and complimentary water in the cooler at the rear.”
USB ports. I dropped to my knees, groping beneath the seat for both my fallen phone and the promised charging salvation. My fingers brushed against sticky surfaces and crumpled paper before locating my phone, but the USB port remained elusive in the dim floor lighting.
“Looking for this?” A voice behind me belonged to a twenty-something guy in a fraternity t-shirt, who held up a tangled charging cord. “Android only, sorry. iPhone users are basically the enemy.”
“Of course they are,” I muttered, climbing back into my seat as the shuttle lurched onto the interstate ramp. Downtown Louisville’s skyline receded in the rear window, lights blurring as the first fat raindrops splattered against the glass.
I stared at my phone’s screen, now displaying 4% battery and an unsent text message. I needed to conserve power. Brianna had disabled my battery warnings earlier, but I could still activate Low Power Mode manually.
As I navigated to Settings, a new message from Emily appeared:
Tay? Did you take a separate ride? Brianna said you were feeling sick and grabbed an Uber. Text me when you’re back at the resort!!!
My fingers froze over the screen. Brianna had told them I’d taken an Uber. The pieces clicked into place. This wasn’t a mix-up. This was sabotage.
I started typing furiously: Brianna put me on wrong bus. I’m headed to Carter Creek 60 miles away. No wallet. Phone dying. Help!
The message hung, spinning, refusing to send as my signal fluctuated on the moving shuttle. I watched in horror as my battery dropped to 3%.
“Hey, bride squad!” A woman’s voice called from the back. “Come join us! We’re playing ‘Never Have I Ever’ with Fireball!”
I turned to see the bachelorette party, five women in matching “Tina’s Final Fling” shirts, passing a flask and giggling. The bride-to-be, a curvy brunette with a plastic tiara, waved enthusiastically.
“Thanks, but I’m actually in a bit of a crisis,” I replied, holding up my dying phone as evidence.
“Ooh, wedding drama?” Tina scooted forward, her eyes bright with interest. “Spill it, sister. We’ve got alcohol and collective wisdom.”
Under normal circumstances, I’d never discuss family business with strangers. But these weren’t normal circumstances, and I was rapidly running out of options.
“My stepsister’s getting married Sunday,” I explained, words tumbling out. “I’m the maid of honor, but another bridesmaid—who hates me—just tricked me onto the wrong shuttle. I have no wallet, my phone’s about to die, and apparently we’re headed to someplace called Carter Creek, which is an hour away from where I need to be.”
The bachelorette party collectively gasped.
“That’s some cold-blooded bridesmaid warfare,” Tina declared, eyes wide. “What’s this bitch’s name?”
“Brianna,” I said, surprised by how good it felt to acknowledge her as the enemy out loud.
“Classic Brianna move,” nodded one of Tina’s friends sagely, as if all Briannas were cut from the same cloth.
“You need to call someone,” another suggested. “Like, right now.”
“That’s the problem.” I held up my phone, now at 2%. “I’m about to lose power, and my charger’s in my wallet, which is in my cousin’s bag, which is on the other shuttle.”
“I’ve got an iPhone charger!” Tina exclaimed, digging through a sequined purse. Her triumphant expression faded. “Oh wait, it’s in my checked bag. Under the bus.”
My last hope deflated. I looked back at my phone, where Emily’s message thread showed her growing concern.
Taylor??? Are you okay? Mom’s freaking out. Call me!!
I tried one more time, condensing my message to the bare essentials: Wrong bus to Carter Creek. Phone dying. Not my choice. Call resort.
Tina reached out, offering her phone as a massive thunderclap shook the shuttle, and the heavens opened.
Rain lashed against the windows in horizontal sheets, reducing visibility to blurry smears of headlights and reflective highway markers. My message hung in digital limbo, neither delivered nor failed.
“Folks, we’re hitting some weather,” the driver announced unnecessarily. “Going to reduce speed for safety. Might add fifteen minutes to our arrival time.”
Fifteen more minutes of helplessness. I stared at my phone, willing the message to send before the inevitable shutdown. The battery icon flashed red at 1%.
A new text appeared from Emily: Taylor this isn’t funny. Where are you?
And then, from my father: Taylor, call immediately. Vendor issue with tomorrow’s flowers.
Of course. Not “Are you safe?” but “Fix this problem.” Even in crisis, I was still just the numbers girl.
“Hey hon, “Tina said, pulling my attention away from my phone. “There’s no service now, I think the storm knocked it out.”
“Thanks anyway, “I said, my heart in my throat. Stupid tears threatening.
The shuttle’s interior lights flickered as another thunderclap boomed overhead. Rain hammered against the roof like impatient fingers. Through the deluge, I could just make out a highway sign: CARTER CREEK 45 MILES.
Forty-five miles from the rehearsal. Forty-five miles from my sister’s wedding. Forty-five miles from the life where Taylor Ramsey always had a backup plan, always knew the numbers, always kept things running.
My phone screen dimmed, the battery icon blinking its final warning. Bars appeared again. I had one chance left. I bypassed the text messages and hit the phone icon, scrolling to Emily’s number. The call screen appeared, her contact photo smiling up at me—us at Christmas, cheeks pressed together, her arm around my shoulders.
It rang once, twice, and then the screen went black.
Dead.
I stared at the useless rectangle in my palm, my last connection to my normal life severed. Around me, the shuttle hummed with oblivious chatter. The bachelorette party had returned to their drinking game. A middle-aged couple dozed against each other’s shoulders. The frat guy had his headphones on, head bobbing to inaudible music.
No one knew I was missing. No one knew where I was going. And even if they did, there was no way to reach me now.
I slumped back in my seat, watching raindrops race down the window, merging and separating in unpredictable patterns. My carefully ordered world had dissolved into chaos in less than an hour, all because I’d let down my guard. Because I’d trusted that even Brianna wouldn’t go this far. Because I’d chosen, for once, to be the fun sister instead of the responsible one.
The shuttle’s wipers beat a hypnotic rhythm against the windshield, matching the thunder’s distant percussion. Carter Creek Bourbon Resort. The name meant nothing to me—just another rustic-themed tourist trap capitalizing on Kentucky’s spirits heritage. I’d be stranded there with no ID, no money, and no way to contact anyone until morning at the earliest.
And Brianna? She’d be back at Bluegrass Estates, probably suggesting search parties look everywhere except where I actually was. Probably comforting Emily with practiced concern. Probably already planning how to step into my maid-of-honor duties.
A fresh wave of anger burned through my chest, momentarily overpowering my anxiety. This wasn’t just inconvenient—it was malicious. Calculated. And so perfectly executed that I, the queen of contingency plans, had walked right into it.
The frat guy behind me tapped my shoulder, interrupting my spiral. “Hey, bride squad. You look like you’re plotting a murder.”
I turned, not bothering to mask my irritation. “Just mentally updating my spreadsheet of people who deserve audits.”
He blinked, then grinned. “Damn, that’s cold. I like it.” He extended a hand. “Conan Myers. Heading to Carter Creek for my buddy’s bachelor weekend.”
I shook his hand automatically. “Taylor Ramsey. Heading to Carter Creek because a sociopath in a Lululemon bodysuit hijacked my life.”
“Rough.” He nodded sympathetically. “Need a drink? I’ve got bourbon.” He patted his jacket pocket. “The good stuff. Not the tourist swill.”
For a moment, I was tempted. Bourbon had gotten me into this mess; maybe more bourbon was the solution. But the rational part of my brain—the part that had kept the Sutton family train on its tracks for years—knew better.
“Thanks, but I need to stay sharp. When we arrive, I’ll need to convince someone to let me use their phone, call my family, and figure out how to get back to Louisville before the wedding on Sunday.”
Conan whistled low. “After this storm? Good luck with that, Taylor Ramsey.”
A chill settled in my stomach. I hadn’t considered the weather’s impact on my return plans. If conditions were bad enough to slow our shuttle, what would they do to the rural routes between resorts?
The driver’s voice crackled over the intercom, confirming my fears. “Folks, highway patrol’s reporting flash flood warnings for Elkhorn Creek. The main bridge to Carter Creek might be touch-and-go when we arrive. Resort management has been notified to expect us, regardless.”
Murmurs rippled through the shuttle. The bachelorette party exchanged worried glances. The sleeping couple stirred, blinking in confusion.
“What does that mean?” Tina called out. “Are we going to be stuck?”
“It means we’ll get you there safe,” the driver replied, his tone suggesting this wasn’t his first rodeo with anxious passengers. “What happens after that is between you and Mother Nature.”
Perfect. Not only was I stranded without resources, but now I might be physically unable to return even if I somehow arranged transportation. The universe was really outdoing itself tonight.
I turned back to the rain-lashed window, watching lightning fork across the sky. In the brief illumination, I could make out rolling hills and dense forests replacing the suburban sprawl of Louisville’s outskirts. We were heading into Kentucky’s bourbon country—a place of rickhouses and limestone-filtered springs, of family legacies and carefully guarded recipes.
Any other time, I might have appreciated the romance of it. Now, it just felt like exile.
The shuttle’s interior lights dimmed suddenly, then flickered back to life. Several passengers gasped. The driver muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer.
“Ten minutes to Carter Creek,” he announced, voice tight. “Resort staff will meet us at the entrance. I suggest you gather your belongings and prepare for a damp arrival.”
I had nothing to gather. Just a dead phone and a t-shirt proclaiming my allegiance to a bridal party that was sleeping it off.
The thought of Emily’s disappointment twisted in my chest like a knife. We’d had our differences over the years—the inevitable friction between the practical firstborn and the free-spirited baby of the family—but she’d never doubted my loyalty. Depending on how Brianna spun it, she might after tonight.
The shuttle slowed, tires splashing through standing water as we turned off the highway. Through the deluge, I could just make out a wooden sign illuminated by our headlights: CARTER CREEK BOURBON RESORT – EST. 1875.
We crawled down a tree-lined drive, branches whipping in the wind, occasionally scraping against the shuttle’s roof like skeletal fingers. The darkness beyond the windows was absolute—no streetlights, no neighboring properties, just wilderness and storm.
Finally, a cluster of buildings emerged from the gloom. A main structure with a wide porch and rocking chairs. Several smaller cabins scattered across manicured grounds. And beyond them, the unmistakable silhouette of a rickhouse—the distinctive peaked-roof warehouse where bourbon barrels aged.
The shuttle lurched to a stop beneath a covered portico. Through the rain-streaked windshield, I could see warm light spilling from the main building’s windows and a figure hurrying toward us with an oversized umbrella.
“Welcome to Carter Creek,” the driver announced, sounding relieved. “Please proceed directly to the reception desk. Resort staff will assist with luggage retrieval.”
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.
