Bridesmaids & Bourbon – Chapter 4
The bus door hissed open, spilling us into a world of liquid chaos. It wasn’t rain; it was a solid, wind-driven wall of water that hit with the force of a fire hose. The air was thick with the smell of wet earth and something else—warm, sweet, and intoxicatingly rich. It was vanilla and toasted sugar filtered through ancient, damp oak. The angel’s share, I thought, the bourbon evangelizing to the storm.
My four-inch heels sank instantly into a gravel-and-mud slurry. Beside me, Tina the Bachelorette shrieked as a gust of wind ripped her plastic tiara from her head and sent it skittering into the darkness.
“End of the line, folks! I’ve got to get back over that bridge. This is as far as I can go,” the driver hollered over the roar as he deftly unloaded luggage from under the bus. “Lobby’s the building with the lights on. Good luck!”
He pulled away, and we were alone, a pathetic, sodden little band of castaways in a sea of mud. A single, weak lantern flickered above a heavy wooden door about fifty yards away. It was our only beacon.
“My Tod’s are ruined!” Conan wailed, his frat-boy confidence dissolving in the deluge.
“Run!” The elderly man, who’d dozed most of the way, boomed, grabbing his wife’s hand. He was surprisingly spry, his solid frame cutting a path through the storm.
There was nothing else for it. I kicked off my stilettos, the ridiculously expensive symbols of a night gone wrong, and left them to drown in the puddle. Barefoot, clutching my useless phone, I ran.
The gravel was sharp against the soles of my feet, a series of tiny, grounding punishments. The ridiculous pink t-shirt was plastered to my skin, its glittery “BRIDE SQUAD” script a testament to my humiliation.
We stumbled through the door into the resort lobby, the blast of warm, cedar-scented air a shocking comfort. We were a dripping, shivering mess on the wide, dark-planked floorboards.
The room was all exposed beams, worn leather armchairs, and a towering stone fireplace, blessedly unlit. The reception desk was a massive, curved piece of wood made from the staves of a giant bourbon barrel, the metal hoops still intact. Behind it, a man was wiping down the polished surface, his back to us.
He turned as the door closed behind us. He wasn’t a clerk. He was… solid. That was the first word that came to mind. Tall and broad-shouldered in a simple gray Henley that strained across his chest, with dark, wavy hair that fell over his forehead.
His face was all angles and shadows in the dim light, a strong jaw dusted with dark stubble, and eyes that were a startlingly clear, steady blue. He looked to be in his late thirties, and he surveyed our bedraggled crew with an expression of stoic, weary calm. He didn’t look surprised, just resigned.
“Storm’s a bad one,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that fit the room. “Bus make it okay?”
“The driver was a saint,” the elderly lady chirped, wringing out the hem of her cardigan. “But I think we brought half the creek in with us.”
The man gave a slight smile that barely touched his lips but reached his eyes. “Floors have seen worse. Let’s get you all checked in. The name’s Beau Carter. I own the place.”
Of course he did. He looked like he’d grown from the very foundations of the building.
Tina, her makeup a Jackson Pollock of waterproof mascara, pushed to the front. “Tina Wilcox. Bachelorette party. My maid of honor, who is SO FIRED, booked us a suite.”
Beau consulted a thick, leather-bound ledger on the counter. No computer. Of course not. “Wilcox party. The Cooper’s Suite. Got you right here.” He slid a heavy brass key across the counter. “It’s in the main lodge, second floor. Elevator’s just past the fireplace.”
Next was Conan. “Conan Myers. Just a single. The guys said you’d have room.”
Beau’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Things are a little tight, Mr. Myers. Most of our cabins are under renovation.” He ran a finger down the page. “I can put you in the last room in the lodge. Queen bed, no view.”
“As long as it’s got a roof and a minibar, we’re golden,” Conan said, snatching the key.
Then the elderly couple stepped forward, hand in hand. “Harold and Mabel Greene,” the old woman said, her voice warm. “We have a reservation for one of the cottages.”
Beau’s expression softened as he looked at them. “Mabel, Harold. Good to see you. Glad you made it in before the bridge went.”
My blood ran cold. “The bridge?” I interrupted, my voice sharp.
Beau’s gaze shifted to me for the first time. His blue eyes were piercing, and I felt a sudden, ridiculous urge to hide the glittery letters on my chest. He took in my wet-rat appearance, the bare feet, the cheap pink t-shirt, but there was no judgment in his eyes, just a quiet, thorough assessment.
“The shuttle driver just radioed, he made it back to the main road just in time,” he said, his voice even. “The bridge over Carter Creek is flooded out. Only way in or out. It’ll be closed until the water goes down. Tomorrow afternoon, maybe.”
Tomorrow afternoon. The out-of-town family cocktail event was at 5 p.m. A hysterical giggle bubbled in my throat. I swallowed it down. It tasted like panic.
“Your cottage is fine, Mabel,” Beau continued, turning his attention back to the elderly couple. “But the path is a mud pit. I’ve got one last cabin open that’s on higher ground. The ‘Angel’s Share’ cabin. It’s small, but it’s dry. It’s yours if you want it.”
“Oh, you’re a dear, Beau,” Mabel said, beaming. She squeezed her husband’s arm. “That sounds perfect.”
He handed them a key, and they shuffled off toward a hallway, their wet shoes squeaking a soft rhythm on the floor.
And then there were two, me and Beau Carter. The owner. I stood there, dripping on his floor, a living, breathing logistical nightmare.
“And you?” he asked, his gaze settling on me again. It wasn’t unkind, but it was direct. Expectant.
I stepped forward, my bare feet cold on the wood. “Taylor Ramsey.”
He scanned the ledger. Then he scanned it again. He lifted his gaze to mine, one dark eyebrow raised. “I don’t have a reservation for a Ramsey.”
“I know,” I said, the words sticking in my throat. “There was a… mix-up. With the shuttles.” This was it. The moment of truth. The public declaration of my utter incompetence. “I don’t have a room. And I… I don’t have my wallet.”
The words hung in the air between us, heavy and humiliating. I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks. I, Taylor Ramsey, the woman who kept a backup for her backup phone charger, who had the AmEx Black Card memorized, was destitute.
Beau didn’t flinch. He just watched me, his expression unreadable. He looked from my face to the ridiculous t-shirt. “‘Bride Squad,’” he read aloud, his voice flat.
“It was a surprise,” I muttered. “And I’m the maid of honor.” The statement felt like a plea. See? I’m important. I have a function. I’m not just some drunk girl who got on the wrong bus.
He was silent for a long moment, the only sounds the drumming of the rain on the roof and the low tick of a grandfather clock in the corner. I braced myself for the dismissal, the call to security, the suggestion that I sleep in one of the lobby armchairs.
Just then, a walkie-talkie on the desk crackled to life. “Beau, you there? Gus here. The tarps on cabin seven just blew clean off. We’re taking on water.”
Beau picked up. “Copy that, Gus. Anything you can do?”
“Negative. It’s a swimming pool in there. Just wanted to give you a heads up. This renovation is cursed.” The radio went silent.
Beau set the walkie-talkie down with a quiet sigh, running a hand through his damp hair. The movement pulled his Henley tight against his biceps, and I resolutely stared at the grain of the wood on the counter. He looked at the empty key hooks, then back at me. I could see the gears turning in his head, a problem-solver faced with one last, unexpected problem. Me.
“Alright,” he said, the word a final, reluctant decision. “Come on.”
He rounded the massive desk and walked toward the front door.
“Come on where?” I asked, rooted to the spot.
He paused, his hand on the door handle, and looked back at me. “My place. I’ve got a spare room.”
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.
