Page 38 of Lilacs and Leather
A moment later, Lucas pushes through the crowd, a clipboard and a walkie talkie and earpiece in his hands. I sigh as I take them, shaking my head. I slip on the headset and start flipping through the various papers. I can feel Lucas’s eyes on me, but I ignore him. Thankfully, everything seems to be fairly straightforward, and all the documents appear to be in order. My mind whirs as I take in seating charts, furniture diagrams, itineraries, and timetables.
“Right. Gabby, get the flowers to the main ballroom. We can set them up later. Lucas, you’re in charge of food, so go to the kitchen and make sure everything is on track. Take Dean with you to get his cake in a cooler before it melts in this heat. I’ll have the staff start on the table set up and check in the rest of the vendors. The bride’s set to arrive in an hour, so we need to have this chaos cleaned up before she gets here and starts freaking out.”
I don’t even look to see if they follow my instructions before I set away and get to work.
The next forty-five minutes pass in a blur of faces and names. The Bright Hills staff know me, so they don’t question why I’m suddenly in charge, but some vendors are less eager to step to and just follow directions. I’m in the middle of arguing with the DJ over his booth placement when Gabby’s voice crackles through the headset into my ear.
“Bride is early. She’s asking for Dorothy. What should I tell her?”
“Get her to the bridal suite, babe. I’ll be there in a minute,” I reply with clipped efficiency.
I turn my attention back to the beta looking at me with open contempt in his eyes and huff a sigh. The DJ is dressed in slacks but opted for a T-shirt under his suit jacket rather than a button down. His thick-rimmed glasses are perched on a crooked nose, and his beta scent of cotton candy almost makes my teeth hurt as I breathe in its overwhelming sweetness.
“Look, Tyler. This is the spot that’s been marked out for you. I don’t care if you can’t fit your new speakers, because they weren’t on the order form. Don’t bring anything that wasn’t in your contract here. This is a wedding, not a fucking rave,” I snap, putting as much authority in my tone as I can muster.
“But the sound is—”
“Great balls of fire! Just do as you’re told. And if I come back here and find you set up anywhere other than this spot, with any equipment except the ones they expressly paid you to bring, this will be the last time you see the inside of a St. Clair Foundation venue.”
I storm away before he can question whether I truly have the authority to make such threats. I probably don’t, but I’ll still tell Dorothy about this when I see her next. Getting on the approved vendor list for the St. Clair properties is a process and comes with a certain level of understanding that the businesses are of a higher quality standard than others. The people in charge should know if one vendor is getting uppity when the bosses have their backs turned.
I run up the stairs, my button down sticking to the sweat on my back. I’m only a little out of breath by the time I hit the second-floor landing, and I’m flipping through the clipboard as I walk. One of the ushers asks for a clarification on the placement of the gift and card table as I round the corner, and I stomp out that fire by the time I reach the bridal suite. Gabby is outside, wringing her hands.
“Good luck, babe. She’s starting to freak out.” Gabby sighs, nodding at the closed door.
I take a deep breath and set my shoulders with a nod. I can do this. We’re getting this back on track, and I just need to be confident. I twist open the handle and stride into the room, tucking the clipboard under my arm.
I’m immediately assaulted by the mix of scents in the room, beta and alpha mostly, but it’s hard to put a designation to a face when there are a dozen people in such a small space. I find the bride sitting on a sofa, a bridesmaid on either side clutching her hands. The bride, Ella from the paperwork, has her golden blonde hair done in an updo, veil already pinned in place in the back. She’s staring at the ceiling, blinking fast.
“I am so sorry for the delay, Miss Ella, but my name is Lydia. Your planner, Dorothy, couldn’t be in today, so I’m filling in,” I start with a kind smile.
“Great. Another thing gone wrong. This is just the cherry on top,” Ella moans, bouncing a little on the sofa.
I try to keep my smile as I pull up an ottoman and sit in front of her. The bridesmaids are looking at me with a mixture of frustration and desperation, and I soften my expression to something a little more natural than my customer service smile. Ella’s scent, soft cashmere and cherry blossoms, makes me sigh. An omega scent, but no alpha mixed in, so not bonded. She must be marrying a beta, then.
“We’ve got this, I promise. You don’t have to worry about a thing. I’ve got your whole file here, and we’re going to make sure your special day goes off without a hitch,” I say, reaching out and putting one of my hands on her knee.
Ella looks down at me, and I tighten my grip at the sadness in her brown eyes. This is supposed to be the happiest day of her life, and she’s miserable. My heart breaks for her, and I can’t resist the urge to fix this if I can.
“Talk to me, Ella. What’s on your mind?” I offer, settling in.
I spend the next hour listening to the awful day this bride has had, trying to keep my composure. Her photographer never showed at the salon to take pictures of the wedding party getting ready, and has ghosted her. I pull out my phone as she continues to describe the terrible day she’s had, typing without looking.
Me: Call Bryan. We need him, STAT.
Gabby: Ew, no.
Me: Gregg was the photographer for this event and he’s MIA.
Gabby: Probably got too high last night and can’t be bothered to follow through. Fucker.
Me: We need a photographer, Gabs. And Bryan has been looking to get onto the St. Clair list for months.
Gabby: Fine, but if he asks to do a feet pic shoot, you’re taking that bullet this time.
Me: Fine.
I look back up, rejoining the conversation as Ella goes on about how one of the groomsmen got food poisoning from the rehearsal dinner, and he might not make it for the ceremony. I add in the appropriate sympathetic noises, and letting the bride vent seems to work. As Ella tells me about how the groom lost his shoes somewhere between their apartment and the hotel last night and is currently tearing up their bedroom looking for them, my phone buzzes in my hand.