My best friends wedding.., p.1
My Best Friend's Wedding Planner (Wedding Disasters Book 1), page 1
My Best Friend’s Wedding Planner
Wedding Disasters
Book 1
D. K. Sutton
Copyright © 2024 by D. K. Sutton
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design: Willow Sterling
Editor: Abbie Nicole
Created with Vellum
Contents
My Best Friend’s Wedding Planner
A few notes and a content warning
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by D. K. Sutton
As Addison Lloyd
My Best Friend’s Wedding Planner
Miles
Act as the dude of honor for my best friend? On it. Play nice with her scheming groom? Sure. Sabotage the wedding so she doesn’t make the biggest mistake of her life? Someone has to.
The only obstacle is her fierce, over-the-top wedding planner. I can’t get distracted by Zye Roessler’s sass or kissable lips. Not when he’s fixing things faster than I can break them.
We’re both determined. I want to protect my friend. And Zye needs this wedding to save his business. Not that he believes in love or marriage. I mean, neither do I, but I’m not the one making a profit from other’s mistakes.
I have a plan, and it doesn’t include kissing Zye every chance I get.
Zye
Miles Gordon is a problem. A gorgeous, muscled, tempting problem. He loves riling me up, but it’s the continuous issues with the wedding that snag my attention.
The dress? The venue? Are these coincidences or a sexy mechanic’s warped sense of loyalty?
I’m used to setbacks: the kids in school ridiculing me for being different, hearing “Shut up, Zye” too many times, my mom dropping me off at my dad’s for the weekend…and never returning.
Despite Miles’s attempts to distract me and the mounting evidence that this marriage is a mistake, this wedding will happen.
My only focus is giving the bride her perfect wedding and saving my business.
No matter how safe and cared for I feel in Miles’s strong arms.
A few notes and a content warning
In my book, I include the beautiful Shelter Gardens. This is an actual place that is often used for weddings. It’s owned and maintained by Shelter Insurance and is open to the public. You can learn more about it here. (Then go to About Shelter->Shelter Gardens.)
In my effort to include it in the book, I changed its location. It is actually located in Columbia Missouri.
Content Warning:
This book has mentions of childhood bullying. It also has a character who is homophobic and transphobic. It is not a major character, but I wanted to mention it.
Chapter One
Zye
As the clerk dismisses me with a wave of his hand, I clutch my purple gel pen and contemplate stabbing him in his beady, birdlike eyes.
Anything to wipe the snooty look off his face. “Check again,” I ask sweetly, trying not to sound as desperate as I feel. “Please.”
“I assure you, sir, there is no need. Next?”
The line of customers waiting for me to finish shuffles restlessly, and I glare at the muscled guy behind me. With his lumberjack physique, well-worn jeans, and oil-stained shirt, he seems out of place in the elegant reception area of La Vita Bella, the hottest wedding venue in the Kansas City area. He inches forward, and I move to block his way. Is he trying to butt in line? Or get a better view of my chino-clad ass? I dismiss that thought. Muscular guys who sweat for a living aren’t interested in guys like me: slim with a way-too-pretty face—accentuated with a touch of makeup, of course. No way am I letting him cut in front of me. I have a job to do.
Lifting my chin, I focus on the snooty clerk and say with as much confidence as I can manage at four-thirty on a Friday afternoon in an already way-too-long week, “I need to speak to someone in charge.”
“I understand, Mr. Roessler.”
“Do you?” I arch a perfectly manicured brow in challenge. “Because you’re still here.”
“We’ve been over this, sir. You canceled the July twenty-seventh date. It’s right here in my book.”
“Maybe that’s your problem. Ever heard of a computer?”
“I’ve checked the computer as well.”
“Just…check again,” I say with gritted teeth and the barest of smiles I can muster. “I made the reservation a year ago. It has to be there. Webber. W-E-B-B-E-R.”
He sighs, scans the book again—a little too quickly, if you ask me—and clicks several computer keys. Is typing with an attitude a requirement for a wedding venue receptionist? Then he straightens, his eyes widening a teensy bit. “Cher Webber?”
“Yes.” Relief floods through me so fast I’m almost giddy. “Cher with a C.”
He clicks again and nods. “I beg your pardon, sir. I was looking at the wrong calendar.” Despite his words, his face barely shows emotion, let alone anything approaching remorse. “I have located your reservation.”
“That’s okay, Jeeves—” He narrows his eyes, and I check his nametag. “Er…um, Gerrald. Mistakes happen.”
“Yes, sir. The Webber wedding is scheduled for July twenty-seventh…”—his pause sends prickles of unease up my spine—“two thousand and twenty-six.”
My chest squeezes, and I rub the spot, trying to hold off the welling panic. “What?” I squeak and then clear my throat. I need to sound confident. Professional. “That can’t be right.”
“The calendar is never wrong.”
My resolve breaks, and I wave my arms at him, almost smacking the guy behind me. “Why would I reserve a venue two years after the wedding?”
“I can’t honestly say, sir. Next—”
I move so he’s looking at me and not the customers—including the hulking mass of muscle—behind me.
Desperation claws at my chest and that hollow feeling in my stomach, like I’ve lost everything, takes me back to that moment ten years ago. Standing on the side of the road, watching my mom drive away.
But I’m twenty-two, not twelve. I shake off the past and focus on the now. “Do you think the bride wants to wait two years to get married?”
“Again, sir, it’s not for me to say. But I look forward to assisting you in July of twenty twenty-six.”
“The wedding will be over—”
“I can cancel your reservation if you wish.”
I grip the counter, trying to remain calm. Which is difficult when my entire career—my business—is about to implode. “What I’d like is to speak to your manager.”
“The manager’s response will be no different. It’s all here on the calendar.” He smooths his fingers across the leather-bound planner as if stroking a lover.
“Get me the manager now,” I say between clenched teeth, “before I shove that book up your—” Strong fingertips press against my back—there and gone—and the words catch in my throat. Did the lumberjack just touch me? My hands shake from the rush of adrenaline and pent-up anger. This wedding is crucial. A way to recover from my last wedding disaster. I need to stay focused.
“There is no need for rudeness.” The clerk sniffs.
“Obviously, there is because being nice isn’t working.”
“This is you being nice?”
“Listen…” I focus on his name tag instead of the names I want to call him. “…Gerrald. Surely, we can work something out.” I reach for my wallet, wondering if this has been his motive all along. “I just need a date for this year.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have canceled—”
I lunge at him. No thoughts about what I’m doing—just needing to scratch out his beady eyes so he gets my point. He backs up, his cool facade broken, but I don’t get very far. I’m stopped by arms—big, burly arms—wrapping around me and holding me in place. I stretch, trying to get to the clerk, but he has moved safely out of my reach. “Let me go, you brute.”
“No.” The voice sounds amused, and it’s like gasoline on a fire. I hate being ridiculed. I try to elbow my way loose and a soft oof tells me I landed at least one good hit before the arms tighten and a husky voice is in my ear. “Calm down. Before they call security.”
My captor smells like motor oil and sweat, with a hint of something woodsy. I’m surprised not to hate it. This scent, combined with the teasing breath on my neck, causes a completely different problem, and now I re
“Gerrald?” my captor asks in a calm, almost-purring voice that doesn’t help my situation at all. “Can you get the manager for us, please?”
The attendant gives me another dismissive look before scampering away.
I slump in his arms. “You can let me go now.”
“Are you sure?” he asks with a chuckle.
Yelling will not get me what I want, so I just nod. I’m frustrated and humiliated and absolutely done. He releases me, and when I turn around, he steps back with his hands in the air. I glare while smoothing the wrinkles from my clothes.
My cursory look from before told me he was cute—in a muscly brutish way—but now, my focus entirely on him, I catch myself staring. Holy smokes. This guy is gorgeous. Everything about him screams working man, from the dark stubble covering his jaw to his scuffed work boots. His long dark-blond hair hangs loose around his face and tattoos peek out from the V-neck of his shirt.
His silver-gray eyes sparkle with humor. As if he’s amused by something and eager to share. It’s intoxicating.
And not what I need right now.
I stand straighter and ignore the fact that he towers over me. “You could just wait your turn,” I say, glancing past him for his bride. The woman behind him is stunning. And attached to another guy’s lips. “Or you could mind your own business.”
He studies me, taking his time to answer. “This is my business, sweetheart.”
I scoff at that. “No, it’s not—”
“I’m in the wedding party.”
“Everyone here is in a wedding party.”
He scratches at the stubble on his jaw, and I can’t keep my eyes from following the movement. “The Webber wedding party.”
That stops me. Cher has been annoyingly hush-hush on the wedding details. Evidently, secret weddings are a thing, and Cher, a popular social media influencer with a bajillion followers, wants to take advantage of that trend. I know the basics. We’ve discussed venues, themes, and numbers, but I don’t know all the members of the wedding party. Or even the identity of the—crap.
“Are you…?” My voice cracks, and I clear my throat. “Who are you?”
As he opens his mouth to speak, I hold my breath.
Please don’t say the groom.
Chapter Two
Miles
How the hell did I get to this point?
Standing in a fancy-ass hotel, trying to keep this wisp of a man from murdering the stuffy clerk behind the desk and getting himself locked up. With that spiky white-blond hair, blue eyes, and shimmery eyeshadow, he reminds me of a porcelain doll.
They’d eat him alive in prison.
Grabbing his arm, I pull him out of line and head for the door. We don’t get far before he stops, plants his feet, and shakes me off.
“Who are you?” he asks again, folding his arms and giving me a fierce glare.
We need to leave before security shows up, but he seems rooted to the spot as he waits for my answer. “Miles,” I respond, seeing the possibilities running through his cute little head.
“Cher’s Miles?”
I almost correct him because I don’t belong to anyone, but we don’t have a lot of time. “She sent me to check on you.”
He stands taller. “I can take care of myself.”
“Sure you can.” I glance up at the sound of footsteps. A security officer is headed our way. “Maybe we should take this outside.”
“I need five minutes with the manager—”
“Sweetheart, the manager isn’t coming.”
He notices the security guard and swallows. But then he raises his chin, and I realize he’s readying himself for a fight. “You can go, Miles. I’ve got this.”
“Fine,” I say, taking a different tactic. He wants a fight. As much fun as that would be, it won’t get us out of this building. My orders were clear. Keep the wedding planner out of jail. But I’m curious to see what he’ll do next. I shrug. “No skin off my nose. I’ll just call my bestie and give her an update.” I pull my phone from my back pocket.
He makes a frustrated guttural sound that inconveniently grabs my body’s interest as he stomps away like it was his idea all along.
When Cher asked me to keep her wayward wedding planner from getting arrested, I was hesitant. Not that I’d deny that girl anything. She’s been my best friend forever. But I pictured this snooty princess of a guy, and, well, that’s exactly what I got. But somehow, in person—
“Are you going to stand there all day?” he asks from the entrance, tapping his glittery shoe. I try to hide my smile. I enjoy his sass a little too much.
I stride out the door—my job here is done—and I’m more than a little surprised to hear his shoes clicking on the sidewalk as he follows me to my truck.
“You’re the maid of honor?”
“No,” I say, turning to face him and drawing myself up to my full six foot three. I tower over him, but he doesn’t flinch. “I’m the bestie of the bride.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“Dude of honor.” I wave my hand at him. “Whatever you want to call it, Zee.”
“Zye—”
“Can we do this in my truck? It’s hot as fuck out here.” It’s not usually this hot in April, but I’m also in my work clothes. Cher used the word emergency, so I didn’t take the time to change. Good thing too, or I might be collecting him from the county lockup. But it means I’m hot and sweaty, while the wedding planner is cool and collected in his white pants and turquoise top.
Zye eyes the inside of my truck and raises his brow. Rolling my eyes, I hop in my Ford F150 and start it, enjoying the rush of cool air. It relaxes me…and annoys him if the huffing he’s doing outside my window is anything to go by. After a minute of this, I lower the passenger-side window.
“Is there a problem? My truck is clean.”
“Really? Because your clothes aren’t.”
Should I just drive off? He got here somehow. But for some reason, I stay. “Your makeup’s gonna melt, princess.”
He huffs and climbs into the truck. It takes a bit because his fancy shoes make getting in harder than it needs to be. I needlessly adjust my mirrors as I attempt to hide my smile.
Zye looks dainty sitting in Beulah. No, not dainty. Precious. Like he’s afraid of getting dirty. But my truck is well cared for, just like my basset hound, Sadie. They’re my babies. Zye is just a guy. A cute, over-the-top, thinks-he’s-better-than-everyone guy. But still just a guy.
I don’t need to like him. Hell, it’s better if I don’t. Easier to do what I need to do. And maybe I feel a twinge of guilt—my mama raised me better than that—but when he looks at me like I’m not good enough to spit on his glittery shoes, that guilt vanishes. Or at least hides far enough away that I can pretend it doesn’t exist.
“So, you’re Miles.”
“Yup.” Didn’t we already establish this? “And you’re that wedding planner from—where are you from again?” I resist grinning as he huffs. That’s exactly the reaction I was going for.
“Mule Creek,” he says through gritted teeth.
“Right. The sprawling metropolis of Mule Creek, Missouri, known for its…mules?”
He raises both eyebrows this time. “Getting in the truck was your idea, remember?”
“I’m just here to save your ass and deliver Cher’s message: Chill out, dude.”
“Cher did not say that.”
“Close enough.” It’s quiet in the truck while the AC does its job and Zye’s body loses some of its tension. “When she asked me to stop you from murdering anyone, I thought she was exaggerating. Poor Gerrald.”
He snorts. “The man has beady little emu eyes, and emus are just creepy. Besides, Gerrald was being judgy,” he says, the defensiveness back in his voice. “They messed up and canceled the venue.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “So? Get a new one.”
He stares at me as if I’m the unreasonable one. “Oh, sure,” he says, waving his arms dramatically. “I’ll just go on Amazon and have them whip one up for me.”
