Lucy Day Author Facebook ad: “I'm the worst bridesmaid ever.and I need to fix that.”

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I never should have agreed to this. I should have put my foot down and kept it firmly planted. But no. I had to be accommodating and cave, just as everyone expects from sweet, helpful Maggie. And look where that got me. Crowded into a tiny room in the back of an old country church the size of a matchbox, squeezed into a dress so tight that one deep belly breath will bust the seams and give everyone in this town something to talk about for a decade. I’ve made plenty of fatal errors like that. Gossip here travels at the speed of light, and this town forgets nothing. When my ex dumped me over drinks at the Wonky Donkey last year, word spread so fast that by the time I walked home, my best friend Mika was waiting on my porch steps with two big slices of chocolate cake. What I need today is a miracle. South Carolina’s dog days of summer are no joke. The air is scorching and so heavy with humidity that the only way to cool off is to dive into a pool and not come out until sundown. Or stick your head in the freezer. That works, too. I can’t do either because I’m stuck in this stifling room where the walls are closing in, waiting on my cousin Emmy to finish fluffing her hair so she can walk down the aisle. To make matters worse, Emmy’s other bridesmaids are former mean girls from high school who still treat me like an outsider and pointedly exclude me from their conversations. I tried to politely engage when I was herded into the church with them this afternoon (spoiler alert: I failed), and now they’re on one side of the room and I’m on the other, radiating awkward middle-school dance vibes. They’re all laughing and chattering like it’s the best day ever. I’m the girl in the weird dress who earns curious glances while she stares a hole into the old clock on the wall, willing the minutes to tick by faster. But the absolute worst part? Jake Caldwell is here—the first guy I ever loved, the first guy who broke my heart, and the guy who’s escorting me down the aisle today. Emmy left out that detail when she convinced me to come here. Probably on purpose. The moment I saw him today, I knew I’d made a mistake—and I’ve been avoiding him since I got here, hoping that he doesn’t recognize me and praying I can make it through the next couple of hours without causing a scene. Still delicious as ever with his barely-tamed blond hair and rugged beard stubble, Jake looks like he should be surfing or scaling a mountain instead of standing around in an expensive suit. He’s wearing the heck out of that suit, though. It was no doubt tailor-made for him, clinging to his broad shoulders and muscular thighs in an almost sinful way. Six feet of casual charm, he’s leaning against a bookcase, hand resting on his hip in a way that drags my gaze down his body to appreciate every curve and angle. His eyes flick to mine and my cheeks flame—because he definitely caught me staring. I never thought I’d see Jake again, and now here he is, stealing looks at me like he’s the cat and I’m the canary and I think I might actually die. This day can’t possibly get any worse. But then his lip ticks up in a hint of a smile and he steps toward me. I WAS SHOCKED when Emmy called me yesterday—we haven’t even spoken to each other in over a year. She’s three years older than me, and even though we went to the same high school here in Jasmine Falls, she mostly pretended not to know me—that is when she wasn’t outright taunting me with her super popular friends and making me feel like a total weirdo. She was a cheerleader, a soccer player, the Homecoming Queen; I was a nerd who tripped over her own shoelaces in gym class and ate lunch in the library where I could dodge the bullies and hide out with the books. It wasn’t always like that, though. Emmy and I were tight when we were kids, spending weekends at our grandma’s house and tearing through the woods like little wild creatures. Age gaps get wider in high school, I guess. Yesterday, she acted like that gap never existed. And she sounded desperate. “Please, Maggie,” she said. “Eva came down with food poisoning after the rehearsal yesterday and without her, I have a party of thirteen.” She went on to share way too many gruesome details of Eva’s predicament, likely for maximum dramatic effect. Moral of that story: stay away from those gas station hot dogs that have been rolling around all week in their own juices. Far away. “I can’t, Em,” I told her. “I’ve got the day shift tomorrow at the cafe.” A Saturday at the Sentient Bean usually means great tips. I’m not the best barista over there, but I’m the friendliest—and let me tell you, that goes a long way. Plus, my boss Gwen is letting me take the reins on a huge order of cupcakes that need realistic flowers piped on top. As in, so realistic you’d study that cupcake for a full minute, thinking you’re definitely about to eat a begonia. Piping is my new superpower. I’ve been working for Gwen for two years, and now that she’s expanding into cake design, it means I finally get to do more of what I love. Because what’s better than art and baking? “Oh, Maggie,” Emmy whined. “I know we haven’t seen each other in a while, but truly, you’re my only hope.” Her voice got all high-pitched and nasally, the way it always used to before she’d collapse into a heap on the floor, tears pouring out of her like she was a human sprinkler. “Everything’s got to be perfect tomorrow, and I just can’t have six bridesmaids. Seven is lucky—it has to be seven, and there’s no one else that can get here on such short notice.” Emmy’s seriously superstitious. And she has this thing about numbers. She won’t even stay in a room that has 13 in it, so having thirteen people in her wedding party sent her into a tailspin. After lots of sniffling and a dash of sobbing, she said, “Come on, Maggie. Wild girls forever.” The words struck like a spear in my chest. It was the magic phrase we’d said to each other when we were friends. It meant we always had each other’s back—no questions asked. There was no declining when one of us invoked those words—they were a plea and a promise, more binding than a pinky swear. In that moment, those words made me think she hadn’t forgotten what we once meant to each other, and maybe she regretted this distance that formed between us, too. How could I say no to all of that? “Thank you,” she said. “You’re my hero today. Pick any dress you want, in a pastel color. And send me the bill.” She hadn’t chosen matching bridesmaids’ dresses and had instead let her friends choose their own. So rather than be stuck with some hideous dress I’d never wear again, I’d have one I actually liked. It seemed like a good deal at the time. HOURS LATER, it was clear I got the short end of the stick—because the only pastel-colored dress that fit me in the entire town of Jasmine Falls was this monstrosity that I’m squeezed into now: an exaggerated mermaid-style peachy-pink number with a halter top and little ruffles on the hips that makes me look like a shrimp with boobs. Apparently all the curvy girls like me needed pastel dresses this summer, and of course there was no emergency tailoring available for the pretty green silk dress that was two sizes too big for me. A redhead should never wear this shade of pink unless she wants to look like a zombie, but here we are. Laughter erupts across the room, where Jake’s been pulled back into the crowd. A taller groomsman slaps him on the shoulder and Jake’s jaw clenches as he glances my way again. For the first time, I think that he’s not so comfortable here. Dizzy from all the shallow breaths and the scorching heat, my only wish is to melt into the floorboards already. First I thought Jake was gawking because this dress looks like it’s been painted on me and there’s way more cleavage happening than I’m comfortable with. But no—he recognizes me. It’s obvious from the way he flashes me his most devastating smirk—the same one that used to make my heart do barrel rolls. I look different than I did in high school (curvier, better hair, stylish glasses that don’t cover half my face) but Jake’s not fooled. He was always astute, not like most guys in high school who had so many hormones raging in them that they could barely form a coherent thought. Jake, lanky back then, with unruly hair and piercing gray eyes, always knew the score. He had plenty of coherent thoughts, and he usually only shared them if (1) he liked and trusted you, or (2) he was calling out some bully’s nonsense and wanted to knock them down a few pegs in an epic verbal takedown. He was a whip-smart bad boy (bad in the sense of bucking everyone’s dumb rules and smashing the status quo) and I had a huge crush on him—he first started talking to me when we sat next to each other in study hall, and sometimes we’d get stuck waiting on the bus together. He had an intense stare, broken only when I made him laugh. His throaty laugh was like a warm ray of sunshine on a blustery day—I never got tired of it, or the way he made me feel. With Jake, I wasn’t invisible. I felt seen. Valued. By early senior year I was completely in love with him and had convinced myself it was possible he might share those feelings. But then the winter formal happened, and blew that idea to smithereens. Teenage Me had been too afraid to ask for what I wanted, and that included asking boys to dances. So I’d held out hope that Jake would ask me to the formal and confirm that he had some feelings that went beyond friendship. But one day, tired of waiting, I’d casually asked him if he thought he might go. He’d smirked and said, “Nah, dances aren’t my thing.” His one-shoulder shrug was cool, the kind that made you feel like you were partial to his secret language, and I figured that was that. He was smart enough to know I was hinting, and he was kind enough to spare my feelings. Still, those words had cut me like a knife. I went anyway, with my best friends Amy and Mika, and then felt my jaw fall open when I saw Jake there with Amber Brannon. They were standing outside in one of the dark spots between the lights in the parking lot, smoking cigarettes and standing close. She said something that made him laugh, and a little piece of me died inside as I realized that she could coax that sexy, raucous laugh out of him, too. It wasn’t just for me, and I wasn’t special. Then he leaned in close and brushed her hair out of her face and that’s when I knew he had zero interest in me. At least in the way I most wanted. That night was the beginning of the end. Jake and I still hung out as friends afterward, but I wouldn’t let myself look at him the way I had before. Wouldn’t let myself feel all the feelings I’d had before. I tamped all of that down as fiercely as I could, and pretended that nothing had changed. And it was okay for a while, because having Jake as a friend was better than having no Jake at all. But then Tara’s party came in the spring, and I did the dumbest thing ever and sent our friendship into its death spiral. After graduation, he went to school up in Virginia somewhere and slipped away like a ghost. I hadn’t seen him since. And now today, here he is, a mere twenty feet away, sliding his fingers along his tie in a seductive way that makes my eyes track his big hands as they move toward his tapered waist, and could my heart please stop that annoying pounding? Somehow he looks even more gorgeous now (totally unfair), with the same tousled hair and smoldering gaze that sends shivers along my skin. His jaw is sharper, his body more chiseled. But that devilish twinkle is still in his eye, and when he stares at me his lip curves into a sly smile that used to make my head spin. It still does. Why, after not seeing Jake Caldwell for eight years, did I have to run into him today, when I look like I’m wearing a sea creature costume from a low-budget sci-fi movie? Because the universe loves to toy with me. That’s why. He moves toward me, slow as a river, his eyes laser-focused on mine, and my heart leaps into my throat. But then the big oak doors burst open behind him and the maid of honor—Miranda? Melinda? Some girl with pouffy platinum hair that somehow is impervious to August humidity—barges in like a steam train. “Okay, y’all!” she hollers, “we have a situation!” Her voice is loud, like the kind that splits the air when calling a cab in the movies. Jake freezes and I flinch, because she is five feet of Type-A dynamite and frankly it’s a little terrifying. “Emmy is missing. I checked everywhere I know to look. We need to find her ASAP because we are t-minus ten minutes and the flower girl is on the edge of a meltdown.” Two of Emmy’s friends, both of whom look like Greek goddesses with their light billowy dresses, leap to their feet and hurry into the hallway. Curses and murmurs spread through the room and I don’t like this one bit. A delay just means more time that I have to stay cinched up in this dress that’s more likely to malfunction with each passing breath and leave me humiliated in front of Jake. Again. Coming here was such a terrible idea. I bite my lip, wishing I had a time machine and some better personal boundaries. A twenty-five year-old woman should be able to say no when she feels like it—even when it involves family. Two letters. One syllable. Why is it still so hard for me to say? Wild girls forever. A whistle pierces the air and Miranda/Melinda yells, “Okay, we need to split up. Whoever finds her first, send out a group text.” She pulls her phone from her cleavage and taps the screen. “Alexis and I will go out front and do damage control. Y’all go find the bride and text us the second you do.” She grabs the girl who must be Alexis and practically drags her from the room. A flurry of movement brings the furious clacking of heels, like a stampede of ponies on pavement. I hang back, taking a deep breath as I stare out the window and into the meadow, trying to put myself in Emmy’s shoes for a minute. It’s not like her to be late to her own party, and she no doubt planned this day right down to the second. There’s no way she’s just touching up her lipstick or taking one last selfie. The meadow outside looks so peaceful, full of wildflowers, and I wish I could float out there like a cloud and leave all of these overwhelming feelings behind. From the hallway, I hear another sharp whistle and the clapping of hands, and I am inside a tornado. Miranda/Melinda is barking out more marching orders and I’m trying to determine if I can make it out the door without her intercepting me. She’s quick, but I’m desperate. And I think I know where Emmy might be. When I turn to make my getaway, I run smack into Jake and his big broad chest, and it’s like walking into a brick wall. “Hi, Maggie,” he says, his voice still deep and smooth as honey. He gives me a tiny smile, looking oddly pleased as his hands go to my hips to steady me, and my heart bangs against my ribs. I’m certain I’m about to topple over like one of those little fainting goats and burst into flames. Because the only thing hotter than Jake’s piercing gaze is the warmth of his touch.

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I'm the worst bridesmaid ever...and I need to fix that.

This novella is part of the Jasmine Falls Love Stories series. If you like closed-door rom coms with small-town shenanigans, sassy heroines, witty banter and all the feels, then welcome to Jasmine Falls! All books in the series can be read as standalones and are available to read in Kindle Unlimited...