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“Ma’am. Ma’am?” The guy who’s supposed to be ringing up our tab is waving my card at me, pulling my attention back to the moment.
“Yes?” I pass a shaky hand down my stomach to smooth out the knots.
“I ran it twice, but your card’s been declined.”
“What?” My blood runs cold as embarrassment sweeps through me. “You’re sure?”
“Afraid so. Do you have another form of payment?” He looks away from me to give an appeasing smile to the group of impatient patrons now forming a line behind me.
“Oh. Yes, of course,” I rush out and my brain gets busy trying to figure out what the hell is going on.
I’m hardly rich, but I do well for myself and I manage my finances well. Plus, it’s not like I’m sharing a bank account with anybody, like I did with Davis for years.
Confused and silently vowing to check with my bank later, I hand over a credit card and cross my fingers.
That card gets declined, too.
Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I glance over to where Meghan is giddily dancing her butt off over by the door. A nervous sweat breaks out along my spine.
How am I supposed to tell my best friend that we’re about to get dragged back to the kitchen to wash dishes to pay our tab? At her bachelorette party?
This maid of honor thing isn’t going too hot for me.
Shit.
I feel someone step up beside me. “Everything okay?” Nadia asks brightly, her thick curls fanning out around her beaming golden brown face.
“Card’s been declined,” the bartender blurts out before I can say anything.
I shoot him a glare. “Well, so much for trying to save face,” I mutter.
He shrugs, unapologetic, tilting his head toward the long line growing behind me.
“I-I…I’m not too sure what’s going on,” I tell Nadia honestly.
“No worries.” My friend digs into her purse and hands over a card.
The transaction goes through without a hitch and I thank her profusely, promising to transfer the money to her the minute I get home.
She doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest. In fact, she waves me off. “Consider it a gift to Meghan.” She loops an arm through mine, yanking me toward where our group is gathered by the exit. “Now, come on. Let’s go have somerealfun.”
I release a discreet sigh of relief, grateful that this night won’t end with me and my girlfriends up to our elbows in grease and soap suds at the bar’s kitchen sink. I would never recover from the mortification.
Anyway, after bolting past the cemetery in our short dresses and high heels, the bachelorette party struts noisily across town, hooting, howling, and drawing attention to Meghan. She’s effortlessly gorgeous, clad in her glittery tiara and the shimmeryBride-To-Besash over her silver party dress and mismatched cardigan.
Cars honk merrily and locals wave at us as the group of us walks arm in arm, right in the street and forcing drivers to go around us. I shake my head. Only in a place like Honey Hill would we get away with this behavior.
All the laughter and amusement bubbling around us, it all reminds me of the days leading up to my own wedding. I remember how the entire town seemed to be buzzing with excitement to see me tie the knot with Davis.
As we stride into the noisy Hot Sauce pub, I struggle not to let all those memories make me sad. I can’t be sad. Not on my best friend’s special night. So I push those thoughts aside.
“Aunt Jane!” Meghan shouts with her hands raised, and I’m grateful for the distraction.
Meghan’s sassy aunt looks up from behind the bar where she’s slinging drinks. She waves excitedly when she spots our rowdy group.
