thing she needed was a catastrophe. But it appeared that with less than two hours left on the clock before the party ended, she had one.
The night had been going seamlessly, effortlessly even. The bride and groom were happy. And the distillery’s tasting rooms had never looked so darn beautiful. The main tasting room was filled with white flowers and greenery in shades of sage that complemented the glass and natural brickwork. A wedding for a famous and wealthy hockey player had the budget that paid for enough tiny lights to make it look as though the night sky had exploded inside the tasting room’s vaulted ceiling.
Only moments before, she’d been mentally patting herself on the back for a job well done. It was her first major wedding event back since her breakdown, and Olivia had been relieved she’d be able to report back to her older sister and brother just how well the evening had gone.
Yet as she stepped into the kitchen, she realized she’d celebrated too soon.
“Oh, shit,” she gasped. “Doria, what happened?”
Doria, the head of the catering team, was lying on the floor by the fridge. Next to her was Anne, her daughter, freshly home from college for the holidays, with her hand in the air. It was wrapped in one of the distillery’s kitchen towels, splotches of red blood seeping through the distillery logo. She didn’t want to know what was sitting in the small food bag peeking out between two bags of ice.
“Anne, what happened? Has someone called an ambulance?”
Sam, one of the servers, stepped forward. “I did, they are on their way.”
“I’m sorry,” Doria said. “When Anne . . . cut her . . . you know. I fainted and fell. I can’t get up. My lower back just spasmed.”
“Anne, how are you doing?” She needn’t have asked. One look at Anne’s gray features told her everything she needed to know.
“Spacey,” Anne replied.
“Okay, lie down. Sam, go to the tasting room and find a couple of seat cushions not in use. Grab some waters from the bar on your way through.”
Sam disappeared through the doors at a clip.
Olivia tried to ignore the workstation filled with half-completed sliders and mixed savory platters. Platters that should be circulated in fifteen minutes. She couldn’t have another wedding go bad. Not after everything that had already happened, all the negative publicity she’d already endured. Not so soon after she’d returned to work, after six months of grief and depression.
As co-owner of the distillery with her brother and sister, she owed it to them to make this event successful. She needed to prove that she was back and in charge and capable of doing the events and social media management job they trusted her with. Panic began to bubble in her throat. Memories flooded her of how it had felt to let all those brides and grooms down when the events hall had been decimated by the storm in June. She couldn’t face going out to tell another bride and groom that their wedding wasn’t going to be perfect . . . that the food they were expecting wasn’t going to come.
Not yet.
Olivia swallowed and took three deep breaths.
Sam burst back through the doors and handed her what she’d asked for.
“Here, Doria. Let’s lift you a little.” She placed a cushion beneath her head so it wasn’t resting on the frigid tile floor, then rested her hand gently on the woman’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” Doria repeated. “The food, I can’t—”
“Don’t worry about the food. Let’s just take care of you two first.” Olivia’s words were soft, belying the terror she felt.
She cracked open the bottle of water and handed it to Anne. “Small sips.”
Anne did as Olivia instructed.
“Sam, watch them both, I need to go and talk to the bride and groom,” Olivia said.
She pushed the door open, thankful the entrance was hidden behind the DJ who currently had everyone dancing. In the dim light, she turned and smashed face first into something solid. Olivia pressed her hand to her nose and squinted as tears filled her eyes. “Shit,” she gasped.
Hands grabbed her shoulders. They were large and firm. “Hey. I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
Olivia blinked, trying to clear her vision.
“Here, sit down. Let me grab you a chair. Hitting your nose is the worst.”
“No, I’m sorry. I’m fine,” she said as the world came back into focus. She looked up, her eyes following a firm chest in a white dress shirt and black jacket, past broad shoulders and a