Normally Jaclyn would have been at one of the weddings while Peach and Diedra handled the rehearsals. Instead, she was here because she was the only one at Premier who could face the bride’s family without either losing her temper or laughing out loud. This rehearsal and tomorrow’s wedding were all hers, like it or not. Thank goodness the family had agreed to hold their rehearsal at a slightly earlier hour than usual, so Jaclyn could go straight from here to the Bulldog wedding, where Diedra was already hard at work. Between them, Madelyn and Peach were handling the other rehearsal—the one they had started calling “Family Drama”—and the Pink wedding in much the same way.

This wedding was pretty much a lost cause, but Jaclyn had managed to talk the bride out of a wedding cake with a NASCAR theme. That was one point for their side, though even now the bride kept insisting how cute it would be to have the little bride and groom figures climbing out of a decal-covered model car, which she insisted was just like Dale Junior’s. Jaclyn wasn’t a race fan, but at least she knew who Dale Junior was, and she was pretty sure his car wasn’t bright blue. Evidently it was the decals that counted.

She’d also convinced the bride’s mother that using her multicolored Christmas lights (“But they flash!”) to decorate the barn where the wedding would be held tomorrow wasn’t entirely appropriate. She’d rearranged some of the music, so at least the bride would walk down the “aisle” to the wedding march instead of Willie Nelson or Brad Paisley. Willie and Brad would still make their appearances, just not during the bride’s walk to glory. Tomorrow there would be real flowers, not the plastic ones the bride had originally planned to use because she said they’d never die and she could use them in her new home—either that or use them to make the flower arrangements for Decoration Day at the cemetery where her daddy was buried. The flowers hadn’t even been decent silk flowers; they were literally plastic, and came in all colors—few of which had ever graced an actual living bloom.

If she hadn’t been shell-shocked, Jaclyn thought a little hysterically, she would have seen right away what a perfect match the plastic flowers had been for the blinking Christmas lights. It wasn’t as if she had anything against Christmas lights; she actually loved them … at Christmas. She didn’t love plastic flowers any time.

Fortunately there was no proper lighting at the barn for the rehearsal to take place there so late in the afternoon, so the rehearsal and reception were being held at a restaurant/bar that was owned by the “minister.” Unfortunately, that restaurant was Porky’s BBQ, and there were signs scattered about that bragged about the food. Most prominent was the proud claim: “You’ll love our butts.” Second place went to “Best butts in town.”

She wasn’t certain the minister was really a minister, but at this point that was the least of her worries. It would be a blessing in disguise for the groom if the marriage wasn’t legal, so she kept her mouth shut about the minister.

A makeshift altar had been set up under a neon Budweiser sign, which had been glowing brightly until Jaclyn had insisted that it be turned off. If she could have come up with a way to take it down she’d have done so, but like the “butts” signs, it was attached to the rough plank paneling. Multicolored plastic flowers—almost certainly the ones Jaclyn had banned from the wedding—had been used to decorate the table beneath the now-dark neon sign. The flowers clashed horribly with the plastic red-and-white-checkered tablecloths that covered the tables. Some of the tables were round, some of them were square, but all of the tablecloths were square.

The tablecloths, plastic or not, weren’t that bad. It was a theme she could have worked with, given the time, money, and, most important, permission. White daisies, red and white plates and glasses, and she’d have had an elegant picnic theme. Instead, the best she could do was, whenever possible, stave off disaster.

Unfortunately, she didn’t think it was possible.

The groom’s mother, a middle-aged widow, was very pale, but she did her best to smile. It was a wavering, uncertain smile, and Jaclyn was almost certain the poor woman’s teeth were clenched. She could sympathize. She’d never seen so many mullets in one room. The dress for this event was supercasual—only Jaclyn and the groom’s mother and sisters were dressed in a way that she would consider appropriate, which basically meant they weren’t wearing jeans and T-shirts with slogans on them. And the minister—she was almost certain he’d come by the title via the Internet—well, all she could do was hope that tomorrow he’d clean himself up a little, maybe even put on a tie. He was a big man with a handlebar mustache and a red bandanna tied over his bald head, and tonight he wore faded jeans and a Harley tee with the sleeves ripped out, which revealed his colorful tattoos from shoulder to wrist, on both arms.

On the other hand, if she could ever say with absolute certainty that her services were needed, that time was now and the place was here. No one knew who was supposed to stand where, or what the proper progression of events should be. Maybe the bride’s mother would be seated to a Brad Paisley song about checking you for ticks, but she would, by golly, be seated at the right time, and in the right place.

That was if everything went as planned tomorrow. If neither the bride nor her mother got arrested tonight. If the minister wasn’t killed by a rival motorcycle gang.

That was a lot of ifs, and she thought their chances of making it through were low.

First, she had to get through tonight.

The Christmas lights Jaclyn had gently banned from the wedding ceremony had been broken out for tonight. They hung everywhere, cheerful and random and occasionally tangled, and completely wrong. At least she’d been able to dissuade the bride’s friends from outlining everything in sight, from the beer spigot behind the bar to the loaf of bread sitting on the long counter, with the twinkling, brightly colored lights.

The disastrous rehearsal was bizarre enough to take her mind off Carrie Edwards and Eric Wilder for a while. Well, to be honest, she didn’t think about Carrie as much as she did Eric, and that was kind of sad. It wasn’t sad enough to make her dwell on the woman, though.

But Eric … he was the most maddening man she’d ever met. The more she tried not to think about him, the more stubbornly he lodged himself front and center in her brain. Because of him she’d made a spectacle of herself, and how she’d face the minister tonight at the Bulldog wedding, she had no idea. Maybe she’d pretend she’d been in a fugue state, and didn’t remember anything that had happened.

But she was able to banish Eric while she oversaw the rehearsal, which was much like corralling wild pigs and putting bows on their tails. The bows didn’t help, and the pigs were fractious. The rehearsal went relatively well; a touch of color began creeping back into the groom’s mother’s face—until the minister let out a whoop and directed everyone to the bar for hot wings and beer, to be followed by banana pudding and brownies.

All of the color immediately left the woman’s face again. Jaclyn had seen the spread earlier, and had noted with horror the cans of icing sitting by the brownies and the brightly colored sprinkles on both desserts. Her client had tried—she’d tried very hard—to put together a proper rehearsal dinner. That should’ve been the one aspect of the wedding where she had some control. But the happy couple had insisted that it didn’t make any sense to go elsewhere when there was great food right here, and they already had the place to themselves for the night. Basically, the groom’s mother had been bulldozed.

Jaclyn even heard her whisper to one of her daughters that maybe her son had been switched with someone else’s baby at the hospital, because she could not have given birth to a man who would do this to her.

The bride’s mulleted brother sidled up next to Jaclyn, gave her a come-on smile and a nod of his head. With a knowing look he said, “I can’t believe a pretty thing like you is here all alone. A woman like you should never be without a date.”

“I’m working,” Jaclyn said coolly.

The kid, and he couldn’t be more than twenty-one or twenty-two, didn’t take the hint. He moved in closer, invading her personal space with the smell of fresh beer and stale breath. Oh, good lord, she just caught a flash of rotten teeth. He shouldn’t smile. He really shouldn’t smile. Jaclyn took a step away. Swear to God, if he touched her she’d flatten him. She’d had just about all she could take in the past two days, and if he was the one who pushed her over the edge she wouldn’t hesitate to push back, not this time.

Yeah, that would look good, when she was suspected of murdering Carrie Edwards. Some things, though, were just worth the price you had to pay.

“Let me give you a ride home, sweet thing.”

She gave the mullet-head a quick but decisive “not interested,” and turned away.

Her job here was done, thank God. If she could just make it to her car unmolested, she still had the Bulldog wedding—which would probably come complete with the ring-bearer wearing a football helmet, thanks to Eric—to get through, but Diedra would be there to help. Tomorrow was going to be a very long day, and eventually she needed to get home, to lie down in her bed and pull the cover over her head. Just as she was about to say good-bye to the woman who’d hired her, the door to the restaurant opened. The bride’s mother snapped in her grating smoker’s voice, “This is a private party. Can’t you read the ‘closed’ sign, moron?”

Everyone turned, and Jaclyn’s eyes widened with horror as she recognized the tall, muscled man whose piercing gaze swept the interior of the barbecue joint. Eric gave the mother of the bride an icy stare as he flashed his badge. “That’s Detective Moron.”

The entire room went silent. For the first time all night, you could’ve heard a pin drop. Then the bride’s mother said, in a resigned voice. “Sorry about the moron bit. Come on in.” The “I guess” was unspoken.

A couple of the guests looked truly alarmed, and Jaclyn wondered how many of them thought the cop was here for them. Probably on just about any other night, they’d have been right, but tonight they were safe. Detective Wilder had come for her.

She stalked toward him, chin high, eyes flashing. This was twice he’d interrupted her while she was working. Once was one time too many, and twice was enraging.

“I have a couple more questions,” he said as she came close. Behind her the party resumed, though the guests were more subdued than before and several pairs of eyes were focused on the newcomer. That was a two-way street. Eric didn’t look directly at her, but kept his gaze on the room behind her.

“It can’t wait?” she asked in a tight voice only he could hear.

“No, I need to talk to you tonight.” He glanced around the room, smirked, and said, “Nice work, by the way. I particularly like the Christmas lights. Jazzes things up.”

“Bite me.”

His gaze switched to her face, narrowed with sharp focus. “Any time, sweetheart,” he said. “Anywhere.”

She went white and fell back a step. No. After switching himself off like a lightbulb when all she’d needed had been a quiet reassurance that he believed her, he wasn’t switching himself on again and expecting her to do a moth act. “You don’t get to say things like that to me,” she said coldly. “Not now. Not anymore.” Though she had started it by telling him to bite her, and now she had to apologize to him yet again. This was becoming such a habit she was going to start running in the opposite direction as soon as she saw him—either that or write up a blanket apology, print out a bunch of copies, and simply give him one every time she put her foot in her mouth.

Before she could get the words out, though, his gaze dropped to her mouth. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

Her mind went blank, and her lips parted but nothing came out. Before she could recover he smirked again, and nodded in the direction of the minister. “Why aren’t you wearing your special wedding planner do-rag?”

The urge to apologize was swamped by the urge to dump the remains of a big tray of banana pudding on his head. After humiliating herself with her own lack of control the night before, she clamped down on the vivid thought with every ounce of willpower she had. She refused, absolutely refused, to let him drive her insane. She’d be sane if it killed her. “I’m saving it for tomorrow,” Jaclyn ground out. Excuses and explanations crowded her throat as if they had actual, physical presence. She wanted to tell him how much worse this wedding would have been if she hadn’t been hired, she wanted to run through the whole horrible litany about the barn and the plastic flowers and Brad Paisley’s tick song, but no way in hell was she going to explain anything to Eric Wilder.