Page 14

"Shit!" Matt grabs my hand, pulling me back the way we came. "Move!"

We run, the water pursuing us with alarming speed. It's already ankle-deep, cold and murky, making each step treacherous on the smooth floor.

As we round a corner, Matt suddenly stops, causing me to slam into his back. "Damn it."

Water flows from the opposite direction as well and we're caught between two advancing currents.

"In here," Matt says, yanking open a heavy wooden door to our right.

I follow him without question, adrenaline overriding everything else. The door closes behind us with a heavy thud, and I find myself in a wine cellar. Its stone walls are lined with racks of bottles, a tasting table in the center, and, most importantly, a raised floor that puts us several inches above the water level in the corridor.

Matt pulls out his phone, grimacing at the lack of signal. "We're cut off."

"They'll come looking for us," I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "They know where we are."

"Eventually." He runs a hand through his damp hair. “We should be safe here. The water will recede."

I glance around. It's dry, at least for now, and the thick wooden door seems to be keeping the water at bay. But there's only one way in or out, and if the water rises much higher...|

I push that thought away. "So, I guess we wait."

"We wait," he agrees.

We stand in silence for a moment, the only sound the muffled rush of water outside and the distant rumble of thunder.

"Well," I say finally, perching on the edge of the tasting table, "at least we're not stuck with boring company."

The corner of his mouth lifts. "Is that a compliment, Jackie?"

"An observation." I smooth my still-damp dress over my knees. "Though I suppose there are worse people to be trapped with during a flash flood."

"High praise." He leans against the stone wall opposite me, arms crossed over his chest. "So. While we're here with nothing but time... want to tell me who you really are?"

I should have seen that coming. Of course, he'd use this opportunity to continue his investigation.

"I told you?—"

"The truth," he interrupts. "I don’t like being lied to. No one's listening. No one to perform for. Tell me the truth."

Maybe it's the surreal situation, or the adrenaline still coursing through my system, or simply the way he's looking at me, but suddenly, keeping up the pretense seems exhausting.

"Fine," I sigh. "I'm a professional bridesmaid."

His eyebrows lift. "A what?"

"A professional bridesmaid," I repeat. "Women hire me to stand up in their weddings, handle logistics, manage family drama, and make sure everything goes smoothly. I'm like... support staff in a pretty dress."

He stares at me for a long moment, then lets out a short laugh. "That's a real job?"

"A very real job," I confirm. "And a lucrative one. Weddings are high-stress events. People will pay good money for someone who can reduce that stress."

"So Catherine hired you to be in her wedding party," he says slowly, working it out. "But why the charade? Why pretend to be her lifelong friend?"

I hesitate, weighing professional discretion against the reality of our situation. We're literally trapped together and there's no avoiding this conversation. I know he won’t let this go.

"Catherine's former maid of honor, her actual best friend, tried to seduce Greg," I explain. "Made a drunken pass at him. Catherine confronted her, and a massive fight ensued. Turns out the former best friend has had the hots for Greg since the night Catherine met him. With the wedding so close, Catherine needed a replacement who could step in seamlessly. Hence, the backstory about reconnecting with an old college friend."

Understanding dawns in his eyes. "So the guests wouldn't know there was drama."