Page 20 of The Worst Possible Plan

Because I had recently been dumped. Lost my job. Lost my apartment as well as my dignity. And accidentally lied my way into becoming the event planner for a festival that started in less than a day and a half.

And somehow my brain had decided now was the perfect time to develop a crush on a sheriff.

Excellent priorities, Sophie. Truly outstanding work.

I tipped the wine glass to my lips, but all I got was a whole lot of nothing.

“How did that happen?” I said, staring at my empty glass.

Determined, I pushed myself up and filled my glass again all the way to the rim. Some sloshed onto the dresser.

“Oops.”

I stared at the tiny puddle for a second before bending over and licking it up.

“Too good to waste,” I informed absolutely nobody.

I straightened, feeling oddly pleased with myself. “Nailed it.”

Grinning like a fool, because my face had decided smiling was our default setting now, I sat back down on the bed and kicked off my shoes. My blisters protested, but I hardly felt them now.

My brain was too involved by presenting a crystal-clear image of Captain Competent rolling up his sleeves while helping repair the temporary fencing. Those golden forearms with muscles bulging when he flexed… and me imagining touching them, smelling them, maybe a little lick.

I dropped my face into my left hand. My palm still smelled faintly like alpaca. Or goat. Possibly donkey. At this point the scents had merged into one horrifying farm-themed perfume that I was fairly certain could never be fully removed from human skin.

Yeah. I was definitely losing my mind.

I took another gulp of wine.

Why was I thinking about the sheriff? I’d spent the entire day dealing with permits, deliveries, vendor complaints, electrical issues, and traffic backups. Yet somehow the thing my brain wanted to replay was Sheriff Walker.

The man had questioned my competence for approximately three minutes and somehow managed to become the most memorable part of my day. And that said deeply troubling things about both my priorities and my mental stability. I should’ve been angry, embarrassed, mortified. Instead, my brain kept replaying every conversation we’d had like some sort of humiliating highlight reel.

I sighed loudly, reached out, and grabbed the binder from my bag. The thing nearly pulled my shoulder out of its socket. If I threw it at someone, it would qualify as a weapon.

I dropped on the bed. And then I glared at it like a crazy person.

I hated this damn thing. Right now, it reminded me I had less than thirty-six hours before the festival started and hundreds of people arrived expecting a well-organized community event instead of whatever chaotic experiment I was currently conducting.

I took another sip of wine.

Thirty-six hours wasn’t enough time to become an event planner. It barely felt like enough time to become a functional adult. Some days I wasn’t entirely convinced I’d mastered adulthood at all. Paying bills and owning matching socks seemed suspiciously advanced.

Was I in over my head?

Yes. Yes, I was. Neck-deep in the crapper without a life jacket.

Did I care? Not really. Or maybe I cared a lot and had simply moved beyond caring into a strange new emotional territory fueled entirely by the effects of wine and denial.

Should I tell Helen I’d lied and try to cover up my inexperience today?

Hell no. The woman would probably have a stroke. Or worse, take the binder back and assign me something even more terrifying, like accounting.

I needed that job. I needed a job, preferably one that paid actual money and didn’t involve moving back in with my parents. Not that they would let me. My mother loved me. She just preferred loving me from a healthy distance.

I couldn’t face Helen now, or Lola, or Sarah, or even my sister Margo. Not after today. Especially Margo. My sister had spent most of our lives being responsible while I specialized in creative disaster management.

Every family member needed a role.