Page 22 of The Worst Possible Plan

I’d have more opportunities to expose myself as the least qualified event planner in the history of organized events, which felt like a surprisingly competitive category.

I didn’t even realize I’d fallen asleep. Or that I was dreaming of giant sheriff badges chasing me through the streets while I ran naked through Maplewood Falls with an alpaca bouncing happily beside me like we were participating in some deeply disturbing parade.

And, compared to my actual day, it wasn’t even that unrealistic.

6

SOPHIE

Iwoke the next morning with a migraine from hell.

I peeled my eyes open and stared at the ceiling. Something hard and cold pressed against my back. After a few seconds, I managed to roll my head to one side and spotted the legs of the bed. Legs?

I rolled my head the other way and found an empty bottle of wine lying on the floor beside me.

Oh yeah. I’d fallen asleep on the floor.

Every muscle in my body protested as I turned onto my side. My calves, shoulders, and even my fingers hurt.

I groaned and squinted at the digital clock on my phone next to me.

Seven thirty.

Far too early to be awake. Far too late to become an event planner.

For one glorious moment, I considered pulling the blankets back over my head and pretending none of this had happened. The festival could surely organize itself. Vendors loved organizing themselves. Permits practically signed themselves.

Then my stomach growled so loudly I was pretty sure the kitchen staff could hear it through the wall.

“Fine,” I breathed. “Breakfast wins.”

I dragged myself into the shower, letting the hot water pound against muscles I hadn’t known existed until yesterday. Somewhere around shampoo number two, I finally stopped smelling like damp hay, wet goat, and whatever scent alpacas left behind. Progress.

By the time I pulled on jeans, a soft green T-shirt, and my trustworthy sneakers—which would have been my heroes yesterday—I almost looked like someone capable of running a festival.

Almost.

The woman staring back at me in the mirror still had dark circles under her eyes, a ponytail that refused to cooperate, and the slightly haunted expression of someone who’d spent an afternoon arguing with livestock.

“You’ve got this,” I told my reflection.

She looked unconvinced.

Next, I grabbed my phone, tapped the diary app and wrote:

Day 2:

Chased a goat.

Was stalked by an alpaca.

Sheriff still thinks I’m incompetent.

Mixed results.

Satisfied, I picked up Helen’s binder from my bed and headed out. The smell reached me halfway down the hallway. Coffee. Then came bacon. Then something buttery. Then fresh bread.

My stomach practically shoved me the remaining steps.