Page 6 of The Worst Possible Plan

An actual real job.

Sure, I had absolutely no experience planning a town festival, had just lied directly to the mayor over pancakes, and currently knew roughly the same amount about event planning as I knew about brain surgery, but still.

Progress.

And then Helen reached into her bag, pulled out a thick overstuffed binder, and dropped it in front of me with a heavy thud.

“Wonderful,” she said. “The parade permits were denied, two vendors canceled, and someone accidentally booked a death metal band for the senior luncheon.”

My smile froze.

Lola leaned back into her chair, a slow smile creeping over her face. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

I stared at the binder.

And for the very first time since moving into the Hartwell Inn, I seriously considered faking my own death.

2

SOPHIE

Iparked crooked.

Not dramatically crooked but enough that when I climbed out of Sarah’s old Volkswagen Jetta—which she’d graciously let me borrow after taking one look at my bank account situation and making a concerned face—and looked back at it, I briefly considered getting back in and trying again. Unfortunately, I had already committed to the crookedness, and people were around. Witnesses.

Too late.

I had bigger problems.

Namely, the temporary stage that was about to be unloaded in the middle of Main Road, which felt like the kind of thing an actual event planner would probably have thought about before the truck arrived.

Rookie mistake.

A promising start to my first day as Maplewood Falls’ official event planner.

With Helen’s giant binder tucked under one arm and my bag hanging from my shoulder, I hurried toward the delivery truck.

The company name, ATLANTIC TENT RENTALS, was plastered across both sides in giant blue letters.

“Hi!” I called, attempting a wave with the arm currently pinning a binder beneath my armpit. It came out looking less like a greeting and more like I was having a full-body muscle spasm.

The driver’s head popped out the open window. He looked to be in his early forties, with a faded gray T-shirt and a sunburned face that suggested he’d spent most of his life outdoors. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth, and even standing several feet away, I caught the lingering smell of stale smoke mixed with something that suspiciously resembled last night’s beer. His thinning gray hair stuck out from beneath a baseball cap advertising some brand of fishing tackle.

The driver seemed relieved, which made me nervous. People should not look relieved to see me. Not when I was in charge of something. Especially not when I’d been in charge for less than an hour.

Fake-it-till-you-make-it event planner coming through.

“Where do you want the stage?” he asked.

Right. The stage. The stage I was apparently responsible for. The stage that everyone would eventually stand on while I hoped it didn’t collapse and become part of town history.

I opened Helen’s binder, flipped through several pages, turned it upside down and then right side up again. There were maps, charts, notes, and color-coded tabs. Who made these things? Military strategists? Air traffic controllers?

“Over there,” I said, pointing toward the town square. “Facing the lighthouse-style clock tower.” I had no freaking clue if that was the right spot.

The driver nodded. “You’re the boss.”

I blinked. Holy crap. That was true. I was the boss. The statement felt wildly irresponsible. Like giving a toddler the keys to a forklift and wishing them luck.