Fourteen
Sam is next to me in a literal flash. Of lightning, that is.
“What the hell is happening right now?” he says, leaning to the side so he’s right next to my ear.
“I have no idea. I need to text Gabe. I don’t know what to do—”
Sam stills my hand as I dig for my phone in my apron. “Don’t text Gabe. We can figure this out.” Our voices are just above a whisper, but still low enough that, I hope, the closest guests can’t hear us. The front of the tent is a cacophony of yells and insults and spirited finger-pointing, and thank heavens Rob’s other groomsmen have the presence of mind to step in between him and Edwin before someone throws a punch. Though I doubt Rob would put up much of a physical fight—he’s awfully pale, hopping a bit to take the pressure off his injured leg.
Nikki is
