Chapter One

Chapter One

I don't do bachelor parties.

Wait, that sounds like I jump naked out of cakes. And who makes cakes that tall and skinny? What I mean is, I don't plan bachelor parties. Weddings, yes. Rehearsal dinners, of course. Bridesmaids' luncheons, engagement cocktail parties, even the occasional charity gala, when business is slow.

The business in question is "Made in Heaven Wedding Design, Carnegie Kincaid, Proprietor." I've got a pretty decent clientele in Seattle by now, and sometimes I accept non-nuptial referrals. But I don't do bachelor parties, for two very good reasons.

First off, I resent the symbolism, the whole bit about the doomed groom's last spasm of freedom before he turns himself in at the matrimonial slammer. I'm in favor of matrimony, after all. I might even try it myself someday. But that's another story.

The second and more compelling reason is that no event planner in her right mind will touch a party where the guests are hell-bent on drinking themselves into oblivion, and behaving as poorly as possible en route. The potential for disaster is huge.

So why, at ten p.m. on the twelfth of December, was I standing out in the freezing night wind, hammering on a locked door behind which lurked a gang of undoubtedly drunken bachelors?

Because of Sally "Bridezilla" Tyler.

I had inherited Sally's New Year's Eve wedding from Dorothy Fenner, my longtime, more-or-less friendly competitor in the Seattle bride biz, when Dorothy's fuddy-duddy husband purchased two tickets on a world cruise and a prescription for Viagra. I appreciated her vote of confidence-let's face it, I desperately needed the revenue-