"The podcaster checked into the Inn last night. With a whole crew." She unwrapped her scarf, her eyes bright with excitement. "And get this… apparently the celebrity bride is someone huge. Like, People Magazine cover huge."
My stomach dropped. “Who?”
“I don’t know yet. But supposedly she’s got more followers than the Kardashians.”
“Seriously?”
“Can you imagine?" Paige grinned. "This town's about to become the most famous wedding destination in Montana."
My pulse hammered. If Hard Timber was hosting a wedding for someone with a following the size of a Kardashian, it would make news everywhere—social media, entertainment news, probably livestreamed. Which meant the podcaster's coverage would reach a massive audience.
Which meant when the truth about the Ex-List came out, it wouldn't just humiliate me and Trace locally. It would be national entertainment.
"Are you okay?" Paige frowned. "You look like you're gonna be sick."
"I'm fine. Just tired." I forced a smile. "Can you handle the morning rush? I need to prep for a catering order."
"Sure thing. But hey—" She caught my arm as I headed for the back room. "Whatever's eating at you, it'll work out. It always does."
I smiled and nodded and wished Paige could be right. If only it were that simple.
I spent the next hour preparing thermal carafes and boxing pastries, my mind spinning through worst-case scenarios. By the time Trace's truck pulled up outside, I'd worked myself into a quiet panic.
He came through the front door carrying that confidence he wore like permanent armor, but I caught the tension around his eyes. He'd barely slept either.
"Morning," he said, his voice carefully neutral.
“The coffee's ready." I gestured to the carafes lined up on the counter. "Dark roast, medium roast, and decaf. Plus milk, sugar, and some of those little flavored creamers everyone seems to love."
He nodded, then looked at me. Really looked. "You sure you're okay? You seem?—"
"I'm fine." The words came out sharp enough to cut through steel. “I just want to get this wedding over with."
“That makes two of us."
We loaded the supplies into his truck in silence, our movements efficient and practiced. We'd done this dance a hundred times before… coordinating, anticipating each other's needs, working as a team. But now it felt stilted, like we were both trying not to occupy the same space at the same time.
As he secured the last carafe into a cardboard box, I finally asked, "Do you know what you're going to say? If he interviews you?"
Trace's hands stilled. “I’ll tell him the truth."
"Which truth?"
He turned to face me, his expression impossible to read. "The only one I know. That I never meant to hurt anyone, and I sure as hell didn't deserve to be made into a fucking warning label about commitment."
Guilt twisted in my chest. "Trace?—"
"I know you think I'm the guy who can't stick around. Maybe I am. But I never lied to anyone about what I could offer." His voice was quiet and steady. "I just wish I knew why that made me the villain."
I wanted to tell him right then. The words crowded in my throat… hesitated on the tip of my tongue… I wrote your name. I called you The Heartbreaker. I'm the reason you're dealing with any of this.
Instead, I said, "You're not the villain."
"Then why does it feel like I'm paying for mistakes I didn't make?"
Before I could answer, my phone rang. Marla's name flashed on the screen.
"We’d better go," I said, swiping to decline the call. "She'll send a search party if we're late."
