Perfect. As if this day couldn't get any worse.
"Where's Marla?" I asked.
"Out looking for the bride. She took the groom and half the wedding party with her." Mimi’s laugh balanced on the edge of hysterical. "Do you know how much money is tied up in this event? How many people are expecting a show?"
I looked around the lobby… at the half-assembled floral arrangements, the sound equipment being tested by increasingly frustrated technicians, the elaborate tiered cake that had been delivered before dawn and now sat like an expensive monument to potential failure.
"We'll figure it out," I said, though I had no idea how.
The next few hours passed in a blurry haze of careful damage control. I contacted every vendor, explained the situation and begged them to stay. I coordinated with the photographer to get shots of the Inn and the surrounding area while we waited. I even helped the florist rearrange centerpieces to buy time.
But by ten, with still no word from the missing bride, people started abandoning ship.
The call finally came at twelve-thirty. Haven’s assistant, her voice tight with embarrassment, confirmed what we all suspected… we had a runaway bride on our hands and she wasn't coming back. Cold feet had turned to panic, and panic morphed into overwhelming anxiety about the media circus she'd created. She was already on a plane back to Los Angeles, leaving behind a trail of contracts and non-refundable deposits she’d never get back.
Mimi sank into a chair and put her head in her hands. "Twenty years in this business, and I've never had a bride just... vanish."
Nico showed up around one, his camera crew in tow, looking like Christmas had come early. "This is even better than I hoped," I heard him tell his producer. “A celebrity wedding disaster in small-town Montana? My listeners are going to eat this up."
I was standing behind the registration desk, trying to coordinate with the few remaining vendors, when I saw Trace's truck pull into the parking lot. My heart stopped.
He climbed out slowly, his gaze landing on me through the lobby windows. Even from a distance, I could see something different in his posture. Not the wariness I expected, but a kind of determined resolve. He hadn't spoken to me since the night I'd confessed about the Ex-List. Four days of silence that felt like a lifetime.
The front door opened, and he walked in, taking in the chaos with those observant brown eyes. Several people looked up like they were hoping he’d know exactly what to do next. Trace Quade had a reputation for fixing things, for making problems disappear with quiet competence and skilled hands.
"I came to find you," he said, his gaze locking onto mine as he crossed the crowded lobby. "To apologize. To tell you that I've been an idiot and I'm sorry I walked out." He paused, taking in the frantic activity around us. "We need to talk. But first, what can I do to help?"
Mimi rushed over to him like he was her personal savior. “Trace, thank god you’re here. We need to know if we can salvage anything from this disaster. The bride isn't coming back, but we have all this setup and?—"
"Where do you want me to start?" he asked, but he was looking at me, not her.
Tears blurred my vision. After everything I'd done, after the way I'd lied to him and broken his trust, he'd come here to apologize to me. And now he was offering to help save a day that was spiraling out of control.
"The outdoor site," I managed. "Maybe we can help them figure out what can be salvaged."
He nodded and headed outside, Mimi trailing after him with increasingly frantic questions about what could be repurposed or returned.
I watched through the window as he surveyed the pergola, the rows of chairs still edged with morning frost, and the mountain vista that should have been the perfect backdrop for a fairy-tale wedding that would never happen.
Within an hour, he'd transformed the chaos into something organized. He helped vendors pack efficiently, coordinated with the photographer to get final shots of the setup, and somehow managed to make everyone feel like their work hadn't been completely wasted.
"He's good," the photographer murmured, appearing at my side as I watched Trace work. "You're lucky to have him."
I did have him once, but he wasn’t mine anymore. I’d ruined that all by myself.
By three, most of the vendors had cleared out, taking their supplies and cutting their losses. The elaborate cake sat in Marla's walk-in cooler, flowers filled every available vase in the Inn, and the string quartet was packing up their instruments with resigned professionalism.
I found myself with a moment of quiet, standing in the kitchen as I helped pack up the groom’s cake. My hands were shaking from exhaustion, from stress, and from the knowledge that Trace was only a few hundred yards away and we still hadn't really talked.
"How are you holding up?" His voice made me jump.
I turned to find him standing in the kitchen doorway, his flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows, sawdust in his hair from helping dismantle equipment. He looked tired but solid, like the kind of man who could anchor anyone in a storm.
"I'm fine," I said automatically, then shook my head. "No, I'm not. I'm a mess. This whole day has been a disaster."
He stepped closer, his gaze searching my face. "Has it?"
I looked at him in confusion. "Trace, a celebrity wedding just imploded. The town lost out on national publicity. The Inn is going to take a financial hit, and?—"
