Her mouth twitched but didn’t quite form a smile. “Marla wants the ceremony site checked for structural stability. Apparently, the wedding planner had a dream about a collapsing pergola.”
“Sounds like a real visionary.”
“She’s also asking if the porch railing will be replaced before noon.”
I arched a brow. “I’ll make sure it’s done. Are they serious about getting married outside? We both know the weather isn’t going to hold.”
“I’ve already got a dozen heat lamps on order. Ridge said we could use the ones he has out on the patio of the Knotty Tap and Marla has a few. Everyone will be more likely to roast than freeze once we get them all going.” She cocked her head and offered a tiny grin. “There’s no use trying to talk Mimi out of her vision. Believe me, I’ve already tried.”
“Okay, then. An outdoor fall wedding in Montana. Sign me up.”
Sabrina gave a small nod, then turned and disappeared through the lobby door. Her scent lingered, a mix of coffee and vanilla. Reminded me of the cold winter nights we’d spent sharing a blanket on the couch in her parents’ basement while we watched horror movies. She’d bury her face in my shoulder until I told her it was safe to look at the screen again. I missed those days.
She was the same Sabrina… smart, focused, and too damn stubborn for her own good. But everything between us was colder than the air, brittle in a way that didn’t bend anymore. I didn’t know how the hell to fix it.
The morning passed in a blur of sawdust and overthinking. I’d laid out the railing project methodically, cutting each board with precision, driving in screws with practiced ease. The work gave me something to do, but even the rhythm of it couldn’t shut out the sounds drifting from the Inn.
I caught fragments of conversations. Mentions of table settings, guest lists, and vendor calls. Sabrina’s voice was tight and efficient, confident in a way that made it seem like she belonged. And she did. She’d always had a way of managing chaos like it was an art form. I used to feel like she always saved a special space for me in the order she created. Now I just felt like an outsider looking in.
Around ten-thirty, I headed to the truck for more screws and almost ran into her at the bottom of the steps. She was carrying a bakery box and that damn clipboard again, her brow furrowed like she was single-handedly working out how to bring world peace.
“Careful.” She stepped to the side right before we collided. “You almost turned these pastries into plywood.”
“Maybe a little sawdust would make them taste better,” I teased. She had to know I was joking. Nothing tasted better than one of Sabrina’s homemade baked goods.
She raised an eyebrow. “Bold words from someone who used to beg me for cinnamon scones.”
“I still maintain those were bribery. Strategic breakfast negotiations.”
She held out the box. “Marla had me bring these over for the volunteers. Want one before they disappear?”
I took a scone and our fingers brushed. Maybe I did it on purpose. It wasn’t quite an accident, but not really a moment either. Still, the contact was enough to make my pulse skip.
“Thanks,” I said.
“You’re welcome.” She hesitated, then turned and walked back inside.
I stood there a few heartbeats longer, holding the warm pastry like it might bite me. Her offering me a scone wasn’t exactly a truce, but it wasn’t nothing either.
I took a bite. It was still warm. Still good. Still Sabrina.
By noon, the temperature had climbed just enough to make the frost retreat, but tension inside the Inn built like a storm coming in over the mountains.
Marla paced the front hallway, juggling a notebook and two ringing phones. I could hear her from the back porch. Every five minutes it was a new crisis involving linens, flowers, or questions about the rehearsal timeline.
Sabrina was a force of calm in the middle of it all. I watched her through the window looking in on the dining room. She had one hand on her headset, the other waving at a vendor who’d arrived too early for a meeting with Mimi. She moved like she was made for wrangling wedding planners with million-dollar clients. Cool, unflinching, in control.
Until she wasn’t.
She stopped right in front of the window and faced my Aunt Marla. “The podcaster wants an interview. He says he’s planning a whole segment on Hard Timber’s romantic unrest.”
I froze, mid-drill. Romantic unrest?
Marla shook her head and smiled. “He’s just trying to build hype. A little drama sells, sweetheart.”
“He wants a redemption story,” Mimi said, tapping her iPad. “Trace is the finale.”
Great. The guy wasn’t just back… he’d circled my name in red ink.
