She weaves away, and I turn to Sage."Thank you."
"You looked terrified."She's definitely laughing now."Big bad tech CEO, brought down by a tipsy mother-of-the-groom."
"She kept trying to dip me."
"I noticed."She glances around, then lowers her voice."Your team's doing great, by the way.Very stealthy."
"We're professionals."
"Professional wedding crashers, maybe."She straightens my bow tie, which has gone askew during the dance."You know, you're not bad at this whole pretending-to-be-human thing."
"I am human."
"Jury's still out."But she's smiling as she says it."Come on, Boss Man.Let's get you some lasagna before the real guests eat it all."
She takes my hand—casually, like it doesn't set off a series of warning bells in my head—and leads me toward the buffet.
I tell myself this is still professional.That the flutter in my chest is just indigestion.
That the way she called me 'boss' with that particular smile doesn't mean anything.
But as she hands me a plate and starts explaining the proper lasagna-to-garlic-bread ratio, I have the sinking feeling that I'm in trouble.
The kind of trouble that has nothing to do with security systems and everything to do with a woman who thinks goats make appropriate ring bearers.
No, I tell myself firmly.
This is business.Just business.
Even if she does look exceptionally good in that dress.
Even if she did save me from Mrs.Johnson.
Even if she keeps calling me 'boss' in a way that makes me want to be very unprofessional indeed.
Business, I repeat silently, like a mantra.
Just business.
9
WEDDING CRASHERS 2.0
SAGE
It’s Wednesday night—four days after the Johnson wedding turned my inn into a tech installation circus, and the Cascade View Inn is humming with the kind of quiet comfort that only comes when the guests are tucked in.
The tea lights are flickering low, and the faint smell of cinnamon scones still lingers in the air.
Outside, the autumn Pacific Northwestern wind rustles the porch leaves in gentle intervals.
Inside, the front desk lamp casts a warm amber glow over the antique check-in ledger, mismatched teacups, and the sleepy goat currently curled in a fleece-lined dog bed behind me.
It’s idyllic.
It’s perfect.
It’s mine.
