He smiled. “I said fewer. Not none.”
As we worked, time slid forward almost unnoticed. The afternoon light faded into the early evening. Lamps were switched on. Candles were tested, extinguished, then relit at Kitty’s insistence because “ambiance matters.”
Guests began to arrive in clusters. Coats were shed. Voices rose. The room filled with the sound of anticipation. A few guests complimented the tree, the decorations, and the cozy feel of the inn. I smiled and thanked them, trying not to think about how much work had gone into making it feel effortless.
Then the wedding party arrived together, slightly overdressed and visibly nervous.
The bride was bright-eyed and calm, cheeks pink from the cold, hair pinned perfectly in place. She looked excited, happy in that open way that made you believe love could be simple if you had the right person.
The groom hovered near the doorway like he was unsure he was allowed inside.
“Is he supposed to look like that?” Braxton murmured.
I glanced over. The groom stood rigidly, hands clenched, eyes wide.
“He’s terrified,” I observed in surprise.
The bride appeared at his side, radiant and calm, slipping her arm through his.
“You are doing great,” she told him.
He nodded frantically. “I am? I’m doing great.”
Braxton leaned closer. “Do you think he’s okay?”
“No,” I agreed. “But he will be.”
Dinner service began smoothly enough. Plates moved from kitchen to table. The first clatter of silverware gave way to appreciative murmurs. The smell of warm food settled over the room, grounding everyone. People started talking like they had known each other for years, which was always the magic trick of weddings. You put people in a room with food and a shared purpose and suddenly they were laughing and happy.
I circulated briefly, checking in, smiling, answering questions that didn't require answers. Each time I looked back, Braxton was there, talking quietly with Dad or laughing with Lucy, sometimes helping a guest find their seat without making it feel like a correction.
Dad looked in his element, steady and calm, greeting guests with that quiet warmth that made people feel like they were welcome even if they had never met him before. Mom fluttered between tables, smoothing invisible wrinkles, praising the centerpiece arrangements, occasionally stopping to dab at her eyes as if the room itself was too touching.
Lydia held court near the end of one table, already halfway into a story about how she once caught mistletoe in her hair and didn't notice until someone asked her for a kiss.
“And that is why I don't trust greenery,” she concluded.
Across the room, James stood near the head table, voice just a shade louder than necessary, gesturing as he spoke. The camera crew hovered close, filming his reactions, his commentary, and his carefully curated presence.
“This is where technique really matters. The balance of flavors. The structure. The way the sauce should cling but not overwhelm,” James talked to the cameras.
I watched him for a moment and felt my shoulders tighten automatically. Even now, even with everything that had shifted, my body remembered how much space he took up.
Braxton noticed my glance and shifted slightly closer to me, not touching, just near enough that I felt it.
“You don’t have to deal with him tonight,” he murmured.
I exhaled slowly. “Thank you.”
Meri appeared beside James like a guardian spirit with excellent timing.
“James,” she said brightly, clipboard already raised. “We need you.”
James blinked. “For what.”
“For not being here,” Meri replied pleasantly. “The extra hired staff in the kitchen need your expert opinion.”
He frowned. “I do not—”
