“Six a.m.?” Multiple groans echo through the room.
“Six a.m.,” I repeat firmly. “The event starts at seven p.m., which means we need the full day for proper setup and troubleshooting. I’ve created a detailed timeline with built-in buffer periods for unexpected delays. Everyone will receive a color-coded packet with their specific responsibilities and check-in times.”
“Of course they will,” Maeve says with warm affection. “Because Tessa Lang doesn’t do anything halfway.”
There’s something in her tone—affection mixed with concern—that makes my chest tighten. I ignore it. Focus on the spreadsheet. The timeline. The budget projections. Things that make sense, that I can control.
“Packet distribution will happen two weeks before the event,” I continue. “That gives everyone ample time to review their assignments and flag any conflicts. I’ll also be available via text, email, or phone for questions twenty-four-seven?—”
“Tessa, honey.” Maeve’s voice gentles. “You need to sleep sometimes.”
“I sleep.”
“When?”
I don’t have a good answer for that. My apartment is right above my office. It’s efficient. And if I happen to work until two a.m. most nights because my brain won’t shut off, well, that’s just good time management.
“Can we stay on topic, please?” I tap my clipboard. “I have sixteen more items to cover, and we’re already four minutes behind schedule.”
Sheriff Liam Thorn speaks up from the back, arms crossed over his chest. He’s got the same steady presence as his younger brother Nate, though Liam’s is more authoritative. “What do you need from the department?”
Finally. Someone who understands efficiency.
“Crowd control, primarily,” I tell him. “Last year we had a minor bottleneck at the entrance during peak arrivals. I’ve redesigned the flow pattern to prevent that, but I’d like at least two deputies on site for traffic management and general safety.”
“I’ll make sure we’ve got coverage.” He nods once. “Nate’s on duty that night anyway.”
Deputy Nate Thorn. Quiet, competent, doesn’t complain about my detailed instructions. I’ve worked with him on events before. He’s good people.
“Perfect. Thank you, Sheriff.” I make a note. “Now, regarding the ticket sales?—”
My phone buzzes. Then buzzes again. And again.
I glance at the screen. Three texts from my venue coordinator at Pine Valley Lodge, the backup location I’d secured for a corporate retreat next month. The messages are in all caps, which is never good. PIPES BURST. FLOODING IN MAIN BALLROOM. NEED TO RESCHEDULE.
Oh, you have got to be kidding me.
“Is everything alright?” Elijah’s quiet voice cuts through my rising panic.
“Fine. Everything’s fine.” I’m already pulling up my calendar, mentally shuffling dates, calculating which vendors can be moved and which will charge cancellation fees. “Just a minor scheduling conflict that requires immediate attention.”
“You look pale,” Milo observes.
“I’m fine.” My fingers are flying across my phone screen, already pulling up backup venue options. “Just need to make a few calls and?—”
The room’s starting to lose focus. People are checking their own phones, having side conversations, eyeing the exit. I’m losing them, and I still have fourteen items to cover.
I take a breath. Okay. Damage control mode.
“Okay.” I set my phone face-down on the table with deliberate care. “I know everyone has places to be. Let’s table the detailed logistics for now. Bottom line: Valentine’s fundraiser, four weeks out, bachelor auction plus dancing and refreshments. I need volunteers for setup, decorating, and eight bachelors total. We have two confirmed.” I glance at Milo and Elijah. “Six more needed. Sign-up sheet is here on the table. Please add your name and contact information before you leave.”
I start packing up my materials with efficient movements—laptop in case, binder stacked on clipboard, pens clipped to the edge. My phone is buzzing non-stop now, the venue coordinator panicking, which means I need to panic-solve this before it becomes a real crisis.
“Tessa.” Maeve appears at my elbow with a small paper bag. “Take these.”
I glance inside. Chocolate chip cookies, still warm. “I don’t have time?—”
“Make time.” She presses the bag into my hands. “And for god’s sake, refill your suppressants. You’re starting to smell stressed.”
