"Savannah!"
There's something off about his usual controlled vibe, something that makes my stress-fried brain finally perk up. He's in his good jeans, the ones that probably should come with a warning label, instead of his usual work clothes.
Behind him, Griff appears in the doorway like an overgrown golden retriever who just found the park for the first time. Paint-splattered boots that have survived more job sites than any safety manual, jeans barely holding on by willpower and maybe a prayer, and a flannel shirt so broken-in it could be a security blanket. He's practically buzzing with energy, shifting on his feet like he's about to explode if he doesn't spill whatever news he's got.
Xavier brings up the rear, still in his hospital scrubs but moving with a purpose that says whatever they've been up to actually worked. His usually perfect posture is a bit looser, and his minty cologne carries hints of satisfaction and something like excitement. His hair is even a little messy, which for Xavier is basically a scandal.
They all move toward the dining room table, looking like they've either cured world hunger or cracked time travel, which given our current disaster of a venue hunt would be a hell of a help.
"We found a venue!" Logan announces, entering the room with three quick strides that eat up the distance between the doorway and my disaster zone with the efficiency of someone who's used to moving fast when lives are on the line.
I blink. Once. Twice.
"Found a venue how?" I ask carefully, because in my experience, when three alphas look this pleased withthemselves, someone's about to suggest something that involves either heavy machinery, potential property damage, or both. "Because I've called every available space in a fifty-mile radius, and unless you've discovered a magical venue fairy who grants wishes to desperate wedding planners, I'm not sure how this is mathematically possible."
Griff moves around the table, stepping over scattered contracts with the careful precision of someone navigating a minefield of important documents and caffeine-stained surfaces. "Come on," he says, reaching for my hand with fingers that are definitely cleaner than usual, which suggests he actually washed up before coming to deliver whatever news has them all grinning like maniacs. "Living room. We need to explain this properly. I can't think with all this mess."
Is he for real now?
"What?" I ask, but I'm already standing up and letting him guide me away from my organized chaos, partly because I'm curious, and his hand is warm and slightly callused and the contact is the first reassuring thing that's happened to me all day. "And why do you all look like you've just solved world hunger?"
"Because we've solved part of it for the wedding, so everyone can eat and attend," Xavier says, following us toward the living room with the measured steps of someone who's trying very hard to contain his excitement and mostly failing. His usual clinical precision has given way to something that looks suspiciously like barely restrained joy.
They guide me to the living room like I'm some kind of invalid who can't be trusted to walk without supervision, which honestly might not be wrong considering my current mental state and the amount of caffeine currently coursing through my system. The living room feels like a sanctuary compared to the disaster zone I've created in the dining room, all comfortablefurniture and warm lighting that doesn't include spreadsheets or color-coded organizational systems.
Logan settles onto the couch beside me, close enough that I can smell his cedar and smoke scent mixed with something that might be satisfaction and definitely includes traces of whatever cologne he wears that makes my brain go temporarily offline. Griff claims the armchair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees like he's about to deliver the most important news of his life and can barely contain himself long enough to get the words out. Xavier takes his usual spot in the other chair, but instead of his normal perfect posture, he's practically bouncing with nervous energy.
"The Snowpeak Resort," Xavier says, adjusting his glasses with precise movements that somehow manage to look excited instead of clinical.
I stare at him for a long moment, waiting for the punchline that surely has to be coming.
"The abandoned ski resort," I say slowly, just to make sure we're talking about the same nightmare property I'm thinking of.
"That's the one," Griff says cheerfully, like we're discussing a charming bed and breakfast instead of a structure that probably violates several international building codes and possibly a few laws of physics.
"The place that looks like the setting for a horror movie about people who make poor real estate decisions," I continue, because apparently I need to spell out the obvious problems with this plan. "The building that's been condemned longer than some people have been alive and probably needs an exorcism along with basic utilities."
"Technically, it's not condemned," Xavier corrects with the satisfaction of someone who's done his research and found a technicality that makes his impossible plan slightly lessimpossible. "It's just been closed due to bankruptcy proceedings. The structure is actually sound according to the last inspection reports, which I may have spent some time reviewing this afternoon."
"The building that doesn't have power," I say.
"We can fix that," Griff says with the confidence of someone who's never met an electrical problem he couldn't solve with enough determination and the right tools. "Temporary electrical service, basic lighting, enough power to run essential equipment."
"Or running water," I add, because someone needs to acknowledge all the ways this plan could go horribly wrong.
"Also fixable," Logan chimes in, stretching his arm across the back of the couch in a gesture that's probably meant to be reassuring but mostly just draws my attention to the way his flannel shirt stretches across his shoulders in ways that are definitely not helping my ability to think clearly about venue logistics.
"Or windows that aren't held together with duct tape and prayer."
"You're being dramatic," Griff says, though he's grinning as he says it like my reasonable concerns about basic structural integrity are somehow amusing. "Some of those windows are held together with caulk."
"Oh, well, caulk. That changes everything. Clearly this is a completely reasonable solution to our venue crisis." I lean back against the couch cushions, trying to process the magnitude of what they're suggesting. "Let me get this straight. You want to renovate a building that's been abandoned for eight years into a functional wedding venue. In seven weeks."
“Six weeks, actually," Griff corrects with the enthusiasm of someone who's clearly never watched a home renovation show where everything goes wrong in spectacular and expensiveways. "We need around ten days for decorating and final preparations."
Just under two months. They want to turn a building that currently qualifies as a public health hazard into a venue suitable for almost a thousand people.
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees and rubbing my temples where a headache is starting to form like a tiny construction crew of pain is setting up shop behind my eyeballs. "Are you having a collective breakdown? Because this sounds like the kind of plan people come up with when they've been breathing too much construction dust and have lost touch with the basic laws of reality."
