I leave her to her storytelling and head toward the kitchen, where the catering staff should be setting up for the morning's prep work. The commercial kitchen is one of the spaces that had needed the most work during the renovation, and Loganhad worked around the clock to get it functional. Instead of the organized prep work I'm hoping for, I find chaos.
Dolly is standing at the large center island, which looks like it was just installed yesterday because it probably was, stirring something that smells like rum and regret into what should be coffee for the party. Her flask sits open beside her, next to a collection of bottles that didn't come from the catering supplies.
The catering manager, a harried-looking woman in her fifties, catches my eye from across the gleaming new kitchen and mouths "help me" with the desperation of someone who's been dealing with drunk guests since before dawn in a space that still smells faintly of sawdust and fresh paint.
"Dolly," I say gently, moving closer and trying to figure out how to extract the flask without causing a scene. "Maybe we should save the celebrations for later? You know, when the sun's actually up?"
"Oh, honey," Dolly laughs, patting my cheek with a hand that smells like vanilla extract and poor decisions. "You're so serious! Emma's getting married today in this gorgeous place that those boys built from scratch! This is a day for joy and celebration and..." She sways slightly, catching herself against the counter. "And maybe just a tiny bit of liquid encouragement."
I manage to convince Dolly to switch to actual coffee with only a minimal amount of rum and make my way toward the stairs, hoping to find Emma in a state of blissful pre-ceremony calm.
The staircase that leads to the second floor is one of Logan's emergency masterpieces. Reclaimed wood that he'd somehow sourced and installed in record time, with a wrought-iron banister that curves gracefully up to the landing. His attention to detail is everywhere, from the way each step is level to the smooth finish that shows off the wood's natural grain, all accomplished in a few weeks that should have been impossible.
I pause on the landing, listening to the sounds coming from behind the closed door of what had once been a storage room and was now the bridal suite. There's music playing, something soft and romantic that should be soothing. Instead, it's punctuated by what sounds like someone crying, another voice raised in panic, and the occasional crash of something falling over.
I knock softly on the door that still has the faint smell of fresh wood stain. "Emma? It's Savannah."
"Thank God!" Her muffed voice comes through the door, tight with stress and what might be the beginning of hysteria. "Get in here. The world is falling apart!"
I push open the door and step into what looks like the aftermath of a very expensive explosion. The bridal suite had been Xavier's last-minute inspiration, carved out of what used to be storage space and transformed with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the ski slopes. Right now, it looks like a high-end consignment shop hit by a hurricane.
Dresses hang from every available surface, draped over the hastily installed chair rail and the makeshift vanity that Griff had somehow procured. Not just Emma's, but what appears to be three backup options and several bridesmaid dresses in various states of alteration. Makeup is scattered across the temporary vanity table like the aftermath of a cosmetics store robbery. Shoes are everywhere, from delicate heels to comfortable flats to what appears to be a pair of hiking boots that someone brought "just in case we needed to evacuate down the slope."
In the center of it all stands Chloe Brooks, Emma's twenty-two-year-old sister and maid of honor number two. She's wearing what should be a gorgeous dusty rose bridesmaid dress, but she's staring at herself in the full-length mirror that had been installed just yesterday, with the expression of someone who's just been told her dog died.
Chloe is stunning. The kind of stunning that belongs in magazines, with Emma's same dark hair and delicate features. Right now, though, she looks like she's on the verge of a breakdown.
"I can't wear this," she wails, turning to present her back to me while gesturing toward the windows that showcase the vista. "Look at how it sits across my shoulders! And the color makes me look like a corpse against all this nature! The photos are going to be ruined. My Instagram followers will think I've given up on life!"
I look at the put-together twenty-two-year-old who could walk off a magazine cover and wonder if there's something in the air that makes everyone lose their minds during ceremony season.
"Chloe, you look absolutely stunning..."
"I look like a reject from a funeral home!" She spins around, her omega scent spiking with genuine distress. The sweet, floral fragrance that usually surrounds her is sharp now, acidic with anxiety. "And my hair won't hold the curl at this altitude, and my fake eyelashes are crooked, and I'm breaking out in hives from all the construction dust that's probably still floating around!"
She's not breaking out in hives. Her hair looks great. Her eyelashes are fine. But she's spiraling, and I can see the panic building in her eyes as she stares out at the landscape through the pristine windows.
"Where's Emma?" I ask, looking around the chaotic suite for any sign of the bride.
"Still in the bathroom." Chloe's voice drops to a whisper, as if she's sharing state secrets. "She's been in there for over an hour. She's having a panic attack. She keeps making these weird breathing noises, and every time I ask if she's okay, she just says she's fine, but she doesn't sound fine at all."
I can hear it now that I'm listening. The soft sound of someone breathing into what might be a paper bag, punctuated by the occasional muffled sob.
I knock on the bathroom door. "Emma? It's Savannah. Is anything okay in there?"
"Fine!" comes the muffled reply, followed by what sounds suspiciously like someone hyperventilating. "Just... you know... breathing! Totally normal pre-ceremony breathing!"
"I'm coming in."
The bathroom is gorgeously appointed, another impossible feat Logan had pulled off during the renovation. Subway tiles and a clawfoot tub that he'd somehow managed to get up the slope and installed in record time. Right now, Emma is sitting on the floor beside it, still in her silk robe with her dark hair in curlers, clutching a paper bag to her mouth while tears stream down her carefully applied foundation.
Emma Rodriguez-to-be-McKenzie-Morrison-Williams is normally the picture of composed elegance. She's a kindergarten teacher with infinite patience, a woman who can handle twenty-five five-year-olds without breaking a sweat. Seeing her hunched on the bathroom floor, shaking and crying, is like seeing a solid rock crumble.
"Hey," I say softly, sitting down beside her on the cold tile. The floor is heated, another one of Logan's impossible touches that he'd somehow managed to install, and I can feel the warmth seeping through my dress. "What's going on?"
"I can't do this," she gasps between breaths, the paper bag crinkling with each inhale. "There are too many people. Scents. Kai’s been prowling around all morning like he's about to challenge someone to a fight, and Jess won't stop crying about being the only unmated omega at the ceremony, and her anxiety is making everyone else anxious, and the florist just called to sayhalf the bouquets froze in their truck on the road, and what if the whole building falls down because they built it too fast, and..."
"Emma. Breathe." I put my hand on her back and rub gentle circles, the way my mother used to do when I was upset. "It's going to be okay. I promise. The building isn't going to fall down. Xavier would never let that happen."
