"But what if it's not? What if this is a mistake? What if I'm not ready? What if something goes wrong? What if the whole renovation was cursed from the start? What if..."
"What if you marry the three men you're crazy about and live happily ever after in the most gorgeous venue in the area?" I interrupt gently.
She looks at me with wide, tear-filled brown eyes. Her mascara has left dark tracks down her cheeks, and her hair is coming loose from its curlers, but she's still radiant, even in her panic.
"You really think so?"
"I know so." I reach for a washcloth and dampen it with warm water, carefully cleaning the mascara tracks from her face. "But first, we need to get you out of this bathroom and into your dress. Your pack is probably going crazy not being able to check on you, and they're probably worried about whether all their construction work was worth it."
She nods and lets me help her to her feet. "Okay. You're right. I can do this."
"You can do this. But first, we need to deal with the chaos outside."
By the time we get Emma cleaned up and back into the main suite, my tablet is buzzing with a steady stream of crisis alerts. The photographer is running late because of the roads. The musicians have set up in the wrong location. Someone's car is blocking the catering truck at the base of the drive. The list goes on and on.
"I need to go handle some things," I tell Emma, who's now sitting at the vanity while Chloe works on her hair with the focused intensity of someone trying to create perfection. "But I want you to focus on getting ready and thinking happy thoughts about how amazing this place turned out. That's your only job today, okay?"
"What about the rest?"
"Leave the rest to me,” I smile.
Really, universe? You couldn't let me fit into my dress AND handle the wedding disasters? Had to make me choose between looking decent and actually being able to zip up my outfit? What's next - are you going to make my backup dress spontaneously combust just for fun?
29
SAVANNAH
Inearly tumble down the reclaimed oak staircase like a human avalanche, clutching my tablet like it's the last lifeline on the Titanic. Which, considering the way this morning is going, might actually be an accurate comparison. My heels are basically tap dancing morse code for "SOS" against Logan's perfectly refinished floors.
The first thing I spot makes my stomach drop faster than my credit score after a Target run. Tyler Brooks, Emma's seventeen-year-old cousin, is circling the refreshment table like a shark who's smelled blood. Except instead of blood, it's champagne. Sweet baby Jesus, not today.
Tyler is that special brand of teenage beta boy who thinks he's God's gift to womankind. You know the type. Hair that screams "I woke up like this" but probably took two hours and half a bottle of product to achieve. The kind of cocky confidence that only exists when you've never had your heart stomped on by three alphas who apparently thought collecting pieces of your soul was a fun hobby.
Focus, Savannah! You have a job to do.
Outside the massive windows, snow is starting to dust the pine trees like the mountain is getting ready for its close-up.The weather wasn't supposed to turn until tonight, but Mother Nature apparently didn't get the memo about my carefully planned timeline. Typical.
Tyler's trying to impress Madison Park, the sheriff's daughter, who looks like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth but has the kind of glint in her blue eyes that says she's probably started at least three small fires just for fun. She's giggling while Tyler waves around what looks like the world's most obvious fake ID. I've seen more convincing identification on cereal boxes.
"Tyler Brooks!" I bark, and both kids jump like they've been caught setting something on fire. Which, knowing teenagers, they probably have. "Put that champagne down before I call your mother and tell her you're trying to get drunk at your cousin's wedding!"
Tyler nearly drops the bottle, and I watch his whole cool guy act crumble faster than my attempt at being a chocolatier. "Come on, Savannah, it's a wedding! Everyone drinks at weddings!"
"Everyone over twenty-one drinks at weddings, genius. You're seventeen, which means your liver is still basically a toddler and your mother will literally skin me alive if I let you pickle it on my watch."
That's when Jake Thompson makes his grand entrance, stomping snow off his boots like he's auditioning for a lumberjack calendar. "Hey, Savannah! Great venue. Really... classy."
The way he says "classy" with all the subtlety of a foghorn makes my omega senses tingle. "Jake Thompson, what did you do?"
His face turns red enough to guide Santa's sleigh. "Okay, fine! Tyler dared me to grab a few beers, but we weren't going to drink them all! Just... you know... quality control."
"Here's what's going to happen," I announce, channeling every ounce of authority I've learned from three years of substitute teaching and eight years of managing wedding disasters. I point toward the parking lot with my tablet like it's a weapon. "Jake, you're returning that beer to whatever car you stole it from. Tyler, you're helping the catering staff. Madison, you're checking flower arrangements. And all three of you are staying away from anything stronger than sparkling apple juice until after the ceremony, or I'm calling all your parents and telling them you tried to turn Emma's wedding into a frat party."
They scatter like roaches when the lights come on, leaving me feeling like I just won a small war through sheer force of omega stubbornness.
That's when I spot the next crisis brewing, and I swear my stress levels spike so high they probably register on seismic equipment in three neighboring counties.
The Matchmaking Committee has set up what can only be described as a romantic CIA operation. Beverly Hartwell, who runs the bakery and apparently moonlights as Pine Hollow's answer to Cupid, has positioned herself with a clear view of everything. And she has binoculars. Actual binoculars. Like she's bird watching, except the birds are unmated people and she's searching for love connections.
