"Ladies." I approach their table with what I hope is a friendly smile but probably looks more like a grimace. "How's everyone doing this morning?"
Beverly looks up from her binoculars like a general surveying a battlefield. "Savannah! Perfect timing. We've been conducting some reconnaissance."
Reconnaissance. Because that's not terrifying at all.
"Linda Sue has identified at least three unmated alphas who would be perfect for Jessica," Beverly continues with the seriousness of a war correspondent. "Carol Anne thinks theenergy between the florist's assistant and the photographer is absolutely divine, and Rose has been tracking scent compatibility patterns."
Scent compatibility patterns. They're literally analyzing pheromones like they're running some kind of romantic chemistry lab.
Rose clears her throat like she's about to drop a bomb. I escape before my name comes into the conversation, but I can feel their knowing looks burning into my back like laser beams of romantic speculation. I practically sprint toward the staircase, my heels clicking frantically against the polished floors.
I go back up the stairs, and just let it all out to the bride. I should keep it to myself, but she should be aware that her Christmas Eve wedding of the year is going to be far from perfect. My hands are shaking as I climb the stairs, and I can feel my scent shifting to that sharp, stressed omega frequency that makes everyone nervous.
I swing the doors open and blurt, "The programs don't exist, the florist's truck died somewhere on the highway, the bride is having what might be a complete nervous breakdown, the matchmaking committee is treating this wedding like their personal episode of The Bachelor, the teenagers are attempting to get drunk on stolen champagne, and the aunties are already drunk on God knows what. But it's totally fine! Because I'm handling everything! Like always! Because apparently I'm some kind of wedding crisis superhero, except instead of a cape, I have a tablet and crippling anxiety!" My chest is heaving, my hair is probably a disaster, and I'm pretty sure my mascara has migrated somewhere it shouldn't be.
Someone shuts the door behind me and I hear the soft click and realize I'm probably wild-eyed and breathing like I just ran a marathon. Emma smiles at me and says, "breathe." She reachesout and gently takes my tablet from my death grip, setting it aside like she's disarming a bomb.
Universe, I'm starting to think you have a twisted sense of humor. Drunk relatives, missing programs, snow that's arriving early, and a matchmaking committee with binoculars? Really? What's next - are you going to make the building collapse just to see if I can juggle crisis management and CPR at the same time?
30
LOGAN
After the rehearsal dinner last night, Savannah went back to stay with Emma at the lodge because of some bride tradition about not seeing each other until the wedding day. Which means the three of us spent the night pacing around our place like caged wolves, completely unable to settle without her there.
Turns out, after days of having Savannah back in our bed, sleeping without her feels like trying to breathe underwater. Griff tossed and turned all night before finally giving up and making coffee at four in the morning. Xavier reorganized his entire closet twice and then started alphabetizing the spice rack. And me? I rebuilt the fucking deck railing that was already perfect because I needed something to do with my hands.
The coffee tastes like shit this morning, but then again, everything tastes off when you're missing a piece of your pack. I stare at my reflection in the black surface of my mug and wonder how the hell we're supposed to function for an entire day without our omega when we can barely handle one night.
I’m shocked, because once again there are no takeout containers from last night, it’s as if Griff has learned to clean up after himself, not just one time but all the time now. Hissandalwood scent carries hints of sawdust and that particular brand of morning arrogance that means he's expecting someone else to deal with his mess while he swans off to build houses for people who actually pay him to give a damn.
Xavier's already at the stove making eggs. The man's perfectly dressed despite the early hour, his dark hair styled like he's heading to perform surgery instead of examining house pets with runny noses. His cool mint scent mixes with the expensive cologne he insists on wearing even when he's going to get covered in animal hair and antiseptic. Probably irons his fucking underwear too.
"You look like death warmed over," Xavier observes without turning around, because apparently his veterinary training includes diagnosing sleep-deprived alphas at fifty paces.
"Thanks for the pep talk, doc. Really feeling the pack solidarity this morning." I drain my coffee and immediately regret it when it tastes like burnt disappointment. "Next time Emma wants to follow some ridiculous tradition about not seeing the bride before the wedding, someone else can volunteer to sleep alone."
My phone buzzes with a text from her:
Emma: Logan, can you and the boys handle some logistics today? Savannah's drowning in crises and I need my wedding planner functional, not having a breakdown in the supply closet.
I show the text to Xavier and Griff, who immediately goes into what I call his "business mode" where he starts pacing around the kitchen as if planning world domination.
"What kind of crises are we talking about?" Griff asks, already reaching for his phone and probably making mental lists of people he can charm into solving impossible problems.
That's when my phone rings. Savannah's ringtone, the one I never changed because I'm apparently a masochistic bastard who enjoys emotional torture.
"Logan?" Her voice sounds frayed around the edges, like she's been chewing on broken glass all morning. "I know you're probably busy getting ready, but I need help and Emma said you guys might be able to handle some things because everything is going to hell and I'm about five minutes away from setting something on fire just to watch it burn."
The words tumble out so fast I can barely keep up, but I can hear the edge of panic underneath the professional competence she's trying to maintain. My chest does this protective thing it always does whenever she sounds upset, that need to fix whatever's hurting her.
"Slow down, babes. Whatever you need, we’ve got it!” The pet name slips out before I can stop it, and there's a pause on the other end that makes me want to crawl under a rock and die. "What do you need?"
She takes a shaky breath. "Programs. Rita was supposed to pick them up yesterday but got drunk instead. Photographer's running late because of the mountain roads. Musicians set up in the ceremony space instead of the cocktail area. Someone's car is blocking the catering truck. Half the bouquets froze to death in the florist's truck. And that's just the last hour."
I'm already grabbing my keys and boots, because when Savannah needs help, my brain bypasses everything else and goes straight into fix-it mode. That's what you do for your omega, for your pack. You show up.
"We've got it," I tell her, and I can hear the relief in her exhale. "Focus on keeping Emma from having a complete meltdown. Leave the logistics to us."
