After I hang up, Xavier and Griff are both staring at me with identical expressions of determination mixed with that protective alpha instinct that kicks in whenever our omega is stressed.
"Programs first," I announce, because action is better than standing around having feelings about the fact that Savannah just called me for help.
"I'll handle pickup and delivery," I say, because driving gives me something to do with my hands and keeps me from thinking too hard about the way Savannah said my name. "Xavier, can you deal with the photographer situation?"
Xavier nods, already pulling up contacts on his phone. "Stuart Morrison, right? I went to school with his brother. I'll coordinate with him about alternate routes up the mountain and maybe see if we can arrange for someone to escort him if the roads are tricky."
My phone buzzes with another text.
Emma: Also, can someone please relocate the musicians without causing a diplomatic incident? They're lovely people but apparently can't read setup instructions.
"Musicians," I announce, showing them the text.
"I'll handle that," Griff says. “They’re just like contractors. You have to speak their language and make them think moving was their idea all along."
We're operating like the pack we are now, dividing responsibilities and covering each other's weaknesses. It feels right in a way that makes my chest warm, because this is exactly what we're supposed to be doing. Taking care of our omega, supporting each other, making sure the people we love don't have to carry everything alone.
I'm halfway to town when my phone rings again. This time it's Xavier.
"Photographer situation handled," he reports. "Stuart's already on his way. I arranged for Jake Thompson to meet him at the base of the mountain with chains for his tires and local knowledge of which routes are actually passable. He'll be at the venue within the hour."
"What about the car blocking the catering truck?"
"Already on it. Called the venue, talked to Ted. Apparently it's his girlfriend's car and she's too hungover to move it herself. I convinced him that being the hero who saves catering is exactly the kind of thing that impresses girls."
Sometimes I forget how fucking smart Xavier is at reading people and figuring out exactly what motivates them.
At the copy shop, Melissa greets me with the kind of efficiency that makes me remember why Griff keeps a mental database of useful people to call in emergencies. She's got the programs laid out for approval, perfectly formatted and printed on paper that looks way more expensive than it probably was.
"Griff said this was for Emma's wedding," she says, carefully stacking the finished programs into neat boxes. "That girl taught my daughter in kindergarten. Sweet as pie and patient as a saint. No charge for the rush job."
I try to pay her anyway, but she waves me off with the kind of stubborn determination that tells me arguing will just waste time I don't have.
"Tell Griff he still owes me dinner though," she adds with a grin that makes me wonder exactly what kind of favor he helped her with.
On the drive back up the mountain, I get a call from Griff.
"Musician situation sorted," he announces with the satisfaction of someone who's just pulled off a minor miracle. "Turns out they were confused because someone gave them an old copy of the setup instructions from before we changed the layout. I explained the new plan, helped them move their equipment, and they're now perfectly positioned for cocktail hour. Also, they think the venue is gorgeous and want to book it for a recording session next month."
"Because of course they do," I mutter, but I'm grinning despite myself. Griff could probably convince people to pay him for the privilege of solving their problems.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Emma : Catering truck freed, photographer arrived and is setting up, musicians relocated successfully. You guys are miracle workers. But now Savannah's freaking out about some florist crisis?
I immediately call Xavier, because if anyone can figure out emergency flower solutions, it's the guy who spends his days convincing anxious patients that everything's going to be okay.
"Already on it," he says before I can even explain. "Called my cousin Maria who runs the flower shop in Millbrook. She's loading up every white and blush arrangement she has in stock and driving them up herself. Should be there in forty minutes."
"What about the frozen ones?"
"I talked to the original florist. He's bringing what survived the trip for the ceremony arrangements, and Maria's covering cocktail hour and reception centerpieces. It'll actually look better than the original plan because we'll have more variety."
Sometimes I think Xavier's superpower is making disasters sound like improvements.
When I get to the venue, the transformation is obvious. Cars are parked in neat rows instead of the chaotic disaster I left this morning. The catering truck is properly positioned, with staff efficiently unloading supplies. I can hear music drifting from the appropriate location, and through the windows I can see Stuart the photographer testing lighting angles with the kind of focused concentration that means he's in his element.
I find Griff in the main hall, charming a group of early-arriving relatives while simultaneously coordinating with the catering manager about table placement. He looks completely inhis element, juggling multiple conversations while making sure everyone feels heard and important.
