Zach nodded at the screen. "Let me handle a replacement."
Eyebrows arching suspiciously, she gave him a once-over. "What do you mean 'handle a replacement'?"
"I mean," he said, casually flipping a plastic tab like it was no big deal, "I might know a guy. I'll check into it."
Her control freak instincts screamed, warning her not to give up the reins. But drowning with no floatie in sight, she found herself eyeing the life preserver he offered.
"A perk of awkwardly standing in the corner at my brothers’ weddings."
"You're serious?"
"Totally. And before you ask: I have zero idea on the glitter sitch. Not even the edible kind. But Babushka's back in town in a few days," he said casually, snapping to the next tab with authority.
"Oh good. That's what I need. Actual fire," Piper groaned. The sparks flying anytime he was around? Already a hazard.
"She's probably not going to light actual fires," he said with a smirk. "But she is definitely going to get involved. Trust me, she has an uncontaminated edible glitter supplier."
"And how do you know that?"
"She has one of everything. Sometimes two." Zach hesitated, then added more quietly. "I don't know where she buys edible glitter, but she gets it."
"That would be great," Piper said, meaning it.
"I'm the youngest of four and I don't always feel like I'm heard. But Babushka is the one who always listens. I listen back, and that's how I know some of her tricks."
Fingers hovering over the keyboard, Piper froze. All the humming background noise settled like dust in the room.
"My mom's a professional at not listening," she murmured, more to the blinking cursor than to him. "You get really good at planning things when it's the only way to make someone hear you."
They worked in tandem for the next half hour, his presence an emotional Xanax cutting the overwhelming down to only... whelming. Somewhere during the spreadsheet-loading saga, their chairs drifted closer. Close enough that if she wanted to count his eyelashes—hypothetically—she could.
"You're kind of a genius when you're spiraling," he said smoothly. "I mean that as a compliment."
"Thanks," she replied automatically.
Honestly, though, why was that like the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her?
A sharp ping from her laptop set off a reflexive flinch.
New email from: Tess
Subject: Urgent: New Scheduling Conflict
Move the wedding to 3 p.m. instead of 6. Broadcast window shifted. Security staffing better at 3pm. Golden-hour portraits still possible with a first look.
Greaaat.
She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Zach?" she asked, closing her laptop with the delicacy of someone resisting the urge to throw it against the wall. "I'm definitely cursed."
He chuckled like she'd made a joke.
And okay, maybe it sounded like one.
But for Piper? She swallowed hard and tucked that same strand of hair again.
This wasn't a punchline.
