Wedding Manner (The St. Jude’s Medical #3)

Chapter 1

The Spreadsheet Proposal

Max

Ihave prepared a folder.

It is colour-coded. It is laminated. It is titled Project Merger: A Minimal Viable Product.

Inside, I have outlined a perfectly efficient wedding strategy: A 10:00 appointment at City Hall, followed by a light brunch at a diner that serves adequate waffles, concluding with a return to work by 14:00. Total estimated cost: $150. Total estimated stress: Zero.

I place the folder on the mahogany table. I fold my hands on top of it.

"We want something small," I announce.

Next to me, Jax leans back in his chair, picking at a dinner roll with the same focus he uses to debride a wound. He looks dangerously relaxed for a man sitting in the blast radius.

"Microscopic," Jax agrees, popping a piece of bread into his mouth. "City Hall. Sign the papers. High-five the judge. I’m wearing jeans. The good ones. No blood stains."

Across the table, my mother stops blinking. She stares at us. It is the same look she gave the architect who told her she couldn't install a helipad on the greenhouse.

"Jeans," Catherine repeats. The word sounds like a slur.

"They’re designer, Catherine," Jax says, pointing a butter knife at her. "I paid sixty dollars for them. That’s high fashion in Queens."

My father, Alistair, clears his throat. The sound echoes like a gavel. He signals the butler to pour more prosecco. A lot more prosecco.

"Maxwell," Father says, his voice dangerously calm. "You are the Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery at St. Jude’s. You are the heir to the York Foundation. You cannot get married in denim at a government building between a parking ticket dispute and a notary public."

"It’s efficient, Father," I argue, tapping the folder. "It’s a contract. We don't need a spectacle. We need a tax break."

"It is not a spectacle!" Mother snaps, slamming her hand down on the table. "It is a statement! It is a dynastic alliance! The press release alone requires a six-month lead time!"

She reaches under the table. She pulls out a binder.

It is not a sensible folder like mine. It is a three-inch thick, leather-bound tome embossed with the family crest in gold leaf. She drops it on the table. It lands with a heavy thud that rattles the crystal stemware.

"Mother," I whisper, eyeing the binder with genuine terror. "What is that?"

"Is that the casualty log for a mass event?" Jax asks, leaning forward to inspect it. "Because that binder is thick enough to blunt trauma."

"This," Mother says, flipping it open to reveal architectural blueprints, fabric swatches, and a satellite photo of a small European country, "is the Plan. I have taken the liberty of putting a hold on the Cathedral."

"St. Patrick’s?" Jax asks.

"Notre Dame," she corrects.

I choke on my water. "In Paris? Mother, it had a fire!"

"I know," she says breezily. "I’ve offered to pay for the roof if they let us use the nave in June."

"I don't speak French, Catherine," Jax interjects. "I know how to order a beer and say 'hello'. That is not a good vibe for a wedding."

"It’s tight," Father admits, examining a blueprint for what looks like a structural reinforcement of a dance floor. "But if we fly the guests in on the private fleet, we can manage the logistics. I’ve already spoken to the Vatican about the choir."

"The Vatican?" Jax’s voice rises an octave. "Alistair, look at me. I’m a lapsed Catholic. Very lapsed. If I walk into a cathedral, the holy water is going to boil. It’s a safety hazard."

"The Pope is very flexible for the right donation," Father dismisses, waving a hand. "Now, about the carriage…"

"Carriage?" I repeat, feeling faint. "I drive a Volvo. It has a five-star safety rating."

"You will arrive in a gold-leaf barouche drawn by six white stallions," Mother declares. "And Jackson, you will not be wearing sixty-dollar jeans. You will be wearing a morning suit with tails. I have already commissioned Giovanni. He is flying in silk from Milan."

Jax looks at me. His eyes are wide, reflecting the sheer, unmitigated horror of our reality.

"Horses?" Jax whispers. "She wants me in a carriage? Max, do you know how many crush injuries I see from equestrian accidents? I am not arriving at my wedding in a nineteenth-century trauma statistic."

"And the guest list," Mother continues, flipping a page with lethal precision. "We kept it intimate. Just the immediate circle."

"How many?" I ask, dread pooling in my stomach.

"Twelve hundred," she says. "Give or take the diplomatic corps. And the Symphony Orchestra."

Jax drops his head onto the table with a soft thud.

"I don't even know twelve hundred people," Jax mumbles into the tablecloth. "I don't even like twelve people."

"It is not about liking them, Jackson," Mother says sharply. "It is about the brand. Which reminds me."

She flips to the final tab of the binder. She taps a piece of heavy, cream-coloured cardstock.

"I have sent the proofs to the stationer. ‘The Marriage of Dr. Maxwell York and Dr. Jackson York.’"

Jax freezes. He lifts his head slowly.

"Excuse me?" Jax says. "Jackson York? I didn't agree to change my name. I’m Dr. O’Connell. It’s on my board certification. It’s on my parking spot. It’s on my favourite mug."

Mother looks at him. Her expression is pitying, as if he has just asked if he can wear a clown nose to a funeral.

"You are marrying a York, Jackson," she says simply. "You are becoming a York. And now that you are officially part of the family, this is what you are going to have to do."

She leans forward, her eyes steel.

"We do not hyphenate. We absorb. You will be taking the name. Maxwell will certainly not be becoming an ‘O’Connell.’ We are securing a legacy, not acquiring a pub in Boston."

Jax gapes at her. He looks at me.

"Max?" Jax pleads. "You can’t be serious. I’m O’Connell. I’m the chaos element! You can’t sanitize me with a ‘York’!"

I look at my mother. I look at the binder. I look at the prosecco bottle.

"I fear for my life, Jax," I whisper.

"And as for entertainment, I regret to inform you that Elvis truly is dead dear," Mother says, closing the binder with a final snap. "But I did manage to book Elton John for the reception. He owes your father a favour from the 80s involving a yacht and some questionable investments."

She smiles. It is a terrifying, shark-like smile. It is the smile of a woman who has never heard the word 'no' in her life.

"Buckle up, boys. It’s going to be the event of the century."

I reach for the prosecco bottle. I don't bother with the glass. I am about to tip it directly into my mouth when a sound cuts through the brunch like a scalpel.

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.

It isn't a phone. It is the synchronized, shrill cry of two St. Jude’s pagers going off simultaneously.

Jax and I move before the sound has even finished registering. The shift is instantaneous. The "Ice King" and the “Trauma Cowboy” vanish, replaced by two attending surgeons.

"Code Blue," Jax says, unclipping the pager from his hip. "VIP Wing. Room 402. That’s Senator Hampton.”

"Go," I order, standing up. The static in my head vanishes, replaced by the crystal-clear clarity of a crisis. "Mother, brunch is adjourned."

We don't wait for a dismissal. We run.

The VIP wing of St. Jude’s is technically connected to the Foundation building where we were eating, but it feels like crossing from a museum into a war zone.

When we burst into Room 402, the scene is a mess.

The Senator is flatlining, the monitor screaming a singular, high-pitched tone that usually signals death.

Two junior residents are freezing, staring at the rhythm strip like it is a foreign language.

"Clear the way!" Jax roars, his voice dropping an octave into his command tone. He doesn't ask for permission; he takes over the room. "Compressions are garbage. Step aside."

He physically moves a resident out of the way and takes position over the Senator’s chest. The crack of ribs under his hands is sickening to anyone else, but to me, it is the sound of effective perfusion.

"I need a crash cart," I bark, moving to the head of the bed. "Airway is compromised. Get me a glidescope and two milligrams of epi. Now!"

The room snaps into focus. This is my language. No subtext. No Elton John. No horses. Just physiology and physics.

"Rhythm is V-Fib," Jax calls out, not breaking the rhythm of his compressions. "Charging to two hundred. Clear!"

I step back. The body jolts.

"No conversion," I say, eyes on the monitor. "Resume compressions. Push the epi. Give me three minutes on the clock."

For twenty minutes, we are a single organism.

Jax is the muscle, the engine keeping the blood moving.

I am the brain, calculating the drug interactions, the metabolic acidosis, the reversible causes.

We don't need to speak. I hold out a hand, and Jax slaps the correct instrument into it before I ask.

He anticipates my rhythm; I anticipate his fatigue.

"We have sinus rhythm," I announce finally, watching the jagged line on the monitor smooth out into a steady, albeit weak, beat. "BP is stabilizing. Good work, everyone. Get him to the ICU."

The adrenaline crashes as quickly as it came. I step back, stripping off my gloves. My hands are steady. My breathing is slow. The static is gone.

Jax leans against the crash cart, wiping sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his three-thousand-dollar suit. He looks at me, his eyes bright and wild, the pupils blown wide from the rush. He looks wrecked. He looks perfect.

"We’re good at this," Jax pants, pointing a finger between us. "Saving lives? We nail that. But that brunch? Max, that brunch was a lethal injection."

I look down at my wedding plan folder. It is bent, the colour-coded tabs crushed after being tossed aside during the resuscitation.

"Statistically," I say, my voice quiet in the sudden silence of the room. "The survival rate of this marriage drops by eighty percent if we return to that table."

Jax pushes off the cart. He walks over to me, invading my personal space in the only way I allow. He takes the folder from my hand and drops it into the biohazard bin.

"We’re leaving," Jax says, his voice leaving no room for argument. "I’m not becoming a York, and you’re not having a stroke before the appetizers."

I look at the biohazard bin where my colour-coded folder is currently resting on top of a bloody gauze pad. Then I look at Jax. For the first time all morning, the variables align.

"Get your phone," I say.

Jax blinks, wiping a smudge of ultrasound gel off his cuff. "What?"

"Check the departures," I tell him. "First flight out to Vegas. I don't care if it's economy. I don't care if we sit near the toilets. Just get us in the air."

Jax grins, and it’s the sharp, dangerous grin that made me fall in love with him in the first place. He pulls out his phone, his thumbs flying across the screen with the same dexterity he uses to suture arteries.

"JFK to Harry Reid International. Trans-Continental Airlines. Wheels up in ninety minutes," Jax announces. He pauses, his finger hovering over the Purchase button. "Two seats?"

I shake my head. "Four. We need witnesses. And I am not getting married without a psychiatric consult on standby."

I pull out my own phone and hit the speed dial for number two.

Preston answers on the first ring.

"Maxwell," my brother’s voice is calm, but I can hear the distinct sound of a suitcase zipper in the background. "I assume the brunch was a mass casualty event? I felt a disturbance in the force around the time Mother likely mentioned the white stallions."

"The binder has been deployed," I say, walking toward the door while Jax holds it open. "We are initiating the Vegas Protocol. Immediate extraction."

"Thank God," Preston breathes. "Luke is already packing the protein bars, you’re lucky he has today off. He says if he has to listen to Mother discuss 'floral architectural integrity' one more time, he’s going to sedate her."

"We are at the VIP wing," I say, checking my watch. "Jax is booking the tickets now. Meet us at the Ambulance Bay in five minutes. We're not taking the Volvo. We need speed."

"I’m taking the Porsche," Preston confirms. "Luke is bringing the glitter. We’re inbound."

I hang up. Jax holds up his phone, the screen flashing CONFIRMED.

"Four seats. Business Class," Jax says, shoving the phone into his pocket. "Because if I’m going to be a runaway groom, I’m doing it with legroom."

He grabs my hand. His grip is firm, grounding, a physical tether in the chaos.

"Let’s go," Jax says. "Before she realizes we’ve breached the perimeter."

We don't wait for a dismissal. We run.