Chapter Six | Gus
Chapter Six
Gus
Friday morning hit like a freight train to the skull.
By six AM, three prep stations ran simultaneously—Jake and Molly, my assistants from town, handling vegetables and proteins while I built the wedding cake that would either make or break tomorrow's reception.
Genoise sponge layers cooled on racks. Italian meringue buttercream stabilized in the mixer.
Fondant rested under damp towels, temperamental as hell and requiring split-second timing between stages.
The kitchen hummed. Knife work. Timers beeping. The steady whisk-against-metal rhythm that meant Jake hadn't yet figured out how to make meringue without bicep strain.
Through the window, Sam crossed the garden like a general commanding troops. Clipboard in hand, directing the rental company crew, conferring with the lighting crew, her mouth set in that determined line I'd come to recognize.
"Chef, the duck needs to come out," Jake called.
I pulled the pan from the oven, the skin crackling and golden.
Perfect. I'd been planning this rehearsal dinner menu for days—wanted it to showcase what Montana autumn could offer.
Duck breast with huckleberry reduction, roasted fingerling potatoes with fresh rosemary, Brussels sprouts with bacon and balsamic.
For dessert, individual apple tarts with cinnamon ice cream.
The kind of food that made people remember why they fell in love with eating.
My phone buzzed. Sam's name lit up the screen.
Still breathing?
I smiled despite myself, wiped my hands on my apron, typed back: Barely. You?
The rental company delivered ivory chair covers instead of burgundy. Currently sourcing replacements. Send coffee.
Already brewing. Come to the back door in 5.
Five minutes later, she appeared at the kitchen's side entrance, frazzled and gorgeous. She'd pulled her hair into a messy bun, and her cream-colored sweater had a smudge of something—dirt, maybe—near the hem.
I handed her a travel mug of coffee and a plate covered with a cloth napkin.
"What's this?" She peeked under the napkin, her expression softening. "Gus..."
"Breakfast frittata with aged cheddar and chives. You need actual food, not just caffeine."
"I was going to grab a granola bar—"
"Eat the frittata, Sam."
She took a bite, closed her eyes. Made that soft sound in her throat that went straight to my groin. I'd been hearing that sound in my head for two days now, imagining other ways I could draw it from her.
"God, you're good at this," she murmured.
You have no idea how good I could be. I kept the thought to myself, settling for: "Just doing my job."
"No." She opened her eyes, held my gaze. "You've been taking care of me since I got here. Making sure I eat. That's not in your job description."
My throat went dry. "Neither is you planning to keep the TV crew out of my kitchen all day."
"Diana wants footage of everything. Someone has to protect your space."
"We're protecting each other." I stepped closer. Her pupils dilated.
"Yeah." Her voice dropped. "We are."
We stood in the doorway, October cold at our backs, kitchen heat at our fronts.
Her mouth parted slightly—the same way it had when she'd tasted my soup that first night, when she'd bitten into the apple donut at Hartley's.
Every damn time she did that, I had to remind myself not to close the distance and kiss her.
"Chef?" Molly's voice broke through. "The buttercream's ready."
Sam stepped back, breaking the spell. "I should—the rental company is waiting for my approval on the replacement chair covers."
"Go. But eat the rest of that frittata."
"Bossy." But she smiled, already walking away, the plate balanced in one hand.
I studied her until she disappeared around the corner of the inn, then returned to my kitchen.
The morning bled into afternoon. Lunch service for the wedding party—a light spread of artisanal sandwiches, autumn salads, and fresh bread—went off without incident, though I noticed Raven barely touched her food.
Stormi picked at hers, eyes red-rimmed. Blaze had bloody marys with his sandwich.
Jett kept checking his phone and grinning.
By three-thirty, I had the rehearsal dinner mostly prepped. Just needed to sear the duck and plate when the time came. Jake and Molly had everything else under control.
I stepped out back for air, found Sam directing the final touches on the ceremony setup.
White pumpkins lined the aisle leading to the gazebo.
Corn stalks wrapped in orange ribbon framed the space.
The autumn leaves we'd collected at the orchard had been woven into the arrangements, adding that pop of vivid color Raven had demanded.
It was magazine-spread perfect. Sam had made magic happen.
She glanced up, caught me staring. Crossed to where I stood.
"Looks good," I said.
"It does, doesn't it?" Pride flickered in her expression before anxiety chased it away. "Now we just need the rehearsal to go smoothly."
I checked my watch. Three forty-five. "Starts at four, right?"
"If I can get everyone assembled on time." She sighed. "Raven's been in her room for the past hour doing her makeup. Blaze is—I don't even know where Blaze is. Probably drinking. And Stormi..." She trailed off, worry creasing her forehead.
"What about Stormi?"
"She's been crying all day. Won't tell me why, just keeps saying she's fine."
"Pre-wedding emotions?"
"Maybe." But she didn't sound convinced. "I should go round everyone up."
I caught her hand as she turned to leave. Her fingers were cold, trembling slightly. "Hey. Breathe. You've survived Raven's demands, Blaze's drinking, and a corn maze disaster. A rehearsal is nothing."
"Easy for you to say. You get to hide in the kitchen." But she squeezed my hand, held on.
"My door's always open if you need to escape." I meant it as a joke, but it came out too serious, too intimate.
Her eyes searched mine. "I might take you up on that."
I hoped she would.
FROM THE KITCHEN WINDOW, I had a front-row seat to the shitshow unfolding in the garden. Supposedly I was finishing dinner prep. Actually, I was witnessing a masterclass in how not to rehearse a wedding.
Raven arrived fifteen minutes late, phone in hand, narrating her walk down the aisle to three million followers who probably wished they were anywhere else too. "This is it, guys! Rehearsal for the biggest day of my life! Can you even believe it's finally happening?"
Blaze swayed at the gazebo, his eyes glassy, words slurring when he tried to greet her. "Baby! There's my beautiful bride!"
Diana Sharp stood off to the side with Tony, camera rolling, a satisfied smile on her face. She gestured for Tony to zoom in on Stormi's tears, then pan to Blaze's stumbling.
Sam stood near the back, watching the circus unfold. Tension coiled in her shoulders, her jaw clenched every time something went wrong.
Which was constantly.
The officiant—a local pastor Sam had hired—tried to walk everyone through the ceremony. Raven kept stopping to film different angles. Jett, supposedly standing as Blaze's best man, disappeared twice to take phone calls. And Stormi...
Stormi stood beside her sister in a rust-colored dress, mascara streaking down her face despite obvious attempts to fix it. Sam had her arm around the younger woman's shoulders, murmuring something I couldn't hear.
When Blaze stumbled over his vows, nearly face-planting into the gazebo's railing, Sam closed her eyes briefly. Stormi let out a sound that might have been a sob.
Then Raven and Jett both went missing.
Sam pulled out her phone, her mouth forming a tight line as she dialed. No answer, apparently. She tried again. Nothing.
Ten minutes later, they reappeared from around a corner.
Raven immediately pulled out her phone to check her reflection in the camera.
Jett adjusted his collar, looking far too pleased with himself.
Blaze didn't even notice they'd been gone.
He was too busy trying to convince the pastor that he should ride in on a white horse tomorrow.
"There's no horse in the plan," Sam said firmly. "And even if there were, you're too drunk to ride it."
"I'm a professional athlete!" Blaze protested.
"You're a drunk former athlete who's about to fall over. Please just walk through the ceremony so we can move on to dinner."
I had to admire her composure. I'd have told him to fuck off by now.
Finally, mercifully, they made it through the basic movements. Sam declared the rehearsal complete and herded everyone toward the dining room. As the group filed past my window, I caught her eye. Her patience had clearly reached its limit.
I gestured toward the kitchen door—an invitation.
She glanced at the wedding party heading inside, then back at me. Nodded once.
Two minutes later, she slipped through the door, leaned against the counter, and closed her eyes.
I poured her a glass of wine from the bottle I'd been planning to use for the reduction, handed it to her without a word.
She took a long drink. "That was a nightmare."
"I saw." I leaned against the counter beside her, our shoulders touching. "Blaze is wasted."
"And Raven keeps disappearing with Jett." She took another drink. "And Stormi's been crying for hours."
"You think she's having second thoughts about being maid of honor?"
"No." Sam set down her glass, turned to face me. Her expression was troubled. "She's in love with Blaze."
I blinked. "What?"
"She told me during a break. Just broke down and confessed the whole thing—she's been in love with him for years, never said anything because of Raven, and now she has to stand up there tomorrow and watch them get married.
" Sam rubbed her temples. "The network doesn't need to worry about manufacturing drama for entertainment.
This wedding party already has more than enough. "