Chapter 9 Wedding Crashers 2.0
SAGE
It’s Wednesday night—four days after the Johnson wedding turned my inn into a tech installation circus, and the Cascade View Inn is humming with the kind of quiet comfort that only comes when the guests are tucked in.
The tea lights are flickering low, and the faint smell of cinnamon scones still lingers in the air.
Outside, the autumn Pacific Northwestern wind rustles the porch leaves in gentle intervals.
Inside, the front desk lamp casts a warm amber glow over the antique check-in ledger, mismatched teacups, and the sleepy goat currently curled in a fleece-lined dog bed behind me.
It’s idyllic.
It’s perfect.
It’s mine.
And tonight, for once, everything feels like it might—might—actually be okay.
I tap refresh on my laptop screen and grin so hard my cheeks hurt.
Three new bookings. In one day.
"That's twelve total for next weekend," I tell the snoring goat at my feet. “That’s twelve total for next weekend. Twelve, you adorable little chaos goblin. That’s almost half capacity.”
In response, she snorts, kicking the air like she’s chasing dream-carrots.
Taking another sip of cider from my mug, I glance out the window at the string-lit inn sign swaying gently in the breeze.
The whole town feels quiet, none of the tell-tale signs of the nearby Seattle here.
Not the honking. Or the sirens. Or hum of tires.
Just the faint murmur of a distant waterfall, the rustle of leaves in the dark.
And the soft sound of chewing.
Blinking, I snap out of my reverie to look down, only to find that Buttercup has awakened.
And not only that.
The little havoc-demon’s chewing on something that looks like a phone charger. Or worse.
I lunge for the mystery cable, but she's already got it between her teeth like a very expensive piece of licorice.
"No, that's—Buttercup, what the hell are you—“
The words die on my mouth as the lights flicker.
Once. Twice.
Then the entire inn plunges into darkness.
"Oh, come on!" I fumble for my phone, its screen providing the only light in the suddenly cave-like lobby. "Not now. Not when things are finally—"
A mechanical shriek pierces the darkness, followed by what sounds like R2-D2 having a nervous breakdown.
Red emergency lights begin flashing from every corner, bathing everything in an apocalyptic glow.
"SECURITY brEACH. SECURITY brEACH. PLEASE EVACUATE IN AN ORDERLY FASHION."
The voice is robotic, feminine, and approximately loud enough to wake the dead.
Or at least the Hendersons in Room 3, who definitely didn't sign up for a midnight rave.
"No, no, no!" I scramble for the SafeStay control panel that Luke's team installed behind the desk. The screen is a cascade of error messages, each more alarming than the last.
FIREWALL COMPROMISED
UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS DETECTED
SYSTEM MELTDOWN IMMINENT
"System meltdown?" I stab at buttons randomly. "What does that even mean?"
"THIRTY SECONDS TO FULL LOCKDOWN," the robot voice announces.
Lockdown? What lockdown?
I hear doors slamming throughout the inn. The kind of slamming that sounds very... permanent.
"TWENTY SECONDS TO FULL LOCKDOWN."
My phone rings, the caller ID showing Sterling Security's tech support line.
Right. Professional.
Call the team. That's what rational business owners do.
Instead, my fingers dial a different number. The private one Luke gave me "for emergencies only."
Because apparently, in moments of crisis, my instincts go straight to off-limits, overqualified men with custom tuxedo-carrying helicopters and frustratingly calm voices.
He answers on the second ring. "Sage? It's nine o'clock—"
"The inn is having a nervous breakdown!" I shout over the sirens. "Your security system thinks we're under attack and it's screaming about lockdowns and the lights are doing this horror movie thing and—"
"TEN SECONDS TO FULL LOCKDOWN."
"Was that—"
"Your system! Yes! It's gone Skynet!"
"I'll be right there." His voice shifts from concerned to commanding. "Don't touch anything else."
"But—"
"LOCKDOWN INITIATED. HAVE A SECURE EVENING."
The line goes dead.
So does every electronic lock in the building, if the symphony of clicks is any indication.
I stand in the flashing red darkness, Buttercup now tangled in several cables, and wonder if it's too late to take up that career in accounting my mother always suggested.
Forty minutes later, I'm stationed by the front door with a flashlight, having spent the time placating terrified guests through their now-sealed doors.
Mr. Henderson is convinced we're under terrorist attack. Mrs. Patterson from Room 7 thinks it's aliens.
I’m just about to explain to Reverend Hendricks that the rapture isn’t coming when a set of headlights illuminate the front porch.
Hugging my flashlight, I head to the front porch in pajama pants and a flannel, shining the light on the sleek sports car just twenty feet away.
And that’s when I see him.
The driver’s side door opens and out steps Clark Kent doppelg?nger, Luke Sterling—glasses glinting, black coat flaring slightly in the wind, and jaw set into absolute stone.
I have the indecency to feel the heat working its way into my body in my spine first. Then in the clutch of my stomach.
Then lower.
And even in the haze of panic, I know this is not okay.
Or professional. Or remotely sane.
Because this man is my business partner.
Technically, I work with him. Technically, I lured him here under ethically murky circumstances.
Technically, I should not want to lick his collarbone.
Casting the thought of collarbone-licking aside, I stumble towards him, a half-sob crawling up my throat as I scramble in his direction.
“Ugh, thank God! You came just in time. I can’t—”
I rush forward, forgetting about the wheelchair ramp I had my handyman Tommy install last month.
My foot catches the edge, and suddenly I'm airborne, flashlight spinning away like a very dim shooting star.
Luke moves faster than anyone in expensive shoes has a right to.
One moment I'm facing certain death by concrete, the next I'm caught against a chest that's surprisingly solid for someone who spends his days typing.
"Hi," I breathe, looking up at him. The red emergency lights are doing something interesting to his blue eyes. "Fancy meeting you here."
"You called me." His hands are on my waist, steady and warm. "Said something about Skynet?"
"Right. Yes. The robot uprising." I'm still pressed against him, which seems like something I should address. "I should probably... stand. On my own feet. Like an adult."
"Probably," he agrees, but doesn't let go immediately.
When he does, I miss the contact more than I should.
"Show me the problem," he says, all business again.
I lead him inside, where Buttercup has somehow freed herself from the charger cable and is now attempting to eat the emergency exit sign.
"Don't judge," I say, scooping her up. "It's been a stressful evening."
Luke's already at the control panel, his fingers flying over the screen. "When did this start?"
"About forty minutes ago. I was just sitting here, being happy about bookings, and then boom—robot apocalypse."
"You were happy about bookings?" He glances at me.
"Twelve for next weekend. The Johnson wedding photos went viral. Well, small-town viral. But still."
"That's great, Sage." He turns back to the panel. "Okay, I see the problem. The system interpreted a power surge as an intrusion attempt. It's a known bug we're patching in the next update."
"A bug?" I stare at him. "Your bug locked my guests in their rooms!"
"Technically, it locked potential threats out." He's doing something complicated with his phone now, connecting it to the panel. "Very effectively, I might add."
"Luke Sterling, are you proud of your psychotic security system?"
"It's not psychotic. It's... enthusiastic." He types more commands. "There. Emergency protocols disengaged. Your guests should be free-range again."
As if on cue, doors throughout the inn click open.
I hear Mr. Henderson's distinctive grumble from the second floor.
"Thank you," I breathe. "I thought I was going to have to gnaw through doors like a beaver."
"That would have been interesting to watch."
Packing up his phone, he turns on his heel. As if preparing to leave. As if preparing to just walk away when I haven’t said thank you.
Or ‘sorry’.
Or—
"Wait." I set Buttercup down, ignoring her protest bleat. "Let me at least... I have wine. Good wine. Well, decent wine. Okay, it's wine."
"Sage—"
"Please? You drove all the way here. In the middle of the night. Wearing..." I gesture at his outfit. "Whatever the nerd equivalent of a power suit is."
"This is just what I was wearing at the office."
"At nine PM?"
"Quarterly reports."
"Oh my god, you're a robot too." I'm already heading for the kitchen. "Come on. One glass. Let me thank you for saving my inn from your murderous security system."
"It's not murderous," he calls after me, but I hear him following.
The kitchen glows softly under the moonlight, the chaos finally quiet.
The SafeStay system is no longer channeling HAL 9000. The guests are freed. Buttercup is back in her fleece-lined nest, probably chewing a tea towel like she owns the place.
As for me, I pour two glasses of red—an Oregon Pinot that I’ve been saving for either a personal crisis or a small victory.
Because tonight feels like both.
With Luke Sterling leaning against the butcher block counter, sleeves rolled, collar open, jacket gone, I feel victorious, like I’ve gotten the automaton CEO to relax.
He looks serene, for once.
Human.
Well, almost.
"To surviving the robot uprising," I say, raising my glass.
"To reactive bug patches," he replies, dry as ever—but there's a quirk at the corner of his mouth that almost counts as a smile.
We sip.
For a moment, it’s quiet.
Too quiet.
He’s watching me. And I can feel it even in the semi-dark.
“You didn’t have to come all the way out here,” I say, tracing my finger around the rim of my glass.
“You called me.”
“I panicked.”