Chapter 8 #2
“Yes! Full creative control, a substantial salary, and of course, the prestige of the Modern Wedding brand behind you. Think of it, Hudson. Your ideas and app concept as the cornerstone of our digital strategy.”
My ideas. My app concept. Except they weren’t mine at all. They were Mari’s.
“I’m... flattered,” I managed, my mind racing. “But I have my own business, clients who depend on me.”
“You wouldn’t have to give up your business entirely,” Eleanor countered. “Think of it as a partnership. And the exposure would only bring you more clients.”
“It’s certainly a generous offer. I’ll need some time to consider it.”
“Of course.” She sounded pleased, as if my hesitation was merely a formality. “There’s no rush at this point.”
After hanging up, I sat motionless at my desk. I’d never intended for it to go this far. It was supposed to be a simple feature, a boost for my business. Not a job offer based on someone else’s ideas. Running a hand through my hair, I slumped back in my chair.
I could decline, of course. Should decline. But the opportunity was incredible. It was exactly the kind of recognition I’d been seeking, the kind that would finally force my parents to acknowledge my success on my own terms.
Maybe there was a way to make it work. I could bring Mari in as a consultant once everything settled. Give her credit for her contributions. Share the spotlight.
Even as I thought it, I knew it was a weak rationalization. Mari wouldn’t want partial credit or a consultant role. She deserved full recognition for her ideas.
But the thought of confessing everything now, of watching her expression shift from surprise to hurt to contempt, was unbearable. Especially now that we were working so well together. Now that I was seeing sides of her I genuinely admired.
I would make it right. After the wedding. After I’d had time to think.
Decision made (or rather, postponed), I turned my attention back to work. We had a weekend trip to prepare for, and I needed to focus on something other than the growing knot of guilt in my chest.
“Your playlist is objectively terrible,” Mari announced, scrolling through my phone.
We’d been on the road for barely half an hour. Mari had shown up at my apartment promptly at 2 PM with coffee, snacks, and more energy than an almost thirty-year-old should have.
“What’s wrong with my playlist?” I asked, glancing away from the road briefly to see her horrified expression.
“It’s all instrumental movie scores and classical music.” She looked at me as if I’d confessed to a crime. “Where’s the variety? The energy? The singalong potential?”
“I find it relaxing.”
“Well, I find it boring,” she said, already connecting her own phone. “We need road trip music. It’s non-negotiable.”
Before I could protest, the car filled with the opening notes of a pop song I vaguely recognized from the radio. Mari immediately started singing along, complete with dramatic hand gestures.
“I’m not singing,” I warned her.
“We’ll see about that,” she said with a grin, turning up the volume. She put her feet up on my dash despite my pointing out how dangerous it was if we were to get in an accident. With the windows rolled down, the noise left no room to think.
By the time we reached Door County, she’d forced me to endure—and yes, occasionally sing along to—everything from 80s power ballads to current pop hits. And though I’d never admit it to her, it had made the drive go faster.
The Peninsula State Lodge was a rustic-luxe property nestled among towering pines, with panoramic views of the lake.
The main building housed a restaurant, bar, and lobby with soaring ceilings and a massive stone fireplace.
Cabins of varying sizes dotted the wooded property, connected by winding paths.
“It’s gorgeous,” Mari breathed as we checked in. “Lia’s going to love it.”
The receptionist smiled as she handed us our keys. “You’re in Cabin 7, Mr. Gable. And Ms. Landry, you’re in Cabin 12.”
“Perfect,” I said, relieved that our accommodations were separate but still close.
“Oh, actually,” the receptionist’s smile faltered. “I’m so sorry, but there’s a problem with Cabin 12. A pipe burst this morning, and the cabin is not habitable.”
Mari and I exchanged a look.
“Do you have another cabin available?” I asked, already knowing the answer from the woman’s apologetic expression.
“I’m afraid not. We’re fully booked for the weekend.” She bit her lip. “Cabin 7 does have two bedrooms, though. Would that work for you?”
I glanced at Mari, letting her make the call. We’d maintained our “professional only” boundary for the past month, but sharing a cabin for two nights would test that resolve.
“That’s fine if you have no other options,” Mari said with a casual shrug that didn’t quite match the wariness in her eyes.
“Of course.” I turned back to the receptionist. “Cabin 7 will be fine. Thank you.”
As we walked to the cabin, rolling our suitcases along the path, Mari broke the silence. “I call the bigger room.”
“Fine with me.” I unlocked the cabin door. “You’re sure you’re okay with this?”
She hesitated. “Yeah. It’s fine. We’re partners. Colleagues. This is a business trip.”
“Exactly.”
But as we stepped into the cozy cabin with its stone fireplace, plush furniture, and spectacular lake view, it felt far from a standard business accommodation.
The main room was warm and inviting, with a kitchenette, dining area, and living space.
Two doors on opposite walls presumably led to the bedrooms.
“Nice place,” Mari said, wheeling her suitcase inside. “Very romantic.”
“It’s not—” I started automatically.
“I’m kidding, Gable.” She rolled her eyes. “Lighten up.”
She crossed to one of the bedroom doors and peeked inside. “This one has twin beds.”
“I’ll take it.” I moved toward her. “You take the master.”
The bedroom was simple but elegant, with an antique dresser and large windows overlooking the lake. I set my suitcase on one bed and took a moment to collect myself. This was fine. We were adults. Professionals. We could share a cabin for two nights without incident.
When I returned to the main room, Mari was already curled up on the couch, her tablet propped on her knees, studying what looked like floor plans.
“I’m thinking we start with Lakeside Manor,” she said without looking up. “It has the best views and the most flexible space.”
Just like that, we were back in work mode. I sat beside her—not too close—and looked at the plans she was reviewing.
“What about the other two options?” I asked.
“We’ll still check them out, but the Harbor Club looks too formal online, at least for a family dinner, and Green Gables Retreat is too small if Lia’s cousins come.” She pulled up photos of each venue. “Online impressions can be deceiving, though.”
I nodded, impressed by her thoroughness. “Agreed. What time are our appointments?”
“Nine, noon, and three. I figured that gives us plenty of time at each location and breaks for meals.” She glanced up at me. “I also made dinner reservations for tonight at the lodge restaurant. Hope that’s okay.”
“It’s perfect. I’m starving,” I said, meaning it. Her planning was impeccable, anticipating needs and scheduling without sacrificing the experience. It was the attention to detail I appreciated—the kind I usually had to handle myself.
We spent the next hour reviewing notes and planning questions for each venue. Working with Mari was surprisingly effortless when we weren’t competing. We filled in the gaps the other might miss.
“I think we’ve got this covered,” she said finally, setting aside her tablet. “Dinner’s at seven. I’m going to freshen up.”
While she was in her room, I built a fire in the fireplace. By the time Mari emerged, wearing a simple dark red dress, the cabin was filled with the warm glow of firelight.
“You made a fire,” she said, sounding pleased. “Nice touch.”
“It seemed appropriate,” I said, trying not to stare at her. “You look nice.”
She smiled. “Thanks. You don’t look so bad yourself.”
“I’m wearing the same thing as before.”
“Take the compliment, Gable.”
“Thanks.”
Dinner at the lodge restaurant was surprisingly enjoyable. Away from the office and the pressures of Chicago, conversation flowed easily. Mari told stories about her early days working with Anica in New York, and I shared my own stories about growing up as the son of wedding planning royalty.
“Wait, so your parents actually made you work coat check at weddings when you were twelve?” Mari laughed, taking a sip of her wine. “Isn’t that child labor?”
“Character building, they called it. I knew how to fold a pocket square before I could drive.”
“That explains so much.” She tilted her head, studying me. “Why did you stick with wedding planning? Did you ever consider doing anything else?”
“Oh, I definitely considered it.” I swirled the wine in my glass. “I actually tried to escape it. Thought for a while I might study something in engineering or maybe electronics, but I wasn’t good at either, and I was good at organizing. So...”
“So you gave up on that stuff because it was hard?”
I shrugged. “My parents offered me a leg up in the wedding world. It wasn’t hard to get my first clients. The problem came when I worked in competition with my parents.”
“It was certainly bold.” Her expression was thoughtful. “Is that why you moved away from LA?”
“Yup.” Something about the firelit restaurant and Mari’s attentive gaze made it easy to share things I usually kept to myself. “My parents weren’t fond of the idea of sharing the same vendors with me, despite my being their son.”
The rest of the dinner passed in simple conversation.
Mari was unsurprisingly knowledgeable about wine and insisted on ordering a bottle from a local vineyard that turned out to be excellent.
By the time we finished dessert—a shared piece of cherry pie that Door County was apparently famous for—I was genuinely enjoying her company.
On the walk back to our cabin, Mari surprised me by stopping at the small general store near the lodge entrance.
“Give me five minutes,” she said, a glint in her eye. “Wait here.”
Before I could question her, she disappeared inside. True to her word, she emerged a few minutes later with a small paper bag, which she refused to let me see.
“It’s a surprise,” she insisted, clutching the bag to her chest. “You’ll find out when we get back.”
The night air was crisp with early autumn, and stars dotted the clear sky above as we walked the path to our cabin. Mari’s shoulder occasionally brushed against mine. It shouldn’t have affected me as much as it did.
Back at the cabin, the fire had died down to embers, but I quickly built it back up while Mari busied herself in the kitchenette, keeping her back to me so I couldn’t see what she was doing.
“Okay,” she announced finally, turning around with a triumphant smile. “Prepare yourself for the best s’mores of your life.”
She carried a tray to the coffee table: graham crackers, chocolate bars, marshmallows, and a small container of fresh raspberries.
“S’mores?” I raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t we a little old for that?”
“You’re never too old for s’mores,” she said firmly, dropping onto the floor in front of the fireplace. “Especially with my secret ingredient.”
She patted the spot beside her, and I joined her on the floor, our backs against the couch. The fire crackled, casting a warm glow across her features.
“I’m guessing the raspberries are the secret ingredient?” I asked as she handed me a marshmallow skewered on a long fork.
“Yup.” She grinned, placing her own marshmallow dangerously close to the flames. “The trick is to get it golden brown, not charred.”
“Says the woman currently setting her marshmallow on fire.”
“It’s a controlled burn,” she protested, pulling back the now-flaming confection and blowing it out. “Perfect.”
“Correction. That is charcoal.”
“Then you try to do better.”
“There is no try.” I rotated my marshmallow, achieving an even golden brown.
“Show-off,” she muttered, but she grinned as she rolled her eyes.
Once our marshmallows were toasted to our respective preferences, Mari demonstrated her technique: graham cracker, chocolate, hot marshmallow, three raspberries, then the top graham cracker.
“The heat from the marshmallow melts the chocolate and warms the berries,” she explained. “The combination is life-changing.”
Skeptical but willing to try, I assembled mine the same way. Shit. She was right. The tart freshness of the raspberries cut through the sweetness of the chocolate and marshmallow, creating a perfect balance.
“Okay, I admit it,” I said after swallowing. “That’s exceptional.”
“Told you.” She looked ridiculously pleased with herself. “I’m full of good ideas.”
Yeah. Like the ones I’d stolen. The words hit too close to home. I pushed the thought away, not wanting to ruin the moment.
We made another round of s’mores, Mari insisting on toasting my marshmallow this time (“You need to live a little, Gable. Controlled chaos is the way”). As she handed me the completed s’more, a drip of chocolate caught on her lower lip.
“You’ve got...” I gestured to my lip.
“Hmm?” She tried to see, crossing her eyes.
Without thinking, I reached out, my thumb gently brushing the corner of her mouth to remove the chocolate. Her lips parted in surprise.
“Got it,” I said in a quieter voice.
Her gaze locked with mine. For a heartbeat that seemed to stretch into eternity, neither of us moved. The warmth of her skin radiated beneath my fingertips, still lingering near her face. Her gaze dropped to my mouth, then back to my eyes.
All I had to do was lean forward. Just a few inches, and I could taste the chocolate and raspberries on her lips.
Fuck, I wanted to kiss her.
Screw professionalism.