12. Reality Check
Reality Check
The vibration of my phone against the nightstand jolts me from sleep.
In the gray pre-dawn light, I fumble for it, careful not to disturb Lucas's sleeping form on the other side of the bed.
We've maintained our careful distance throughout the night, though I woke once to find his hand stretched toward me in sleep, fingers just inches from mine.
"Hello?" I whisper, slipping from beneath the warm covers.
"Ms. Hayes?" An unfamiliar male voice crackles through the connection. "This is Sheriff Donovan. I'm calling all the stranded guests and staff at Angel's Peak."
I move to the bedroom doorway, pulling it nearly closed behind me. "Yes, what is it?"
"Good news. The plows have made significant progress overnight. We expect the main access road to be cleared enough for staff vehicles and essential deliveries by late afternoon today."
The information should bring relief. Instead, my stomach twists with sudden anxiety. "Today? You're certain?"
"Barring any new complications." Pride colors his voice. "The boys have been working around the clock. Thought you'd want to know since I understand there's a big wedding happening soon."
"Yes, thank you." I end the call and stand motionless in the dim cabin, processing the implications.
The roads are opening. Staff will arrive today. The wedding machine will lurch into motion. The peaceful bubble we've existed in for days will burst, replaced by the chaotic reality of a compressed timeline and a mountain of logistics.
My pulse quickens, my mind racing through everything that must happen in a precise sequence. We've lost critical setup days. The new venue needs a complete transformation. The menu changes require chef consultation. The floral deliveries will arrive without proper staging time. The?—
"Morning." Lucas's voice interrupts my spiraling thoughts.
He stands in the bedroom doorway, sleep-rumpled and unfairly attractive in a faded T-shirt and flannel pants. His hair sticks up at odd angles, and stubble darkens his jaw. The casual intimacy of seeing him this way—guard down, defenses absent—sends an unwelcome flutter through my chest.
"The roads are clearing." I gesture with my phone, my voice sounding strained even to my ears. "The sheriff says staff and deliveries can get through by late afternoon."
"That's good news." Lucas nods, moving toward the kitchen, infuriatingly calm.
"Good news?" I follow him, incredulous at his reaction. "Lucas, we have a day and a half to execute a complete wedding. We've lost nearly all our prep time. The venue has changed. The menu has changed. Nothing is going according to plan."
"Plans change. We adapt." He fills the coffee maker, movements practiced, seemingly unconcerned by my mounting panic.
"How can you be so calm about this?" I pace the small kitchen, energy coursing through me with nowhere to go. "This wedding could make or break your resort's reputation. Not to mention my entire career."
"Panicking won't help either of those things." He turns to face me, leaning against the counter as the coffee begins to brew. "We've done the hard part—solving the major problems. Now we just need to execute and follow through."
"Just?" I nearly choke on the word. "There's no 'just' about it. We have hundreds of details to coordinate in half the normal time."
The coffee maker gurgles to completion as Lucas regards me steadily—that gaze that both irritates and steadies me. "And we will. One step at a time."
He hands me a steaming mug, our fingers brushing in the exchange. The brief contact grounds me momentarily, pulling me back from the edge of complete panic.
"I need to shower and change." I cradle the mug, drawing strength from its warmth. "Then make about fifty calls before the staff arrives."
"I'll handle the lodge preparations." Lucas sips his coffee, watching me over the rim. "I'll make sure all systems are operational, and all the spaces are cleared and ready."
His calm competence should reassure me. Instead, it highlights how we approach problems differently—his steady adaptability versus my need for meticulous control. Yet somehow, over these past few days, those differences have become complementary rather than conflicting.
The thought settles me as I retreat to prepare for the day ahead. By the time we walk to the main lodge, I've armored myself in professionalism—hair pulled back, my day-before-the-wedding 'suit' as neat as possible, and all my mental checklists arranged in precise order of priority.
The first vehicles arrive shortly after noon, crunching over gravel and packed snow.
Staff members I've only met through email introductions materialize in physical form—the executive chef and his team, florists laden with preserved arrangements, logistics coordinators with tablets and concerned expressions.
I meet them at the entrance with a clipboard in hand and a Bluetooth headset in place. "Welcome to Angel's Peak. We have significant adjustments to the original plan, so please hold all questions until I've completed the overview briefing."
What follows is a masterclass in crisis management, if I do say so myself.
I direct teams to their stations, outline the venue changes, distribute updated timelines, and address concerns authoritatively.
Years of handling last-minute wedding disasters have prepared me for exactly this moment—when control seems impossible but must be maintained anyway.
Lucas works the room differently, moving between teams effortlessly, smoothing ruffled feathers when my directives come too sharp, and providing context where my brevity leaves gaps.
We orbit each other without direct coordination, somehow sensing where the other is needed, filling spaces the other leaves open.
"The pastry chef is stuck in Ridgeline with a broken-down van." A harried kitchen assistant appears at my elbow while I review floral placement with the design team. "Chef Morgan says we can't do the soufflé without him."
Before I can respond, Lucas materializes beside us. "I know a mechanic in Ridgeline. Give me the details."
While he handles that crisis, I pivot to address a delivery error with the linens—the wrong shade of ivory, requiring rapid steam treatment to brighten them to acceptable levels.
The problem-solving dance continues through the afternoon—a missing sound system component here, a staffing gap there, each challenge met with solutions cobbled together from resources at hand.
"You're good at this." Lucas appears at my side during a rare quiet moment, voice low enough that only I can hear. "Better than good. Exceptional."
The unexpected praise warms me more than it should. "So are you. For someone so 'relaxed' about planning."
His smile holds a hint of pride—not in himself, I realize with startling clarity, but in me. "Different methods, synergistic results."
We're interrupted by the executive chef, who needs to make immediate decisions about the revised menu timing. I follow him to the kitchen, where chaos reigns as staff unpack deliveries and establish workstations. The confident chef resists my insistence on checking every element.
"With all due respect, Ms. Hayes, I've been preparing high-end events for twenty years." Chef Morgan crosses his arms, bristling at my suggested adjustments to his workflow. "My team knows what they're doing."
"And I'm responsible for ensuring every detail meets the client's expectations." I stand my ground, though he towers over me by nearly a foot. "The timeline has compressed significantly. We need redundancies built in."
"My kitchen, my methods." His expression darkens. "Mr. Reid has always trusted my judgment."
"Everything alright here?" As if summoned, Lucas appears behind me.
"Your event planner is micromanaging my kitchen." Chef Morgan's accent thickens with irritation. "It disrupts our established system."
I turn to Lucas, expecting him to side with his staff member. "I'm simply ensuring we have contingencies for every element, given the compressed timeline."
To my surprise, Lucas's expression hardens, his easy-going demeanor replaced by something sharper, more reminiscent of the corporate executive he once was. "Chef, a word?"
They step aside for a brief, intense conversation. I catch fragments—"exceptional circumstances" and "professional courtesy"—before the chef returns with a begrudging nod of acceptance.
"We will incorporate your... suggestions." He manages a tight smile. "Though I maintain they are unnecessary."
"Thank you." I match his professional tone, refusing to gloat. "I appreciate your flexibility."
As the kitchen team resumes work, Lucas gestures toward a quiet hallway away from the bustle. I follow, preparing arguments for my approach, certain he's about to lecture me on staff relations.
The moment we're alone, his controlled expression gives way to frustration. "You can't come into my resort and dictate to staff who have worked here for years."
"I can when the success of this event depends on precision and execution." I match his intensity, keeping my voice low but firm. "Your chef was dismissing my concerns because of his ego."
"And you were overriding his expertise because you need to control every detail." Lucas steps closer, the hallway suddenly feeling much narrower. "Sometimes you have to trust people to do their jobs."
"Trust?" The word emerges as a scoff. "I trusted the weather would cooperate. I trusted your staff would be here three days ago. I trusted the venue wouldn't spring leaks. Look where trust has gotten us."
"Exactly where we need to be." He gestures sharply toward the bustling main areas. "Working together, finding solutions, creating something better than the original plan."
"That's not because of trust. It's because of contingency planning and quick thinking." I step forward, refusing to be intimidated by his proximity. "If I just trusted everything would work out, we'd be facing disaster right now."