Chapter 5
PIPER
Piper's phone had taken on a life of its own and was determined to drive her insane. It had been buzzing nonstop for the past hour.
Hunching over her laptop, one earbud in, Piper tuned in as the event rental vendor's voice came through her Zoom call. Overhead, the office A/C hummed away, keeping things cool enough to raise polite little goosebumps on her arms, but not cool enough to justify grabbing the emergency cardigan.
Her desk, usually a laminated shrine to productivity, now looked like a crime scene sketched by a caffeinated squirrel. Pens wandered aimlessly. Folders—color-coded, thank you very much—lay flopped open like they'd given up on life.
"You absolutely need the deposit by tomorrow," she asked, already juggling two email windows. "Not the end of the week like we originally discussed? Because Friday is what our contract says."
A text from Tess lit up her phone for the fourth time in three minutes.
Tess: Brand consistent visual = flower girls in cleats. We'll lay turf runners to prevent scuffs, clear liability with legal, and loop equipment for sizing.
Fifth time.
Tess: I'll cover field protection and waivers.
Lucky number sixth time.
Tess: If it's a no, tell me fast. I'll redirect.
"I'm afraid our supplier has changed their timeline," the rep on Zoom replied apologetically. "With the current supply chain issues, we can't hold the items without a confirmed payment."
Of course they had. She took a breath. "And you're only now sharing this? Twenty-four hours before you suddenly need payment?"
The rep sounded genuinely sorry. "I understand your position. If it helps, we can offer a small discount for the inconvenience."
Well, wasn't that generous?
Piper took a sip of her long-forgotten coffee, wincing as the cold liquid hit her taste buds. "I'll get those funds transferred today. But I'll need the discount offer in writing. And confirmation once you receive payment."
One week in and she needed a pitcher of margaritas.
The call ended, so it was on to the next issue.
Flipping open her planning binder gave Piper an unreasonable sense of control.
Color-coded tabs and aggressive sticky notes were her ride-or-die. But right now, every to-do page looked like it had been attacked with angry red tabs and neon Post-its.
The wedding timeline had compressed overnight due to a "critical team scheduling conflict." Tess had oh-so-casually announced before sunrise, like she was reading the weather.
Even worse, Drake's availability for pre-wedding publicity was now practically non-existent.
"Forty-two days out," she muttered, pressing cold palms to overheated cheeks before giving herself a good shake. "And I've got a horse as a ring bearer, a full-blown media campaign, and Tess thinking that rustic means Swarovski hay bales."
One of the other junior planners walked past her office, shot a quick look inside, then executed a flawless eye-avert per corporate etiquette.
Piper's phone blared, slicing through the low hum of her cursed career.
Oh good. The cake lady.
"Ms. Daws? I'm so sorry, but we've hit a slight, um, complication with the wedding cake design." The woman's voice wobbled dangerously. "The edible glitter—there's been some cross contamination with almond oil. I'm trying to work it out with the supplier, but the—
"Timeline," Piper finished for her, forehead thunking onto the cool laminate of her desk, which did absolutely nothing to soothe the white-hot stress pouring out of her ears. "There has to be a way to get more glitter in time."
"I've called every supplier I know. Nothing matches the Stallions' exact royal blue. There's blue...but it's lighter than you'd want. Or darker."
"Any chance we switch it up entirely? Something else with the same vibe?"
"I'm trying," the baker groaned. "It's not working."
Deep breath. Then another.
"Don't worry. We've got this," Piper said, trying to stay calm. "I'll look into it and get back to you."
Reaching for her binder yet again, her hand bumped a stack of glossy Directors of Interment and Cremation Knowledge brochures, sending them tumbling off the shelf.
Before she could wrangle them back into a stack, a knock pulled her gaze upward to Zach standing there. His navy Henley made his eyes impossibly bluer and he held what looked to be a smoothie, if she had to guess.
Her pulse did weird, unprofessional things.
Down girl.
She'd been dealing with glitter-mageddon and she hadn't exactly been in contact with the bride's hot-as-hell brother.
Maybe it was witchcraft. Maybe it was hormones. Either way, her shoulders felt noticeably lighter and the clutter manageable.
"You look like you're planning a military coup instead of a wedding," he said, eyeing her disaster-zone desk.
"At this point," Piper replied, gesturing at her phone as it buzzed again, the vibration sending a pen rolling across her desk, "a coup would be easier. At least then I'd get a cool uniform."
Zach invited himself in, dropping to the chair across from her.
Piper's eyes darted to the smoothie in his hand, lingering there like it was a long-lost love. The straw squeaked obnoxiously against the lid as he took a sip.
"What?" he asked, wiping his mouth like he hadn't committed a beverage crime in her presence.
"Nothing," she said, shaking it off.
"You were making a face," he said, cocking an eyebrow.
"I wasn't making a face," Piper lied, definitely making a face.
"You have the 'I'm so hungry I could eat my stapler' face. My sister perfected it."
Brushing his comment off, Piper folded her hands on the desk. "What can I do for you, anyway?"
"Thought you might be ready for reinforcements," he said.
"What I need is a miracle. Or a time machine." Her gaze flicked back to the smoothie again, the condensation on the cup shimmering.
"When's the last time you ate?" he asked.
She squinted, clearly grappling with the vague memory of what might have counted as her last meal.
"Here." He slid the smoothie toward her, its plastic bottom carving a charming little space through all the paperwork. "You need it more than I do."
Their fingers brushed. Just for a second. Just enough to fire off a spark right into her brain's short-circuit center. Please, oh please, let her face not be broadcasting that little zap to him.
"Blueberry kale, but it tastes better than it sounds," he said, like that was enough to sell any human on drinking juiced garden clippings.
"I don't think that would actually be hard." Her nose scrunched like it had a mind of its own.
He nudged the cup closer. Barely half an inch, but it felt a lot like pressure. "C'mon, try it. I can get something else, but you're gonna want to deal with that blood sugar crash before you yell at inanimate objects."
"I'm fine."
A hard blink from him.
The translation? Girl, no, you're not.
Truth be told, she was hungry enough that her stapler was starting to look like a snack. Blueberry kale shouldn't have sounded good, but in that moment? Even something labeled "Organic Sod Grass Delight" would've gotten a second glance.
"Fine," she muttered, giving the straw a grumpy but willing tug. Cold, sweet-tart goodness rolled across her taste buds. Shockingly tolerable. "Thanks."
Silence filled the space while she continued sipping—the quiet disturbed only by the distant hum of office chatter. He didn't say a word, probably because he knew better. She didn't, either, mostly because she was busy trying not to inhale the whole thing in one gulp.
"Tess's mandated glitter for the cake got almond cross-contamination," she said, finally. "I freaking hate almonds."
The venom in the last part might've been too much, especially since almonds weren't the enemy. But still. Screw almonds.
Tilting her head back, she stared at the ceiling like it might cave in. When she looked down again, she expected Zach to be laughing at her, but his expression held something else.
Understanding? Maybe even admiration?
That couldn't be right.
"Can I see the binder?" he said, gently, but already reaching for it.
Their hands collided as they both moved for it at the same time. Piper pulled back quickly, the brief contact leaving her fingertips tingling in a way that was entirely too distracting, the warmth of his skin lingering on hers.
He waited a beat, letting her make the call. Could he have it or not?
Much as she wanted to snatch it back and hiss, "mine", the patience in Zach's expression lessened her resolve.
"You color-coded by urgency and vendor? That's impressive."
"Don't mock the tabs," she warned, eyes narrowing slightly.
"I'm not. I'm genuinely afraid of them."
She hated that having him there helped. Even worse, she kind of liked that he noticed she had a system.
"The DJ company just bailed on us for some influencer named—" she checked her email, the aggressive clicking of her mouse punctuating her frustration—"Kimberly Splitz."
"Ah, yes. Famous for her eyebrow tutorials and dating a C-list reality star." Zach's dimple appeared.
"I have no idea who she is."
Zach nodded at the screen. "Let me handle a replacement."
Eyebrows arching suspiciously, she gave him a once-over. "What do you mean 'handle a replacement'?"
"I mean," he said, casually flipping a plastic tab like it was no big deal, "I might know a guy. I'll check into it."
Her control freak instincts screamed, warning her not to give up the reins. But drowning with no floatie in sight, she found herself eyeing the life preserver he offered.
"A perk of awkwardly standing in the corner at my brothers’ weddings."
"You're serious?"
"Totally. And before you ask: I have zero idea on the glitter sitch. Not even the edible kind. But Babushka's back in town in a few days," he said casually, snapping to the next tab with authority.
"Oh good. That's what I need. Actual fire," Piper groaned. The sparks flying anytime he was around? Already a hazard.
"She's probably not going to light actual fires," he said with a smirk. "But she is definitely going to get involved. Trust me, she has an uncontaminated edible glitter supplier."
"And how do you know that?"
"She has one of everything. Sometimes two." Zach hesitated, then added more quietly. "I don't know where she buys edible glitter, but she gets it."
"That would be great," Piper said, meaning it.
"I'm the youngest of four and I don't always feel like I'm heard. But Babushka is the one who always listens. I listen back, and that's how I know some of her tricks."
Fingers hovering over the keyboard, Piper froze. All the humming background noise settled like dust in the room.
"My mom's a professional at not listening," she murmured, more to the blinking cursor than to him. "You get really good at planning things when it's the only way to make someone hear you."
They worked in tandem for the next half hour, his presence an emotional Xanax cutting the overwhelming down to only... whelming. Somewhere during the spreadsheet-loading saga, their chairs drifted closer. Close enough that if she wanted to count his eyelashes—hypothetically—she could.
"You're kind of a genius when you're spiraling," he said smoothly. "I mean that as a compliment."
"Thanks," she replied automatically.
Honestly, though, why was that like the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her?
A sharp ping from her laptop set off a reflexive flinch.
New email from: Tess
Subject: Urgent: New Scheduling Conflict
Move the wedding to 3 p.m. instead of 6. Broadcast window shifted. Security staffing better at 3pm. Golden-hour portraits still possible with a first look.
Greaaat.
She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Zach?" she asked, closing her laptop with the delicacy of someone resisting the urge to throw it against the wall. "I'm definitely cursed."
He chuckled like she'd made a joke.
And okay, maybe it sounded like one.
But for Piper? She swallowed hard and tucked that same strand of hair again.
This wasn't a punchline.