Chapter 8 Bro-gramming Session
brO-GRAMMING SESSION
LUKE
Saturday morning arrives with the kind of crisp October clarity that makes the Pacific Northwest look like it's been run through an Instagram filter.
I'm standing in the Cascade View Inn's parking lot at seven AM, watching my installation team unload enough equipment to launch a small satellite, when Sage Winters appears in the doorway looking like she's been awake since the Mesozoic Era.
“Good morning there, boss!” she calls out, and something in my chest does a complicated maneuver that none of my Ivy League education could prepare me for. "We need to talk!"
Boss. She called me boss.
Not Mr. Sterling. Not sir. Not even Luke.
And my body reacts like she whispered it against my skin instead of across a flower-strewn lawn.
"Ms. Winters…” I clear my throat, tempted to adjust my collar. "My team is ready to begin the SafeStay installation. We'll need access to your main server room, router locations, and—"
"About that." She's jogging toward me now, auburn hair escaping from what appears to be a pencil-secured bun, wearing a flannel shirt that has definitely seen better days and jeans with suspicious white stains. "Tiny complication."
"Complication?" I glance at my project manager, Kenji, who's already got his tablet out and is making his 'this better not delay my weekend plans' face. "What kind of complication?"
"The kind that involves thirty drunk people, a jazz quartet, and approximately twenty thousand roses."
I blink. "I'm going to need more context."
"The Johnson wedding." She stops in front of me, slightly out of breath. "Remember I mentioned it? Well, it's today. Here. In about..." She checks her watch. "Four hours."
"Four hours."
"Give or take. Mrs. Johnson likes to be fashionably early to her own events." She gestures toward the inn, where I can now see people carrying flower arrangements through the lobby. "So we might have a slight logistics issue with your tech installation."
Kenji makes a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a death rattle. "Did she just say wedding?"
"Wedding," I confirm, watching a woman in a bathrobe and curlers direct traffic from the porch. "Sage, we discussed the installation timeline. You approved this date."
"I did! I absolutely did. And then I maybe... forgot to check the booking calendar?" Her smile is both apologetic and slightly manic. "But it's fine! We can work around it. You guys can set up in the areas the wedding won't touch."
"Which areas would those be?"
She pauses. "The... laundry room?"
"We're installing a comprehensive security system," I say slowly, "not washing delicates."
"Right. Yes. Of course." She's fidgeting now, tugging at her flannel. "Okay, new plan. What if you blend in?"
"Blend in."
"With the wedding!" Her green eyes light up like she's just discovered cold fusion. "You could pretend to be guests. Or vendors! Nobody questions vendors at a wedding."
"You want my tech team to pretend to be wedding vendors while installing a complex security system?"
"When you say it like that, it sounds complicated."
"That's because it is complicated."
Behind me, Kenji clears his throat. "Actually, boss, it might work."
I turn to stare at my project manager, who's been with Sterling Security for six years and has never once suggested anything this insane. "Excuse me?"
"Think about it." He's warming to the idea, which is concerning. "Weddings have tons of vendors coming and going. DJ equipment, photo gear, catering supplies. We could move our equipment in without anyone noticing."
"That's..." I want to say ridiculous, but three more members of my team are nodding along. "We're cybersecurity professionals, not wedding crashers."
"Technically, we wouldn't be crashing," Sage interjects. "You'd be invited. By me. The inn owner."
"To install security equipment during someone's wedding."
"To blend in while installing security equipment." She's got that look now, the one I saw when she was chasing Buttercup—determined and slightly unhinged. "Come on, Sterling. Where's your sense of adventure?"
"In the same place as my common sense. Firmly intact."
A man appears behind Sage, carrying what appears to be an entire tree made of roses. "Sage! Where do you want the ceremonial arch?"
"By the fireplace, Tommy!" She turns back to me. "Look, I'll make you a deal. You and your team pretend to be wedding guests for a few hours, and I'll give you full access once the reception moves outside. Plus, free food."
"We don't need—"
"It's from La Famiglia," she adds. "Nonna Flora's secret recipe lasagna."
My team makes a collective sound of interest.
Traitors.
"This is highly unprofessional," I say.
"So was showing up at midnight convinced I was catfishing you, but we moved past that."
She has a point.
An annoying one, but still.
I look at my team—five of Sterling Security's best technical minds, now apparently swayed by the promise of Italian food. Then I look at Sage, who's practically vibrating with nervous energy.
She grabs my arm. Again.
Which is becoming a bit of a habit.
“You and your team need to blend in,” Sage says, tugging me toward the porch like this is a completely reasonable solution and not total madness. “And to do that, you’ll need tuxedos.”
I arch a brow, glancing at the tech team currently unpacking routers and Ethernet cables like they're about to wire the Pentagon. “We didn’t exactly bring formalwear in the van.”
“Not just formalwear.” Her grin turns evil. “Tuxes.”
"Tuxes."
"Very nice ones. The groomsmen are all different sizes, so I'm sure we can find something that fits. You’re a standard ‘tall and broody,’ right? I’ve got at least two tuxes in that size.”
I gently disengage her hand from my arm. “I appreciate the enthusiasm, Miss Winters, but I’m not wearing someone’s rejected groomsman rental.”
“Oh? Too many ghosts of canceled weddings past?”
“No,” I say calmly, pulling out my phone. “Because I have a logistics team that can drop tailored suits from a helicopter if necessary.”
She blinks. “That’s not a thing.”
“It is when you pay extra for rush delivery and air clearance.”
She blinks again.
“I’m texting them now,” I say, tapping a message to my assistant. “We’ll have tuxedos for the team within the hour.”
“Of course you will. God forbid you settle for polyester blend like the rest of us.”
I glance at her then—really look at her.
Long lashes. Pine-green eyes.
My eyes travel lower, to the disheveled flannel. The smudge of something (spackle?) on her collarbone. The dark ruby hair threatening to escape its bun entirely.
And still, something inside me kicks like a tripwire.
“You’ll want to keep that sass to a minimum,” I murmur, slipping my phone back into my coat. “I might enjoy it a tad too much.”
Twenty minutes later, I'm standing in a bathroom that smells like hairspray, trying to figure out how my life has reached this point.
I’ve never been a tuxedo man. Not much.
Give me my glasses, a collared shirt and slacks, any day. But to be honest, the tux fits perfectly.
I hate that.
"How's it going in there?" Sage calls through the door.
"Peachy," I mutter, struggling with the bow tie. "I feel like James Bond's accountant."
The door opens without warning, and Sage slips inside, closing it quickly behind her. "Let me help—oh."
She stops, staring at me in the mirror.
"You look..." She pauses, tilting her head. "Different."
"Like a penguin who lost a fight with a tailor?"
"Like someone who could actually pass for a wedding guest." She reaches up, batting my hands away from the bow tie. "Stop strangling yourself. Let me."
I stand very still as she works, trying not to notice the way her tongue peeks out when she's concentrating or how her fingers are surprisingly gentle for someone who apparently attacks plumbing with hammers.
“You clean up well, Sterling,” she murmurs.
“Do I?”
“Dangerously well.” Her voice dips slightly, her fingers stilling as she tightens the knot. “Someone’s going to start rumors if you walk around looking like that.”
Her eyes flick up to mine in the mirror—green, amused, and darkened by something that doesn’t feel like a joke.
“Let them,” I say.
The tension in the room tightens like the very knot she’s tying. We’re too close.
Her perfume is all citrus and cedar. Her chest brushes mine lightly when she leans in to adjust the dimple.
I should step back.
Instead, I let her linger.
“There,” she says, breath hitching ever so slightly. “Now you’re officially wedding-ready.”
We don’t move.
She’s still holding my tie.
I’m still holding my breath.
"There." She steps back, admiring her handiwork. "Perfect. Very believable wedding guest."
"Except for the part where I don't know anyone here."
"Just smile and nod. Compliment the bride. Avoid the groom's mother—she's already three mimosas in and getting handsy."
"Handsy?"
"She grabbed my handyman Tommy's ass twice during the flower delivery."
"Wonderful."
We stand there for a moment, her looking at me in the ridiculous tuxedo, me trying to remember why this was a bad idea. Then someone pounds on the door.
"Sage! The jazz quartet is here and they're asking about outlets!"
"Coming!" She turns back to me, all business again. "Okay, you're at Table Six with the bride's cousins from Portland. They're all in tech, so you'll have something to talk about. Your name is..." She pauses, thinking. "Lucas. Lucas..."
"Sterling. I’m not using a fake name."
"Fine, but if anyone asks, you're my plus-one."
"Your what now?"
But she's already gone, leaving me alone with my reflection and the growing certainty that I've lost control of this entire situation.
By the time I make it downstairs, the inn has been transformed.
Fairy lights twinkle from every surface, roses assault the senses from strategic locations, and enough tulle to clothe a small nation has been draped over anything that isn't moving.