Chapter 28 System Restore
SYSTEM RESTORE
Two weeks later
LUKE
Two weeks have changed so damn much.
Two weeks of figuring out how to merge lives, manage a goat, and navigate a relationship that started with fraud and somehow evolved into something real.
Two weeks of waking up next to auburn hair and impossibly soft skin and a woman who sleep-talks about spreadsheets.
Best two weeks of my life.
“Aye, lad. While ye stop smiling like that?” Callum questions in a particularly Scottish brogue, still fighting with his tie. "It's unseemly."
"Like what?"
"Like you've been getting laid regularly by someone who adores you." Grayson appears in the doorway, already holding champagne despite the ceremony not starting for two hours. "It's disgusting. We're supposed to be cynical bastards together."
"You're married," I point out.
“Didn’t change my cynicism. Now I’m just cynical about everything except love." He hands Callum the champagne. "Liquid courage. Karina's little cousins are terrifying."
“Killian should be the one terrified,” Connor mutters, emerging from the bathroom in a cloud of cologne. “Half the single women here already clocked him during rehearsal. The man’s two weeks officially divorced and radiating ‘please wreck me’ energy.”
“He’s refusing to dance with anyone under thirty-five,” Alex adds, not looking up from his phone. “Claims he’s allergic to ‘influencer energy.’”
"He's lurking by the espresso bar like a villain in a noir film," Grayson says. "I give it thirty minutes before someone throws themselves at him or he ends up accidentally engaged."
“He needs to get laid,” Callum mutters. “Like...properly. With someone who doesn’t use the phrase ‘alpha vibes’ unironically.”
“Maybe tonight,” I say. “Stranger things have happened at this inn.”
“Exactly. Now, what are we going to do about those tiny tyrants with flower baskets?” Grayson shudders. "They've already critiqued my boutonniere three times."
Alex enters, phone pressed to his ear, gesturing wildly. "No, Mac, we cannot add a pasta station an hour before—yes, I know Nonna Flora offered—Mac, the inn has a kitchen the size of a—"
He stops, notices us watching.
"Everything pure barry, mate?” Callum asks.
“Yeah, sure. Just that, uh, Mac's gone full Italian grandmother. She's trying to supplement the catering because she's worried people will starve." He returns to the phone. "Honey, it's a four-course meal. No one's starving."
Outside, the ceremony lawn has been reimagined into a winter dreamscape.
A heated transparent tent rises over the aisle like a crystal cathedral, draped in floor-to-ceiling garlands of fresh pine, eucalyptus, and roses so rare they had to be flown in from Ecuador and sprayed with misted gold.
Ice sculptures shaped like thistles (a nod to Callum’s Scottish roots) frame the entrance, while a twelve-piece string ensemble warms up beneath a chandelier made entirely of hanging crystals and fairy lights.
The guests? Already Instagramming the setup like it’s the Met Gala.
And somewhere in the crowd: Sage.
Running point with a clipboard, an earpiece, and wearing a deep green dress that makes her look like a forest goddess, her ruby-hued hair pinned up in a way that makes me think very unceremonious thoughts.
"You're doing it again," Callum notes.
"What?"
"Staring at Sage like you want to eat her."
"I'm admiring her event coordination skills."
"Is that what we're calling it?" Grayson smirks. "Because from here it looks like you're planning to defile her behind the altar."
"I would never—"
"You absolutely would," all three chorus.
Before I can defend my honor, Connor glances at his phone. “Oof. Crisis. Major crisis."
"What now?" Callum sighs.
"Buttercup."
We all turn to stare at him.
"The goat?" I ask. "What about her?"
"She's eaten Karina's niece’s ring bearer pillow. The one that's been in her family for generations. The one her grandmother hand-embroidered in Armenia.”
I exhale, straightening my tie. “Of course she has.”
"Karina's trying not to cry, her mother is speaking rapid Armenian that I'm pretty sure includes curses, and the goat looks unrepentant."
"Where's Sage?" I'm already moving toward the door.
"Trying to extract heritage lace from Buttercup's digestive system."
I find them in the getting-ready cottage.
Sage on her knees trying to reason with Buttercup.
Callum’s soon-to-be wife Karina in her wedding dress looking torn between tears and murder.
And Karina's mother gesturing dramatically while switching between two languages.
"—three hundred years this pillow is in our family! Three hundred years! And now is goat food!"
"Buttercup, drop it," Sage pleads. "Please. I'll give you anything. Premium alfalfa. Those organic treats you like. My firstborn child."
"Don't promise her children," I say, entering the fray. "She'll hold you to it."
Sage looks up, clutching her chest. "Thank god. Your goat is committing crimes against Scottish and Armenian heritage."
"Our goat," I correct, crouching beside her. "We have joint custody, remember?"
"I want a divorce. I'm keeping the inn, you're keeping the criminal mastermind."
Buttercup, sensing she's the center of attention, screams proudly through a mouthful of antique lace.
"Buttercup," I use my stern voice. "Drop it."
She tilts her head, considering, then very deliberately swallows.
"No!" Karina wails.
"Is okay!" Her mother throws up her hands. "Is just thing. We make new tradition. American tradition. With no goats!"
"But Nonna's pillow—"
"Nonna also once used her wedding dress to strain tomatoes during the war. She understand." She pats Karina's cheek. "You marry good man. Is what matters. Not pillow eaten by Satan's lamb."
"Hey," Sage tries to explain. "Buttercup's not Satan's lamb. She's just... enthusiastically omnivorous."
"I'll get you a new pillow," I tell Karina. "Rush delivery. Whatever you need."
"It won't be the same," she sniffles.
"No," her mother agrees. "Will be better. Will have story. 'Remember when goat ate Nonna's pillow?' Good story. Funny story. Better than boring pillow no one remembers."
Karina laughs wetly. “Callum’s going to think I'm insane."
"Callum’s marrying into a family where goats eat heirlooms," I say. "He knows what he signed up for."
"Speaking of Cal,” Sage checks her watch. "Ceremony starts in ninety minutes. Everyone needs to finish getting ready. Karina, back to hair and makeup. Mrs. Peters, the photographers want family photos in twenty minutes. Luke, you should be with the groomsmen. And Buttercup—"
"Goes in goat jail," I finish.
"We don't have a goat jail," Sage points out.
"We have a bathroom with a very secure lock."
"You can't lock her in the bathroom!"
"Watch me."
What follows is a ten-minute wrestling match between man and goat, with Sage alternating between helping and hindering while trying not to wrinkle her dress.
We finally get Buttercup secured in the accessible bathroom with enough hay and water to keep her occupied and fewer heirlooms to destroy.
I watch Sage fuss with her hair and mutter about goat jail like it’s just another item on her to-do list.
And suddenly, I can’t breathe.
Not in the bad way. Not in the panic-attack, someone-is-leaving-me-again kind of way.
In the ‘I never thought I’d have this’ kind of way.
Because two years ago, if you'd told me I’d be in a goat-filled inn with a woman who lied to get me here, and I’d still feel safer than I’ve ever felt in my life?
I would’ve laughed you out of the server room.
But now?
I feel something I haven’t in a long time.
Peace.
And maybe that’s what my own version of forgiveness looks like.
Not a dramatic confrontation. Not a breakdown or a fight or some kind of epiphany.
Maybe it’s just the ability to let go of what hurt you.
To love someone in the now, not through the filter of every scar you’ve ever collected.
I let Veronica go. I let Kevin go.
Not because they deserve it.
But because I do.
"This is animal cruelty," Sage pants, leaning against the door.
"This is preventing an international incident." I straighten my tie, which Buttercup managed to partially eat during our struggle. “All of Armenia might declare war if she eats anything else."
"Don't be dramatic."
"Says the woman who promised our goat her firstborn."
"Our theoretical firstborn," she corrects, then freezes. "I mean—not our—just—"
"Sage."
"I wasn't implying we would have children. Together. Just that if I had children, which I might not, they would be—"
I kiss her, partly to stop the rambling and mostly because she's beautiful and flustered and mine.
"Better?" I ask when we part.
"Temporarily." She touches her lips. "But now my lipstick's smudged and we have a wedding to coordinate and you can't just kiss me every time I panic about the future."
"Can't I?"
"No. It's impractical. And we have schedules to maintain." But she's smiling, that soft smile that makes me want to forget about the wedding entirely.
"Later," I promise. "After the ceremony. We'll discuss our theoretical children and my kissing privileges."
"Bold of you to assume you have privileges."
"Don't I?"
She pretends to consider. "Probationary privileges. Pending review."
"I'll take it."
"Now go," she pushes me toward the door. "Connor needs his best man, and I need to make sure this wedding happens without further livestock incidents."
I head back to the groomsmen's suite, finding my friends in various states of readiness. Callum's achieved tie success, Grayson's on his second champagne, Alex is negotiating pasta quantities, and Connor’s practicing his reading.
"Goat situation?" Callum asks.
"Contained. Literally. She's in bathroom jail."
"That seems harsh."
"She ate a three-hundred-year-old family heirloom."
"That seems fair."
The next hour passes in a blur of photos, boutonniere adjustments, and Grayson's increasingly creative toasts he's not supposed to be giving.