Chapter 28 System Restore #2
Through it all, I keep catching glimpses of Sage—directing vendors, soothing nervous relatives, preventing Buttercup's escape attempts (she's learned to open door handles).
Finally, it's time.
We line up, groomsmen in formation, as the music starts.
The barn doors open to reveal the wedding party, and my breath catches.
Not at Karina, who looks radiant.
Not at the flower girls, who are indeed tiny tyrants.
But at Sage.
Standing to the side with her clipboard, watching her hard work come together.
The afternoon light halos her hair, and she's biting her lip in that way she does when she's concentrating, and I'm completely, utterly gone for her.
"Stop staring at your girlfriend," Grayson whispers. "You're supposed to watch the bride."
“I am. Yes. Bride."
I manage to focus through the ceremony, mostly.
Callum’s Scottish royal ass tears up during the vows, Karina laughs when he fumbles the ring exchange, and someone definitely sniffles when they're pronounced husband and wife.
It might have been me.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the officiant announces, "I present Mr. and Mrs. Callum Abernathy!”
The recessional music starts, and we file out in pairs. I'm almost to the aisle when I spot Sage slipping out the side door, probably to handle some behind-the-scenes crisis.
"Cover for me," I tell Alex.
"Luke, you can't—"
But I'm already moving, following auburn hair and the scent of lavender through the side exit.
I find her in the prep kitchen, arguing with the catering manager about appetizer timing.
"The cocktail hour is sixty minutes, not forty-five," she's saying. "That means the crab cakes need to—Luke? What are you doing here?"
"Escaping."
"You can't escape,” she tosses towards me, taking off. “You're in the wedding party!"
I follow her through the staff corridor, past a server with a tray of untouched hors d’oeuvres and into the back hallway lined with mop sinks and locked storage. She’s trying to get to the reception tent to handle the cake situation.
I have…other plans.
"Sage."
"Luke, not now," she says, checking her phone and walking like she’s trying to outrun both chaos and me.
I catch her wrist, gently but firmly. “Five minutes.”
"Luke—"
I open the nearest supply closet door, tug her inside, and close it behind us with a decisive click.
The second it latches, she spins. “Are you insane?”
"Completely," I murmur, caging her between metal shelving and my body. "And absolutely fucking desperate for you."
She opens her mouth to object. I cover it with mine.
The kiss is savage. Starved.
Two weeks of trying to be good, trying to be respectful, trying to keep our hands off each other during every single wedding task—from folding linens to wrangling a criminal goat—have built up to this.
And this?
This is not good. Or respectful.
This is me pressing her against a wall of paper towel cases and whispering against her lips, "Tell me to stop and I will. But if you don’t, I’m going to bend you over that folding table and make you forget your name."
Her breath hitches. “We can’t—we’re at a wedding—”
"I know," I growl, dragging my hand up the back of her thigh beneath her dress. “Which is why you need to be quiet when I make you come.”
Her eyes flutter. “Oh my god.”
"Not even close." I kiss her again, deeper this time, pulling her leg up around my waist, grinding against her until she moans into my mouth.
I shove a case of bulk napkins aside and lift her onto the steel prep table, dress riding high on her hips, her hair unraveling from its pins like she’s coming undone just for me.
"Look at you," I murmur, kissing my way down her neck, tasting her skin. "Bossing everyone around out there like a goddess…and in here, you're already soaking for me."
“Luke—”
"Say it," I rasp. "Say you want me to fuck you in this closet like the dirty little secret we both know this is."
Her pupils grow as large as saucers. “I want you.”
"That’s my girl," I groan, reaching under her dress, dragging her panties down her thighs slowly, reverently—like I’ve been fantasizing about this moment for fourteen sleepless nights.
"I’ve been hard for you all goddamn day.
Watching you run this wedding like a fucking empress while I try not to imagine you underneath me. "
"I’ve been thinking about it too," she breathes. "All week. Every time you touched my back. Every time you whispered in my ear. Every time you looked at me like that."
“Like I wanted to bury my cock inside you and never leave?”
She whimpers. I growl.
I unbuckle, unzip, and hiss when I finally slide into her heat.
Tight. Wet. So fucking ready for me.
She bites her lip, probably to keep from screaming.
"Fuck, Sage," I groan, gripping her hips. “My darling, you were made for me."
Her nails dig into my shoulders as I thrust, slow and deep. Her dress is bunched around her waist, her heels still on, and her breath comes in ragged gasps between kisses.
"I’ve got you," I whisper against her mouth. "Let go for me, baby. Let me feel you fall apart."
And she does.
Body trembling, breath breaking, she clamps around me with a soft, choked sound of surrender that damn near undoes me.
But I’m not done.
Not until I drive into her one more time—rougher now, more frantic—and spill with a guttural curse against her throat.
For a long moment, neither of us moves.
The only sound is our breathing and the soft rustle of her dress as I hold her close, forehead resting against hers.
Finally, she whispers, “That was… definitely not on the schedule.”
“I’ll file a change request,” I murmur, brushing sweaty hair from her face. “Item one: more supply closet sex.”
She laughs, breathless and glowing. “We’re insane.”
“No,” I say, kissing her nose, “we’re in love. Big difference.”
A pause. Then she says, quietly, “Yeah. We are.”
And just like that, I’m ruined all over again.
That is, until the closet door bangs open.
We spring apart like magnets to find Mira wide-eyed in the doorway.
"Sorry! So sorry! But—" She's trying not to laugh. "Buttercup escaped bathroom jail and she's in the reception tent and I think she's eating the wedding cake."
"Of course she is," Sage sighs.
Fixing ourselves—and our clothes, we run for the tent, finding chaos.
Buttercup has indeed discovered the cake table and is methodically working her way through the bottom tier while guests scramble back and wedding photographers frantically document the disaster.
"This is perfect!" one photographer shouts. "So authentic! Very Pacific Northwest!"
"Buttercup!" Sage lunges for the goat, who dances away with surprising agility for someone mid-cake consumption. "Drop the cake!"
"Is traditions!" Karina's mother calls out, now on her third glass of wine. "In Armenia, goats at weddings mean fertility!"
"That's not a thing," someone mutters.
"Is now thing!"
Connor and Karina are laughing, which is good.
The tiny tyrant flower girls are chasing Buttercup with their baskets, which is chaos.
And I'm standing there watching the woman I love wrestle a goat away from designer fondant while wearing a cocktail dress and heels.
"Need help?" I offer.
"What I need," she pants, finally getting hold of Buttercup's collar, "is a normal life. With normal problems. And no livestock."
"Where's the fun in that?"
She glares at me, but she's fighting a smile, flustered again. "We're in the middle of a goat-related cake crisis!"
"Best time for declarations of love."
Callum appears beside us, bow tie askew, grinning like a fool. “Fucking hell, this is the best wedding ever."
"Your cake is ruined," Sage says apologetically.
"My wedding has a story," he corrects. "Look at Karina. She's cry-laughing. That's worth a thousand perfect cakes."
And she is.
The bride is clutching her mother, tears streaming down her face as she watches Buttercup finish destroying three months of cake planning.
"Plus," Callum adds, "Mac already has backup dessert. Something about Nonna Flora insisting no one goes without dolce."
"Thank god for Italian grandmothers," I mutter.
"Amen," Sage agrees, still holding Buttercup who's now trying to lick frosting off Sage's dress. "Okay, crisis managed. Sort of. Luke, back to groomsmen duties. I need to coordinate backup dessert service and possibly apologize to everyone in three languages."
"Sage—"
"Go," she orders. "Be a best man. Dance with bridesmaids. Do wedding things that don't involve molesting the event coordinator."
"I wasn't molesting—"
“Supply closet,” she reminds me. "Very molesty."
"You weren't complaining."
"I was—there were—just go!"
I go, but not before stealing one more kiss that makes her squeak indignantly.
My phone buzzes as I’m helping Sage shoo Buttercup away from the chocolate fountain.
A message from Nana Sterling.
Kevin’s in town this week. He’d like to meet again. Just thought you’d like to know.
I stare at the screen for a moment before tucking the phone away.
Not today.
But maybe soon.
Because I’m finally ready to stop living like someone’s about to betray me.
And start living like someone who deserves love in return.
The rest of the reception flows smoothly, probably because Sage is a wizard and definitely because Mac's backup dessert is better than any wedding cake.
I give my best man speech without crying (mostly), dance with the required bridesmaids (briefly), and spend the rest of the night watching Sage work her magic.
She's everywhere.
Adjusting flowers, cuing music, managing vendors, preventing Buttercup from eating the centerpieces.
She's magnificent in her competence. Completely beautiful in her chaos.
And I’m so goddamned in love with her my heart could burst out of my chest.
"You're staring again," Grayson comments during a brief break between dancing sets.
"I'm appreciating."
"You're planning. Plotting.” He grins. "I know that look. Saw it in the mirror before I proposed to Roz."
"It's too soon."
"Says who?"
"Logic. Reason. The fact that our relationship started with fraud."
"And Connor's started in Vegas," he points out. "Alex literally got food poisoning from Mac. Callum's began with a social media disaster. None of us did it normally."
"We have a goat who eats wedding cakes."
"Exactly. You're already weird. Might as well make it official."
I watch Sage across the room, laughing with Karina's sisters, her hair coming loose from its pins, frosting on her dress from Buttercup's assault.
She catches me looking and winks, quick and flirty and just for me.
"I need a ring," I tell Grayson.
"Now we're talking."
"And a plan."
"Definitely."
"And probably a better goat containment system."
"Essential for any proposal." He claps my shoulder. "Welcome to the club, Sterling. The last bachelor officially falls."
And as I watch Sage wrangle our disaster goat while coordinating Connor's perfect day, I realize I'm perfectly happy to fall.
As long as she's there to catch me.
Preferably without Buttercup's help.
But honestly, even with it.