Chapter 22 Savannah
SAVANNAH
I'm stress-sorting Emma's vendor contact list for the third time in an hour.
Inhale. Breathe. Hydrate.
Even Ben & Jerry's cookie dough isn't able to calm me down. Nor is the chocolate brownie, and that always does the trick. Still, one tub of each flavor later, and still nothing. Two tubs and I'll be throwing up and having an early night.
I can't. I won't. I'm determined to fix this problem if it makes me put on a couple of pounds in a day.
Hell, I'll even go for five pounds. Forget the Biggest Loser, I could easily be a contestant in the Biggest Heaviest. Or the biggest ice cream eating contest. Breathe.
Focus. This isn't about ice cream, but the wedding.
Your best friends. But there's no fucking venue in Pine Hollow that can hold a wedding for almost a thousand people.
The dining room table looks like a bomb went off in a Staples store.
Vendor contracts scattered across every available surface in what I'm generously calling an organizational system but which probably looks like chaos to anyone with functioning eyes.
My laptop displays the seventeenth venue rejection email of the day, this one from a place that apparently booked their last available wedding slot sometime during the Clinton administration and won't have an opening until the heat death of the universe.
I've got colored pens arranged by importance, which is definitely a sign of mental stability.
Sticky notes that have formed their own ecosystem across the table surface.
Enough coffee cups to caffeinate a small army, though judging by the caffeine jitters currently making my hands shake, I might have already consumed enough coffee to power a small city.
The guest list sits in front of me like a living document of doom, having achieved sentience sometime around guest number seven hundred and fifty and actively plotting against my sanity ever since.
Every time I think I've got a final count, three more cousins appear out of nowhere like wedding planning gremlins.
This is why none of this makes sense. Everyone can come, apparently.
Emma's third cousins twice removed? Sure, bring them along, the more the merrier.
Dax's college roommate's brother who they met once at a barbecue?
Why not invite his entire extended family while we're at it.
That random person they met at a grocery store who seemed nice? Absolutely, send them a save the date.
And I'm supposed to be organizing this disaster alone while the actual pack members have mysteriously vanished like they're allergic to responsibility.
Where's the best man? Gone, disappeared into the ether the moment actual work needed to be done.
The groomsmen? Also gone, probably hiding somewhere until the crisis passes and they can reappear for the fun parts.
The bridesmaids? The alphas sisters vanished like they've been raptured, leaving behind only their promises to "help with whatever you need" and then becoming mysteriously unavailable the moment I actually need help.
Meanwhile, the bride is having a complete emotional breakdown about whether she's picked the right pack, calling me every thirty minutes to ask if I think Dax really loves her or if he's just settling for a convenient omega.
And I can't even reassure her because honestly?
I don't know the answer to that question myself.
I'm not exactly an expert on functional pack relationships, considering my own romantic history reads like a cautionary tale about poor decision-making and the alphas who enable it.
I've been home alone for the past three hours, ever since Xavier got called away for emergency surgery and somehow dragged Logan and Griff into some mysterious pack meeting that apparently couldn't wait until tomorrow.
They left me here with a phone that won't stop ringing with more venue rejections, a dining room that looks like a hurricane hit a wedding planning store, and the growing certainty that Emma's wedding is going to be held in a Walmart parking lot with folding chairs and a boom box playing the wedding march.
Thank you, universe, for this delightful Saturday afternoon of professional humiliation and caffeine-induced panic attacks.
The sound of vehicles in the driveway jerks my head up from my color-coded catastrophe, pen frozen halfway through my "venues that have crushed my dreams" spreadsheet. Multiple engines. Either they've been off at some secret alpha retreat or they've cooked up a plan that's about to derail my day.
I hover by the hallway like a dog that just heard the treat bag crinkle, too curious to sit back down but not quite ready to fling the door open myself.
Through the window, I catch Logan's jeep rolling in behind Xavier's spotless BMW, with Griff's paint-splattered work truck bringing up the rear like a stubborn stain on a white shirt.
Then the door blasts open as if subtlety died a long time ago, and Logan's voice bellows through the house like a man auditioning for "Not Pack Alpha: The Musical."
"Savannah!"
There's something off about his usual controlled vibe, something that makes my stress-fried brain finally perk up. He's in his good jeans, the ones that probably should come with a warning label, instead of his usual work clothes.
Behind him, Griff appears in the doorway like an overgrown golden retriever who just found the park for the first time.
Paint-splattered boots that have survived more job sites than any safety manual, jeans barely holding on by willpower and maybe a prayer, and a flannel shirt so broken-in it could be a security blanket.
He's practically buzzing with energy, shifting on his feet like he's about to explode if he doesn't spill whatever news he's got.
Xavier brings up the rear, still in his hospital scrubs but moving with a purpose that says whatever they've been up to actually worked.
His usually perfect posture is a bit looser, and his minty cologne carries hints of satisfaction and something like excitement.
His hair is even a little messy, which for Xavier is basically a scandal.
They all move toward the dining room table, looking like they've either cured world hunger or cracked time travel, which given our current disaster of a venue hunt would be a hell of a help.
"We found a venue!" Logan announces, entering the room with three quick strides that eat up the distance between the doorway and my disaster zone with the efficiency of someone who's used to moving fast when lives are on the line.
I blink. Once. Twice.
"Found a venue how?" I ask carefully, because in my experience, when three alphas look this pleased with themselves, someone's about to suggest something that involves either heavy machinery, potential property damage, or both.
"Because I've called every available space in a fifty-mile radius, and unless you've discovered a magical venue fairy who grants wishes to desperate wedding planners, I'm not sure how this is mathematically possible. "
Griff moves around the table, stepping over scattered contracts with the careful precision of someone navigating a minefield of important documents and caffeine-stained surfaces.
"Come on," he says, reaching for my hand with fingers that are definitely cleaner than usual, which suggests he actually washed up before coming to deliver whatever news has them all grinning like maniacs.
"Living room. We need to explain this properly. I can't think with all this mess."
Is he for real now?
"What?" I ask, but I'm already standing up and letting him guide me away from my organized chaos, partly because I'm curious, and his hand is warm and slightly callused and the contact is the first reassuring thing that's happened to me all day.
"And why do you all look like you've just solved world hunger? "
"Because we've solved part of it for the wedding, so everyone can eat and attend," Xavier says, following us toward the living room with the measured steps of someone who's trying very hard to contain his excitement and mostly failing.
His usual clinical precision has given way to something that looks suspiciously like barely restrained joy.
They guide me to the living room like I'm some kind of invalid who can't be trusted to walk without supervision, which honestly might not be wrong considering my current mental state and the amount of caffeine currently coursing through my system.
The living room feels like a sanctuary compared to the disaster zone I've created in the dining room, all comfortable furniture and warm lighting that doesn't include spreadsheets or color-coded organizational systems.
Logan settles onto the couch beside me, close enough that I can smell his cedar and smoke scent mixed with something that might be satisfaction and definitely includes traces of whatever cologne he wears that makes my brain go temporarily offline.
Griff claims the armchair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees like he's about to deliver the most important news of his life and can barely contain himself long enough to get the words out.
Xavier takes his usual spot in the other chair, but instead of his normal perfect posture, he's practically bouncing with nervous energy.
"The Snowpeak Resort," Xavier says, adjusting his glasses with precise movements that somehow manage to look excited instead of clinical.
I stare at him for a long moment, waiting for the punchline that surely has to be coming.
"The abandoned ski resort," I say slowly, just to make sure we're talking about the same nightmare property I'm thinking of.
"That's the one," Griff says cheerfully, like we're discussing a charming bed and breakfast instead of a structure that probably violates several international building codes and possibly a few laws of physics.