Chapter 29 Savannah
SAVANNAH
Inearly tumble down the reclaimed oak staircase like a human avalanche, clutching my tablet like it's the last lifeline on the Titanic.
Which, considering the way this morning is going, might actually be an accurate comparison.
My heels are basically tap dancing morse code for "SOS" against Logan's perfectly refinished floors.
The first thing I spot makes my stomach drop faster than my credit score after a Target run. Tyler Brooks, Emma's seventeen-year-old cousin, is circling the refreshment table like a shark who's smelled blood. Except instead of blood, it's champagne. Sweet baby Jesus, not today.
Tyler is that special brand of teenage beta boy who thinks he's God's gift to womankind.
You know the type. Hair that screams "I woke up like this" but probably took two hours and half a bottle of product to achieve.
The kind of cocky confidence that only exists when you've never had your heart stomped on by three alphas who apparently thought collecting pieces of your soul was a fun hobby.
Focus, Savannah! You have a job to do.
Outside the massive windows, snow is starting to dust the pine trees like the mountain is getting ready for its close-up. The weather wasn't supposed to turn until tonight, but Mother Nature apparently didn't get the memo about my carefully planned timeline. Typical.
Tyler's trying to impress Madison Park, the sheriff's daughter, who looks like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth but has the kind of glint in her blue eyes that says she's probably started at least three small fires just for fun.
She's giggling while Tyler waves around what looks like the world's most obvious fake ID.
I've seen more convincing identification on cereal boxes.
"Tyler Brooks!" I bark, and both kids jump like they've been caught setting something on fire. Which, knowing teenagers, they probably have. "Put that champagne down before I call your mother and tell her you're trying to get drunk at your cousin's wedding!"
Tyler nearly drops the bottle, and I watch his whole cool guy act crumble faster than my attempt at being a chocolatier. "Come on, Savannah, it's a wedding! Everyone drinks at weddings!"
"Everyone over twenty-one drinks at weddings, genius. You're seventeen, which means your liver is still basically a toddler and your mother will literally skin me alive if I let you pickle it on my watch."
That's when Jake Thompson makes his grand entrance, stomping snow off his boots like he's auditioning for a lumberjack calendar. "Hey, Savannah! Great venue. Really... classy."
The way he says "classy" with all the subtlety of a foghorn makes my omega senses tingle. "Jake Thompson, what did you do?"
His face turns red enough to guide Santa's sleigh. "Okay, fine! Tyler dared me to grab a few beers, but we weren't going to drink them all! Just... you know... quality control."
"Here's what's going to happen," I announce, channeling every ounce of authority I've learned from three years of substitute teaching and eight years of managing wedding disasters.
I point toward the parking lot with my tablet like it's a weapon.
"Jake, you're returning that beer to whatever car you stole it from.
Tyler, you're helping the catering staff.
Madison, you're checking flower arrangements.
And all three of you are staying away from anything stronger than sparkling apple juice until after the ceremony, or I'm calling all your parents and telling them you tried to turn Emma's wedding into a frat party. "
They scatter like roaches when the lights come on, leaving me feeling like I just won a small war through sheer force of omega stubbornness.
That's when I spot the next crisis brewing, and I swear my stress levels spike so high they probably register on seismic equipment in three neighboring counties.
The Matchmaking Committee has set up what can only be described as a romantic CIA operation.
Beverly Hartwell, who runs the bakery and apparently moonlights as Pine Hollow's answer to Cupid, has positioned herself with a clear view of everything.
And she has binoculars. Actual binoculars.
Like she's bird watching, except the birds are unmated people and she's searching for love connections.
"Ladies." I approach their table with what I hope is a friendly smile but probably looks more like a grimace. "How's everyone doing this morning?"
Beverly looks up from her binoculars like a general surveying a battlefield. "Savannah! Perfect timing. We've been conducting some reconnaissance."
Reconnaissance. Because that's not terrifying at all.
"Linda Sue has identified at least three unmated alphas who would be perfect for Jessica," Beverly continues with the seriousness of a war correspondent.
"Carol Anne thinks the energy between the florist's assistant and the photographer is absolutely divine, and Rose has been tracking scent compatibility patterns. "
Scent compatibility patterns. They're literally analyzing pheromones like they're running some kind of romantic chemistry lab.
Rose clears her throat like she's about to drop a bomb.
I escape before my name comes into the conversation, but I can feel their knowing looks burning into my back like laser beams of romantic speculation.
I practically sprint toward the staircase, my heels clicking frantically against the polished floors.
I go back up the stairs, and just let it all out to the bride.
I should keep it to myself, but she should be aware that her Christmas Eve wedding of the year is going to be far from perfect.
My hands are shaking as I climb the stairs, and I can feel my scent shifting to that sharp, stressed omega frequency that makes everyone nervous.
I swing the doors open and blurt, "The programs don't exist, the florist's truck died somewhere on the highway, the bride is having what might be a complete nervous breakdown, the matchmaking committee is treating this wedding like their personal episode of The Bachelor, the teenagers are attempting to get drunk on stolen champagne, and the aunties are already drunk on God knows what.
But it's totally fine! Because I'm handling everything!
Like always! Because apparently I'm some kind of wedding crisis superhero, except instead of a cape, I have a tablet and crippling anxiety!
" My chest is heaving, my hair is probably a disaster, and I'm pretty sure my mascara has migrated somewhere it shouldn't be.
Someone shuts the door behind me and I hear the soft click and realize I'm probably wild-eyed and breathing like I just ran a marathon. Emma smiles at me and says, "breathe." She reaches out and gently takes my tablet from my death grip, setting it aside like she's disarming a bomb.
Universe, I'm starting to think you have a twisted sense of humor.
Drunk relatives, missing programs, snow that's arriving early, and a matchmaking committee with binoculars?
Really? What's next - are you going to make the building collapse just to see if I can juggle crisis management and CPR at the same time?