Chapter 30 Logan
LOGAN
After the rehearsal dinner last night, Savannah went back to stay with Emma at the lodge because of some bride tradition about not seeing each other until the wedding day.
Which means the three of us spent the night pacing around our place like caged wolves, completely unable to settle without her there.
Turns out, after days of having Savannah back in our bed, sleeping without her feels like trying to breathe underwater.
Griff tossed and turned all night before finally giving up and making coffee at four in the morning.
Xavier reorganized his entire closet twice and then started alphabetizing the spice rack.
And me? I rebuilt the fucking deck railing that was already perfect because I needed something to do with my hands.
The coffee tastes like shit this morning, but then again, everything tastes off when you're missing a piece of your pack.
I stare at my reflection in the black surface of my mug and wonder how the hell we're supposed to function for an entire day without our omega when we can barely handle one night.
I’m shocked, because once again there are no takeout containers from last night, it’s as if Griff has learned to clean up after himself, not just one time but all the time now.
His sandalwood scent carries hints of sawdust and that particular brand of morning arrogance that means he's expecting someone else to deal with his mess while he swans off to build houses for people who actually pay him to give a damn.
Xavier's already at the stove making eggs.
The man's perfectly dressed despite the early hour, his dark hair styled like he's heading to perform surgery instead of examining house pets with runny noses.
His cool mint scent mixes with the expensive cologne he insists on wearing even when he's going to get covered in animal hair and antiseptic.
Probably irons his fucking underwear too.
"You look like death warmed over," Xavier observes without turning around, because apparently his veterinary training includes diagnosing sleep-deprived alphas at fifty paces.
"Thanks for the pep talk, doc. Really feeling the pack solidarity this morning.
" I drain my coffee and immediately regret it when it tastes like burnt disappointment.
"Next time Emma wants to follow some ridiculous tradition about not seeing the bride before the wedding, someone else can volunteer to sleep alone. "
My phone buzzes with a text from her:
Emma: Logan, can you and the boys handle some logistics today? Savannah's drowning in crises and I need my wedding planner functional, not having a breakdown in the supply closet.
I show the text to Xavier and Griff, who immediately goes into what I call his "business mode" where he starts pacing around the kitchen as if planning world domination.
"What kind of crises are we talking about?" Griff asks, already reaching for his phone and probably making mental lists of people he can charm into solving impossible problems.
That's when my phone rings. Savannah's ringtone, the one I never changed because I'm apparently a masochistic bastard who enjoys emotional torture.
"Logan?" Her voice sounds frayed around the edges, like she's been chewing on broken glass all morning.
"I know you're probably busy getting ready, but I need help and Emma said you guys might be able to handle some things because everything is going to hell and I'm about five minutes away from setting something on fire just to watch it burn. "
The words tumble out so fast I can barely keep up, but I can hear the edge of panic underneath the professional competence she's trying to maintain. My chest does this protective thing it always does whenever she sounds upset, that need to fix whatever's hurting her.
"Slow down, babes. Whatever you need, we’ve got it!” The pet name slips out before I can stop it, and there's a pause on the other end that makes me want to crawl under a rock and die. "What do you need?"
She takes a shaky breath. "Programs. Rita was supposed to pick them up yesterday but got drunk instead.
Photographer's running late because of the mountain roads.
Musicians set up in the ceremony space instead of the cocktail area.
Someone's car is blocking the catering truck.
Half the bouquets froze to death in the florist's truck. And that's just the last hour."
I'm already grabbing my keys and boots, because when Savannah needs help, my brain bypasses everything else and goes straight into fix-it mode. That's what you do for your omega, for your pack. You show up.
"We've got it," I tell her, and I can hear the relief in her exhale. "Focus on keeping Emma from having a complete meltdown. Leave the logistics to us."
After I hang up, Xavier and Griff are both staring at me with identical expressions of determination mixed with that protective alpha instinct that kicks in whenever our omega is stressed.
"Programs first," I announce, because action is better than standing around having feelings about the fact that Savannah just called me for help.
"I'll handle pickup and delivery," I say, because driving gives me something to do with my hands and keeps me from thinking too hard about the way Savannah said my name. "Xavier, can you deal with the photographer situation?"
Xavier nods, already pulling up contacts on his phone. "Stuart Morrison, right? I went to school with his brother. I'll coordinate with him about alternate routes up the mountain and maybe see if we can arrange for someone to escort him if the roads are tricky."
My phone buzzes with another text.
Emma: Also, can someone please relocate the musicians without causing a diplomatic incident? They're lovely people but apparently can't read setup instructions.
"Musicians," I announce, showing them the text.
"I'll handle that," Griff says. “They’re just like contractors. You have to speak their language and make them think moving was their idea all along."
We're operating like the pack we are now, dividing responsibilities and covering each other's weaknesses.
It feels right in a way that makes my chest warm, because this is exactly what we're supposed to be doing.
Taking care of our omega, supporting each other, making sure the people we love don't have to carry everything alone.
I'm halfway to town when my phone rings again. This time it's Xavier.
"Photographer situation handled," he reports. "Stuart's already on his way. I arranged for Jake Thompson to meet him at the base of the mountain with chains for his tires and local knowledge of which routes are actually passable. He'll be at the venue within the hour."
"What about the car blocking the catering truck?"
"Already on it. Called the venue, talked to Ted. Apparently it's his girlfriend's car and she's too hungover to move it herself. I convinced him that being the hero who saves catering is exactly the kind of thing that impresses girls."
Sometimes I forget how fucking smart Xavier is at reading people and figuring out exactly what motivates them.
At the copy shop, Melissa greets me with the kind of efficiency that makes me remember why Griff keeps a mental database of useful people to call in emergencies.
She's got the programs laid out for approval, perfectly formatted and printed on paper that looks way more expensive than it probably was.
"Griff said this was for Emma's wedding," she says, carefully stacking the finished programs into neat boxes. "That girl taught my daughter in kindergarten. Sweet as pie and patient as a saint. No charge for the rush job."
I try to pay her anyway, but she waves me off with the kind of stubborn determination that tells me arguing will just waste time I don't have.
"Tell Griff he still owes me dinner though," she adds with a grin that makes me wonder exactly what kind of favor he helped her with.
On the drive back up the mountain, I get a call from Griff.
"Musician situation sorted," he announces with the satisfaction of someone who's just pulled off a minor miracle.
"Turns out they were confused because someone gave them an old copy of the setup instructions from before we changed the layout.
I explained the new plan, helped them move their equipment, and they're now perfectly positioned for cocktail hour.
Also, they think the venue is gorgeous and want to book it for a recording session next month. "
"Because of course they do," I mutter, but I'm grinning despite myself. Griff could probably convince people to pay him for the privilege of solving their problems.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Emma : Catering truck freed, photographer arrived and is setting up, musicians relocated successfully. You guys are miracle workers. But now Savannah's freaking out about some florist crisis?
I immediately call Xavier, because if anyone can figure out emergency flower solutions, it's the guy who spends his days convincing anxious patients that everything's going to be okay.
"Already on it," he says before I can even explain. "Called my cousin Maria who runs the flower shop in Millbrook. She's loading up every white and blush arrangement she has in stock and driving them up herself. Should be there in forty minutes."
"What about the frozen ones?"
"I talked to the original florist. He's bringing what survived the trip for the ceremony arrangements, and Maria's covering cocktail hour and reception centerpieces. It'll actually look better than the original plan because we'll have more variety."
Sometimes I think Xavier's superpower is making disasters sound like improvements.