For Better or For Footage: Part 2 — Destination Drama

The charter plane was the size of a luxury cigar tube, all cream leather and polished wood, and smelled faintly of jet fuel and corporate regret. It was an absurdly opulent way to travel to what Willa had been informed was a “rustic hoedown” of a wedding.

Seated across the narrow aisle, Mads raised a skeptical eyebrow at her, a silent commentary on the entire situation. Willa just smiled back, a tight, professional curve of her lips that said, I know, just go with it.

The real problem wasn’t the cramped opulence. It was the man seated next to her.

Caleb Voss was a solid, non-negotiable presence, his shoulder pressing against hers with every slight bank of the plane. He smelled of coffee and the crisp Wyoming air they’d just stepped into on the tarmac.

After their truce at the airport bar, an uneasy peace had settled between them, a quiet hum of awareness that was both thrilling and deeply inconvenient.

“So,” Caleb said, his voice a low murmur that cut through the engine’s drone.

“Ranching rivals. The Montagues and Capulets of the cattle world. You think they’ll settle their ancient grudge with a branding iron duel at the reception?”

“The bride’s family are the Callahans, and the groom’s are the McTavishes,” Willa corrected, pulling up the event profile on her tablet.

“And I’ve been assured the only branding will be on the custom cedar coasters.” She scrolled through the itinerary.

“There is, however, a ‘Whiskey & Wranglin’’ themed cocktail hour, which I’ve flagged as a potential flashpoint.”

He chuckled, a rich, surprising sound. “Flashpoint. You make it sound like a military operation.”

“A wedding is a military operation,” Willa said, her tone serious. “Logistics, diplomacy, crisis management. I’m just the general in a sensible floral dress.”

Across the aisle, Mads cleared her throat. “And I’m the head of intelligence.”

She leaned forward, her sharp green eyes zeroing in on Caleb. “Speaking of which, what’s your role in this operation, Mr. Voss? Documentarian? War correspondent?”

Mads had arrived at the private airstrip like a thunderclap, all sharp angles and sharper intuition. She’d taken one look at Caleb, assessed the easy proximity between him and Willa, and immediately shifted into bodyguard mode.

Caleb met her gaze without flinching. “Just the guy with the camera, ma’am. Recording the peace treaty for posterity.”

“Right,” Mads said, her voice dripping with disbelief. She settled back in her seat but her focus didn’t waver.

She was a hawk, and Caleb was a field mouse she suspected of grand larceny.

Willa felt a prickle of annoyance. “Mads is my partner,” she explained to Caleb, though he seemed entirely unbothered.

“She handles our marketing and digital presence. And, apparently, interrogating our colleagues.”