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.”

“Due diligence,” Mads called out. “Your brand is built on genuine happy endings, Willa. I’m just making sure his is, too.”

The dig was obvious, but Caleb merely smiled, a slow, infuriatingly handsome quirk of his lips.

“My brand is reality. Sometimes it’s happy. Sometimes the father-of-the-bride gets drunk and tries to rope a bridesmaid. I’m an equal-opportunity archivist.”

He was referencing the garter-snake wedding, and despite herself, Willa felt a laugh bubble up. The tension in her shoulders eased a fraction.

This was the Caleb she’d glimpsed at the airport bar—the one whose cynicism was layered over a dry, weary wit she was beginning to find dangerously appealing. The one who felt less like an adversary and more like a co-conspirator.

She was so lost in the thought that she didn’t notice his gaze had softened until she met his eyes. The teasing glint was gone, replaced by something quieter, more curious.

He was looking at her not as the uptight wedding planner, but as…Willa. The plane hit a pocket of turbulence, jostling them closer. The hum of awareness between them cranked up to a thrum.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Mads watching them, her expression grim.

***

The shuttle from the Jackson Hole airport to the luxury ranch resort was even more intimate than the plane. They were squeezed onto a leather bench seat with a groomsman who was already three mini-bottles of whiskey deep, leaving Willa, Caleb, and Mads hip-to-hip.

Mads, in a masterful display of passive aggression, had managed to wedge herself between Willa and Caleb, creating a human buffer zone.

It didn’t work.

“So,” Caleb said, leaning forward to speak across Mads, his voice pitched to carry over the groomsman’s enthusiastic humming.

“What’s the origin story of the Happily Ever After Helper? Did you save a wedding from a flock of angry swans as a child?”

Willa found herself smiling.

“Nothing that dramatic. My parents. They’ve been married for thirty-five years. They still hold hands when they watch TV and argue about who loves the other more. It’s disgusting, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I just… I wanted to help other people get their start on that.”

The confession felt raw, too earnest for the sardonic audience of one—or two, counting Mads—but Caleb didn’t mock it. He just nodded slowly, his expression unreadable as he watched the jagged, majestic peaks of the Tetons slide past the window.

“And what about you?” she asked, genuinely curious. “Did you get a Fisher-Price video camera for your fifth birthday and never look back?”

“Something like that,” he said, the deflective answer coming a little too quickly. “I just always preferred being behind the camera. You see things more clearly from a distance.”

“Or you just see what you want to see,” Mads muttered, just loud enough for them both to hear.

Willa shot her a look, a sharp mix of warning and pleading. The shuttle pulled up to the grand, log-cabin-style entrance of the Shooting Star Ranch.

As they stepped out, blinking in the bright, high-altitude sun, the sheer scale of the place hit them. Sprawling lodges, manicured lawns, and everywhere, the breathtaking, intimidating backdrop of the mountains.

“Well,” Mads said, surveying the scene. “This place has ‘family meltdown’ written all over it. The views are too nice. People feel like they have to compete.”

Before Willa could respond, Caleb had his phone out, not filming the epic landscape, but a small, tense interaction by the valet stand where a woman in a Chanel cowboy hat was berating her husband over a piece of luggage.

He was framing the shot, his brow furrowed in concentration. He wasn’t capturing the romance of the destination; he was hunting for the drama.

And in that moment, Willa felt a cold knot in her stomach. Mads was right.

***

Later, as they were unpacking in their adjoining suites—a booking “convenience” that made Mads physically shudder—her partner cornered her.

“I don’t like him, Willa.”

Willa was hanging a silk blouse, trying to project an aura of calm she did not feel. “You don’t know him, Mads.”

“I know the type. He’s a vulture. Did you see him on the plane? He wasn’t looking at the happy couples; he was watching the flight attendant deal with a guy who was complaining about the Wi-Fi. He’s looking for the cracks. For the conflict.”

Mads paced the thick Navajo-print rug, her energy filling the room. “He’s not interested in the ‘happily ever after,’ he’s interested in the train wreck that happens just before it.”

“He’s a documentarian. It’s his job to capture reality,” Willa argued, her voice weaker than she wanted it to be.

“And he helped me. Remember? With the corrupted memory card? He was genuinely panicked. He didn’t want to let the client down.”

“Or he didn’t want to lose his footage of the snake fiasco,” Mads countered, her logic as sharp and painful as a paper cut.

“Willa, be careful. That man looks at a wedding and sees a story, and I’m worried you’re becoming his leading lady.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and true. Willa hated it. She hated the doubt Mads was planting, because it was taking root in soil that was already there.

But she also hated that Mads couldn’t see the other side of him she was starting to glimpse. The flicker of vulnerability in his eyes when he talked about being behind the camera, the grudging respect he’d shown her, the way he’d made her laugh on the plane.

“He’s just cynical,” Willa said, finally turning to face her friend. “He’s been hurt. I can see it. That doesn’t make him a bad person. It just makes him… guarded.”

Mads stopped pacing and looked at her, her expression softening with concern.

“And you want to be the one to un-guard him? Willa, honey, we’re here to do a job. Our biggest one yet. The Callahan-McTavish merger is our springboard to the Newport wedding, and the Newport wedding is our ticket to Bridal Bliss. Don’t let some brooding camera guy with a chip on his shoulder jeopardize that.”

“I won’t,” Willa promised, the words tasting like a lie.

Because the truth was, Caleb Voss already felt like a risk—a risk to her focus, to her carefully constructed professional walls, and most terrifyingly, to the tidy, romantic worldview she’d built her entire life around.

That evening, from the balcony of her suite, she saw him. He was standing on the edge of the great lawn, his professional camera now mounted on a tripod.

But he wasn’t pointed toward the lodge where the rehearsal dinner preparations were underway. He was aimed at the mountains, at the last, glorious rays of alpine glow painting the peaks in shades of rose and gold.

He was still for a long time, just watching.

He wasn’t hunting for drama. He was appreciating the beauty.

And as she watched him, a silhouette against the fading light, Willa pushed Mads’ warnings away. She was captivated.

Mads saw a vulture, a cynic looking for a story. But Willa saw a man who, like her, was struck silent by a perfect sunset. And she chose to believe in that version of him. She had to.

Chapter 7: Family Feud Fallout

The air in the Jackson Hole barn was thick with the scent of pine, barbecue, and generational resentment. String lights were draped between heavy wooden beams, casting a warm, deceptive glow over the red-checkered tablecloths.

On paper, it was a charming, rustic rehearsal dinner. In reality, it was a powder keg in cowboy boots.

Willa Grant stood near the buffet table, a fixed, professional smile on her face as she watched the two families mingle with all the natural ease of wolves and sheep sharing a pen. The McAllisters—the bride’s family—were old-money ranchers, their wealth as deep-rooted and sprawling as the land they owned.

The Douglases—the groom’s side—were newer to their fortune, their success built on shrewd acquisitions and a less-than-gentlemanly approach to business that had, on more than one occasion, cut into McAllister territory.

Bride Tiffany and Groom Jackson were supposed to be the treaty, the union that finally buried the cattle-rustling, land-disputing hatchet.

“It’s like the Hatfields and McCoys, but with better dental plans,” Willa murmured to herself, subtly adjusting a centerpiece of sunflowers and barbed wire.

From across the room, Caleb Voss captured the strained tableau through his lens. He zoomed in on the bride’s father, Beau McAllister, pouring his fourth finger of whiskey while glaring at the groom’s father, Clint Douglas, who was loudly regaling a captive audience with a story about a prize-winning bull.

It was documentary gold. The forced smiles, the rigid posture, the way no one’s eyes ever quite met—it was the perfect visual metaphor for his entire thesis. Marriage wasn’t a union; it was a hostile takeover.

He panned his camera to the side, finding Willa. She was a splash of calm efficiency in the sea of simmering tension, a lighthouse in a bespoke denim jacket.

She moved through the crowd with an effortless grace, defusing a passive-aggressive argument over seating arrangements here, charming a sour-faced aunt there. He had to admit, she was damn good at her job.

Too good. She was polishing the rust off a sinking ship, making it gleam right before it went under. His lens lingered on her for a moment longer than necessary.

Mads, who had been running interference with a belligerent DJ, appeared at Willa’s side. “On a scale of one to ‘garter-snake,’ how are we feeling?”

“We’re hovering at a ‘drunken uncle making an inappropriate toast,’” Willa said, her gaze flicking back toward Beau McAllister. “But with potential for rapid escalation.”

“And Broody over there is drinking it all in,” Mads said, nodding toward Caleb. “He looks like a vulture waiting for a cow to die.”

Willa’s stomach did a little flip of protest. “He’s just doing his job, Mads.”

“His job seems to be documenting misery with an artist’s focus. Just be careful, Willa.”

Before Willa could respond, a fork clinked loudly against a glass. Beau McAllister, his face ruddy with whiskey and indignation, swayed as he stood up.

“A toast!” he boomed, his voice echoing in the sudden silence.

Willa’s smile tightened. Here we go. She began mentally running through her de-escalation protocols.

Caleb instinctively raised his camera, framing Beau in a tight shot. This was it. The inciting incident.

“I’d like to welcome you all,” Beau began, slurring slightly.

“Welcome to McAllister land. Land my great-grandfather settled with his own two hands. Not bought. Not… acquired.” He shot a pointed look at Clint Douglas, who stiffened.

A nervous cough rippled through the room. The bride, Tiffany, gave her father a pleading look.

Beau ignored her. “And I want to raise a glass to my little girl, Tiffany. She always did have a soft spot for strays.”

He smirked. “Brought home every kind of wounded creature you can imagine. And now… well, now she’s marrying a Douglas.”

The insult landed with the force of a physical blow. A collective gasp went through the Douglas side of the room. Jackson, the groom, turned beet-red.

Clint Douglas slammed his own glass down on the table. “Now you listen here, you pompous, land-rich son of a bitch—”

“Don’t you talk to my father that way!” Tiffany shrieked, tears already welling.

And just like that, the powder keg blew.

Willa sprang into action, her mind a flurry of crisis management. One: Isolate the bride. Two: Separate the patriarchs. Three: Damage control.

She started moving toward Tiffany, a calming phrase already on her lips.

Through his viewfinder, Caleb was in heaven. The raw, explosive emotion was everything his producer had been asking for.

The camera drank in the chaos: Tiffany’s mascara-streaked face, the two fathers chest-to-chest, shouting about water rights and faded bloodlines. He panned left to capture a McAllister uncle squaring up against a Douglas cousin.

This was the brutal reality behind the white lace curtain. This was his film.

He zoomed in, looking for the heart of the conflict, and his lens found Willa.

She was in the thick of it, a small but determined figure wedged between the two furious, red-faced fathers. “Gentlemen, please,” she was saying, her voice impossibly calm.

“Let’s not ruin this beautiful evening for Tiffany and Jackson.”

But they weren’t listening. Beau McAllister shoved Clint Douglas, who stumbled back into a table, sending a tray of jalapeño poppers flying.

From the periphery, another figure surged forward—a burly, wild-eyed man Willa recognized as Uncle Hank from the McAllister clan.

“You lay a hand on my brother,” Hank roared, his fist balling up as he lunged not toward Clint, but toward the space right beside Willa, trying to get at the Douglas cousin who was now helping his father up.

Caleb watched it all through the cold, impartial eye of his camera. He saw the trajectory of Hank’s arm. He saw Willa, momentarily caught off-balance, turning right into the path of the impending punch.

He saw the flicker of fear in her eyes, a brief, unguarded expression that completely shattered her professional composure.

And in that split second, something inside him snapped.

The cynical documentarian, the detached observer, the man who was supposed to be capturing this perfect, damning footage—he vanished. The world, which had been a neat, two-dimensional frame, suddenly crashed into him in three-dimensional, high-definition reality.

The sound of shouting, once just audio for his track, became a visceral roar.

He wasn’t filming a documentary anymore. He was just a man in a room where a woman he… a woman he knew… was about to get hurt.

With a curse, Caleb dropped the camera. It swung from its strap, banging against his hip. He moved without thinking, covering the ten feet between them in three long strides.

He reached them just as Uncle Hank’s arm swung forward. Caleb didn’t try to be a hero.

He didn’t throw a punch back. He simply planted his feet and became a wall, his body absorbing the drunken, clumsy force of the blow on his shoulder.

The impact sent a jolt through him, but he didn’t budge. He just stood there, a solid, unmoving presence between the aggressor and Willa.

Uncle Hank stumbled back, more surprised than anything else. The entire barn fell silent.

Every eye was on the videographer, the quiet, brooding man who had just put himself in the middle of a family war.

Willa stared, her heart hammering against her ribs. One moment, she was bracing for impact, a hot flash of panic searing through her.

The next, Caleb was there, his back to her, his broad shoulders shielding her completely. The scent of his soap—something clean and sharp, like sandalwood and bergamot—filled her senses, an anchor in the chaotic room.

He turned his head slightly, his gaze meeting hers over his shoulder. “You okay?” he asked, his voice low and steady.

She could only nod, her throat suddenly tight.

The moment of stunned silence was all she needed. Her professional instincts roared back to life.

“Okay!” she announced, her voice ringing with an authority that cut through the tension.

“Dinner is over! The bride and groom are retiring for the evening. Mads, get them out of here. Beau, Clint—you are on opposite sides of this property until morning. Everybody else, the bar is closed. Goodnight!”

Her rapid-fire commands, delivered with the precision of a drill sergeant, broke the spell. People began to shuffle away, muttering and casting resentful glares.

The brawl was over, fizzling out as quickly as it had ignited.

Willa stood amidst the wreckage—overturned chairs, spilled drinks, a weeping bride being led away by Mads. Her gaze returned to Caleb.

He hadn’t moved. He was watching her, his expression unreadable. His camera, the ever-present extension of his cynicism, hung forgotten at his side.

He hadn’t just documented the chaos. He had stepped into it. For her.

The realization hit her with a force greater than any physical punch. He had put down his camera—his entire worldview—to protect her.

The protective instinct, so raw and immediate, was something she hadn’t expected. It surprised her, and if she was being honest with herself, it thrilled her in a way that was both terrifying and profound.

Their connection, which had been a flickering spark of banter and begrudging respect, had just been doused in gasoline. As he took a step toward her, the space between them crackled with the fallout, deeper and far more dangerous than any family feud.

Chapter 8: A Moment of Honesty

The last of the feuding relatives had been herded to their respective cabins, the caterers had salvaged what they could of the trampled buffet, and the echo of shouted accusations had finally faded into the vast Wyoming night.

Willa stood on the wide timber balcony of the main lodge, leaning her forearms against the cool, rough-hewn railing. A deep, bone-weary exhaustion had settled over her, heavier than the hand-stitched quilt on the bed in her room.

Below, the valley was a deep bowl of shadow, and above, the sky was a spray of impossibly bright stars, undiluted by city lights. The sharp, clean scent of pine filled her lungs with each breath, a stark contrast to the sour smell of spilled champagne and bruised egos that still clung to the air inside.

She was so focused on the jagged silhouette of the Tetons against the starlit sky that she didn’t hear him approach until he was right beside her.

“Figured I’d find you here,” Caleb Voss said, his voice a low rumble that didn’t disturb the quiet. “Trying to will the mountains to swallow the whole damn party?”

Willa managed a faint smile without looking at him. “Tempting. Right now, I’m just trying to remember what silence sounds like.”

He set something on the railing between them with a heavy clink. A bottle of whiskey—good stuff, from the looks of the label—and two squat glasses he must have liberated from the bar.

“Found some anesthetic.”

She finally turned to face him. In the dim light filtering from the lodge, the sharp angles of his face were softened. The cynical glint in his eyes was gone, replaced by the same weariness she felt.

He’d taken off his camera harness, and without the gear serving as a shield, he looked less like a documentarian and more like just a man. A man who had, surprisingly, put down his camera to stop her client’s great-uncle from decking the father of the bride.

“You’re a lifesaver,” she said, her voice husky.

He poured a generous two fingers into each glass and pushed one toward her. “Just documenting reality. And the reality is, after a brawl like that, whiskey is a medical necessity.”

Willa wrapped her cold fingers around the glass, the smooth, weighted base a comfort in her palm. The whiskey was smoky and warm, a welcome fire that slid down her throat and began to unknot the tension coiled in her shoulders.

They drank in silence for a few moments, the only sounds the distant chirping of crickets and the soft sigh of the wind through the pines.

“I’ve never seen anything like that,” she admitted, staring into her glass.

“I’ve dealt with crying flower girls, hungover groomsmen, even a runaway ring-bearer-dog. But a full-on, Hatfield-and-McCoy-style throwdown at a rehearsal dinner? That’s a new one.”

“Give it time,” Caleb said, his tone dry. “The wedding industry is an endless font of human absurdity. You just witnessed a B-plot. I’ve seen main-event-level meltdowns.”

There it was again—that familiar, sweeping cynicism. But tonight, it sounded less like an arrogant judgment and more like a shield forged from bitter experience.

She decided to push, just a little.

“Why do you do it, then?” she asked, her voice soft. “If you think it’s all just absurdity, why spend every weekend filming it?”

He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, his gaze fixed on the distant peaks. “Pays the bills. Funds other, more important projects.” The answer was rote, the one he’d given her before.

“I don’t buy that,” Willa said, surprising herself with her own bluntness.

“Not entirely. You could do corporate videos or commercials. It has to be more than that. You don’t just dislike weddings, you… you seem offended by them.”

He let out a short, humorless laugh. “Offended. Yeah, that’s one word for it.”

He took another long swallow of whiskey, finishing his glass. He stood there for a long moment, his knuckles white where he gripped the railing.

The silence stretched, and Willa thought he was going to shut her down, to retreat behind his usual wall of sarcasm.

Instead, he spoke, his voice quiet and rough. “My own wedding cost thirty-five thousand dollars.”

Willa waited, not saying a word.

“We didn’t have it, of course. We put it on credit cards. Because her mother insisted on a hundred and fifty guests, and a specific photographer, and a six-tier cake that tasted like cardboard and regret. We fought about every single detail. The color of the napkins. The font on the invitations. The first-dance song. It wasn’t about us. It was a performance for everyone else.”

He stared out at the dark mountains as if he were seeing it all play out again.

“The whole day, I just remember feeling… hollow. Like I was watching a movie of my own life. We said the vows, we smiled for the pictures, we smashed the expensive cake into each other’s faces for a laugh. We were playing the part of a happy couple, and we played it well.”

He finally turned his head to look at her, and the raw pain in his eyes was a punch to the gut. “We were divorced eighteen months later. The credit card bills lasted longer than the marriage.”

The confession hung in the cold night air between them, stark and heavy. It wasn’t just a story; it was an origin story.

It was the key that unlocked every cynical comment, every grimly satisfied smirk he wore while filming a disaster. He wasn’t just a detached observer; he was a ghost at every feast, haunted by his own failed happily-ever-after.

“Caleb, I…” she started, but the words felt clumsy and inadequate. I’m sorry was too small.

“It’s not the love I’m offended by,” he continued, his voice lower now, as if he were sharing a secret he rarely acknowledged even to himself.

“It’s the production. The pressure. This whole industry you and I are a part of… it sells people a fantasy so expensive and so perfect that the messy, complicated reality of marriage can’t possibly live up to it. It sets them up to fail. And I just… I can’t stand watching it happen. So I film it.”

For my documentary, Willa heard the unspoken words. Suddenly, his project didn’t seem so cruel. It seemed wounded.

She felt an overwhelming urge to reach out, to place a hand on his arm, but she stayed where she was. Instead, she offered him a piece of herself in return.

“My parents got married at the county courthouse on a Tuesday afternoon,” she said softly. He looked over, his expression guarded but listening.

“My mom wore a yellow sundress she’d sewn herself. My dad was still in his mechanic’s coveralls, with grease under his fingernails. They had two witnesses they pulled from the hallway. Their wedding lunch was two hot dogs and a shared Coke from a street vendor.”

A small, genuine smile touched her lips as she pictured it. “Their wedding wasn’t a performance. There were no photographers, no cake, no first dance. There was just a promise.”

She took a sip of her own whiskey, the warmth spreading through her chest.

“My dad still wakes up ten minutes before my mom every single morning to make her coffee, just the way she likes it. He brings it to her in bed. Every. Single. Morning. For thirty-four years. When they watch TV, he’ll reach over and just hold her hand, not even thinking about it. That’s the stuff that matters. That’s the marriage.”

She looked at Caleb, her eyes earnest.

“The wedding day isn’t the destination. It’s the starting line. All this,” she gestured vaguely back toward the lodge, “the flowers, the drama, the feuding uncles… it’s just noise. My job, the way I see it, is to manage the noise so the couple can hear the music. So they can focus on the promise.”

He studied her face in the moonlight, his expression unreadable. The space between them, which had been filled with his pain and her quiet belief, now crackled with a different kind of energy.

The professional lines, the opposing philosophies, the snark and the banter—it all melted away, leaving only the two of them, standing on a balcony under a blanket of stars, having shown each other the parts of themselves they kept hidden.

He took a step closer. The scent of his whiskey and something else—something uniquely him, clean and sharp like the mountain air—surrounded her.

“You really believe that, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice a low vibration that seemed to travel right through her.

“I do,” she whispered.

His gaze dropped to her lips, and her breath caught in her throat. The world narrowed to the few inches between them.

He raised a hand, his fingers hesitating for a fraction of a second before gently brushing a stray strand of hair from her cheek. His touch was electric, a spark in the cold night that sent a shiver down her spine.

He leaned in, his eyes searching hers, and for a heart-stopping moment, she thought he was going to kiss her. She wanted him to. God, she wanted him to.

She could feel the warmth of his breath, could see the conflict in his dark eyes. It was a battle between the man who had just shared his wreckage and the man who was seeing a flicker of light.

And then, just as his lips were about to meet hers, he pulled back.

The spell was broken. He dropped his hand, taking a half-step away, and the chasm that opened between them felt miles wide. He shoved his hands in his pockets, his jaw tight.

“It’s late,” he said, the words clipped. The cynical armor was back in place, hastily reassembled. “Big day tomorrow.”

“Right,” Willa said, her voice sounding unnaturally high. Her heart was hammering against her ribs. “The main event.”

He nodded, not meeting her eyes. “I should… I’ll see you in the morning, Willa.”

He turned and walked back into the lodge without another word, leaving her alone with the silent mountains, the half-empty bottle of whiskey, and the ghost of a kiss that had changed everything.

Chapter 9: Saving the Day, Together

The Wyoming air on the morning of the wedding was so crisp it felt like a promise. Sharp, clean, and full of possibility—everything Willa desperately needed it to be after the drunken, brawling mess of the rehearsal dinner.

She stood near the ceremony site, a breathtaking expanse of meadow with the jagged teeth of the Tetons for a backdrop, and took a deep, centering breath.

“Survived the night, Grant?”

Willa turned to find Caleb leaning against a towering pine, camera bag slung over his shoulder. He looked tired, but the cynical armor he usually wore was noticeably thinner today.

A faint purple bruise was blooming near his jaw, a souvenir from when he’d stepped between the bride’s uncle and the groom’s cousin.

“Barely,” she admitted, a small smile touching her lips. “I had a nightmare that the unity candle ceremony was replaced with a duel. With liquor bottles.”

He huffed a laugh, the sound soft in the morning quiet.

“Wouldn’t have been entirely off-brand for this family. For a moment there, I thought I was filming a pilot for a new reality show: Real Housewives of Ranch Country.”

“Don’t give your producer any ideas,” Willa said, the words light, but a familiar flicker of unease went through her. Mads’s warnings still echoed in her ears.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Caleb said, his gaze lingering on her. “You did good work last night. Kept the whole thing from literally going up in flames.”

The compliment landed with a surprising warmth, settling in her chest.

Before she could formulate a response that was appropriately professional yet appreciative, the bride’s mother, a woman named Carol who looked permanently wound by a cattle prod, came screeching across the grass, her phone clutched in a white-knuckled grip.

“He’s gone! Tucker’s gone!”

Willa’s blood ran cold. “What do you mean, gone?”

“His groomsmen just called! He’s not in his suite. He left a note!” she wailed, waving the phone like a weapon.

Caleb was instantly alert, his casual lean replaced by a coiled energy. He exchanged a quick, sharp look with Willa—a look that said, Here we go.

Ten minutes later, the situation had been clarified but not improved. Tucker, the groom, wasn’t gone; he was barricaded.

He’d holed himself up in one of the property’s original log cabins, a rustic little structure down by the creek, and was refusing to speak to anyone, especially his hysterical bride-to-be, Sadie.

Panic was a contagion, and it was spreading fast. Guests were beginning to mill about, sensing the delay.

Sadie was in her bridal suite, her sobs audible through the thick wooden door. Carol was threatening to call the sheriff.

“Okay,” Willa said, her voice a low, steady command in the center of the storm. She pulled Caleb aside, away from the frantic family members.

“Okay, we need to split up. I’ll go talk to him. You,” she pointed at Caleb, “need to run interference with the guests. We need to buy at least thirty minutes.”

Caleb didn’t question her. He didn’t mock the situation or reach for his camera to document the unfolding drama. He just nodded, his expression serious. “What do you want me to do?”

“Anything. Be creative. Announce a… a surprise pre-ceremony cocktail hour far, far away from that cabin. Fake a massive technical problem. Tell them the officiant is wrestling a bear. I don’t care. Just get them out of sight and out of earshot.”

A ghost of a smirk played on his lips. “I can work with that.” He squeezed her arm lightly, a gesture of solidarity that was both fleeting and profound. “Go save the day, Grant.”

With that, he was off, striding toward the anxious crowd with an air of authority. Willa watched him for a second, then turned and headed for the creek, her ‘Happily Ever After Helper’ kit feeling woefully inadequate for what lay ahead.