The Jackson Hole air, crisp and thin, carried the thumping bass of a country-pop song and the boisterous laughter of a family feud miraculously averted. From her post near a towering stone fireplace, Willa Grant watched the groom, Matt, spin his new wife, Ellie, on the polished dance floor.
His grin was wide and genuine, all traces of the morning’s panicked, cabin-bound hermit gone. It was a victory, sharp and sweet.
She felt a presence beside her and didn’t have to look to know it was Caleb. He smelled faintly of pine, whiskey, and the cold night air clinging to his jacket.
“Look at them,” he said, his voice a low rumble beside her ear. “You’d never know he spent three hours this morning convinced she was going to turn him into a human taxidermy project.”
Willa allowed herself a small, tired smile. “And you’d never know her father threatened to settle the dowry with a cattle stampede through the hotel lobby.”
She leaned her shoulder against the stone, the day’s adrenaline finally beginning to ebb, leaving a pleasant weariness in its place. “We did it, Voss.”
“You did it,” he corrected softly. “Your speech about love being a choice, not a weather pattern… that was something else.”
She glanced at him. In the flickering firelight, the hard edges of his cynicism seemed to have melted away, leaving behind something softer, more contemplative.
The lens cap was on his camera, which hung forgotten from its strap. He wasn’t documenting. He was just… here. With her.
“It was a team effort,” she insisted. “Your ‘impromptu mixology class’ for the guests was a stroke of genius. Very strategic.”
“I just figured a bunch of ranchers wouldn’t be able to resist the promise of free bourbon.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “They’re a simple, predictable people.”
Their shared laughter was quiet, a private bubble in the noisy reception hall. The day had been a frantic, impossible puzzle, and somehow, they had found all the pieces and fit them together.
They had moved in a seamless, unspoken rhythm—Willa soothing egos while Caleb managed logistics, Willa negotiating a floral truce while Caleb charmed a belligerent uncle. The witty clashes and professional distance that had defined their first encounter in Napa had eroded, worn down by shared crises and late-night honesty.
Now, a comfortable shorthand remained, an easy cadence that felt both new and unnervingly familiar.
The band shifted gears, the upbeat country song fading into the opening chords of a slow, soulful ballad. It was one of those timeless songs about old love and worn-in jeans, full of pedal steel and heartache.
Couples shuffled closer on the dance floor, swaying in the dim, amber light.
Willa’s heart gave a strange, unexpected flutter. She watched Matt pull Ellie tighter, his hand splayed possessively on the small of her back.
It was a gesture of pure, unguarded affection, the kind of thing Willa championed and Caleb usually mocked. But when she looked at Caleb now, he wasn’t smirking.
His gaze was fixed on the couple, his expression unreadable.
He turned his head, and his eyes found hers. The air between them suddenly grew thick, heavy with everything that had happened on the balcony last night—the confessions, the shared whiskey, the ghost of a kiss that still tingled on her lips.
The professional line they had drawn in the sand at that airport bar had been washed away by a tide of exhaustion, respect, and something far more dangerous.
“Willa,” he said, his voice barely a whisper over the music. He held out a hand. “Dance with me.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a plea, a statement, a surrender.
Her breath caught. Every professional instinct screamed at her to refuse.
This was a client’s wedding. He was a vendor.
She was the Happily Ever After Helper, not a guest looking for a fleeting romance. But then she looked at his outstretched hand, at the earnest, vulnerable question in his eyes, and all her carefully constructed rules felt like flimsy, useless things.
She placed her hand in his. His skin was warm, his grip firm and steady.
He led her to the edge of the dance floor, finding a small space away from the main crowd. One of his hands settled gently on her lower back, a shock of heat that radiated through the fabric of her dress.
Her other hand rested on his shoulder, and she could feel the solid muscle beneath his jacket. They were close. Closer than they had ever been.
They began to move, a slow, simple sway that was more a shared breath than a dance. Willa tried to keep her thoughts professional, to maintain some semblance of control.
This is just a dance. A thank you for a job well done.
But the logic was hollow. The musky scent of his cologne filled her senses.
The low thrum of his heartbeat seemed to sync with her own. She rested her head against his shoulder, the starched collar of his shirt brushing against her cheek.
He tightened his hold slightly, pulling her flush against him. It wasn’t a demanding gesture, but a protective one, an anchoring.
She felt the fight go out of her. For one night, she didn’t want to be the unflappable fixer. She just wanted to be here, in his arms, feeling safe and seen.
“I was wrong about you, Grant,” he murmured into her hair, his voice a low vibration against her ear.
“Oh yeah?” she managed, her own voice husky. “Which part?”
“All of it,” he said. “I thought you were selling a fantasy. A pre-packaged, overpriced lie.” He paused, his thumb tracing a slow, hypnotic circle on her back.
“But you’re not. You’re the realest thing at these absurd events. You actually believe in it.”
Coming from anyone else, it might have sounded like a backhanded compliment. But from Caleb, the man whose entire worldview was filtered through a lens of skepticism, it felt like the highest praise.
It was an admission of defeat.
“And I was wrong about you,” she confessed, her voice muffled by his shoulder. “I thought you were just a vulture, circling the drama.”
“And now?”
She lifted her head to look at him. His dark eyes were intense, searching hers in the dim light. “Now,” she said softly, “I think you put your camera down when it matters most.”
His expression softened, a wave of something complex and profound passing over his features—gratitude, regret, and a deep, aching tenderness that made her stomach clench. He didn’t say anything.
He didn’t have to. The song swelled, the singer’s voice cracking with emotion, and Caleb leaned in, his forehead coming to rest against hers.
They stayed like that for a long moment, the world shrinking to the few inches of space between them. It was more intimate than a kiss.
It was a quiet acknowledgment that something had irrevocably shifted. The battle was over.
This was the truce. No, it was more than a truce. It was a complete redrawing of the map.
When the song ended, they pulled apart slowly, reluctantly. The spell was broken, but the magic lingered in the charged air around them.
Neither of them spoke as they walked from the reception hall, through the grand, timber-framed lobby of the lodge, and toward the wing where their rooms were. The silence wasn’t awkward.
It was full, humming with unspoken words and feelings too new and fragile to name.
They stopped outside her door. It was just a few feet from his. The hallway was empty, the muffled sounds of the party a distant memory.
He stood in front of her, his hands shoved into his pockets, a posture that seemed too casual for the intensity crackling between them.
“Well,” Willa said, her voice sounding ridiculously prim to her own ears. “Thank you. For the dance.”
“Thank you,” he replied, his gaze unwavering. “For… everything today.”
This was the moment. The precipice.
The night could end here, with a polite goodnight and a retreat to their separate rooms. Or it could turn into something else entirely.
The memory of his lips almost touching hers on the balcony burned in her mind. She could see the same thought reflected in the dark pools of his eyes.
He wanted to kiss her. And heaven help her, she wanted him to.
But the stakes felt impossibly high. This wasn’t just a fleeting attraction.
It was tangled up in their work, their philosophies, their futures. And their final, career-defining wedding was just over a week away.
As if reading her mind, he gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head. He was pulling back, giving her an out, and she felt a confusing mix of relief and sharp disappointment.
“Get some sleep, Willa,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “You earned it.”
He stepped back, creating a chasm of empty space between them. “You too, Caleb.”
He held her gaze for one last, loaded second before turning and walking the few steps to his own door, unlocking it and disappearing inside without a backward glance.
Willa fumbled with her key card, her hands shaking slightly. Once inside, she leaned back against the cool wood of the door and closed her eyes, her body still humming from his proximity.
They had crossed a line tonight. There was no going back to the witty antagonism or the professional truce. Whatever this was, it was real and it was personal.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was an email notification from the wedding planner. The subject line read: Newport Itinerary – FINAL – Please Review!
The Bridezilla of the Season. The high-society Newport affair that was supposed to be her golden ticket.
Suddenly, the pressure of that wedding felt ten times heavier. It was no longer just a job.
It was the final act of a drama she and Caleb were now starring in, and she had no idea how it was supposed to end.