The morning after felt like the aftermath of a glitter-fueled battle. A lonely champagne flute lay on its side in the grass, a single bubble clinging stubbornly to its rim.
The grand tent, once a cathedral of white linen and fairy lights, now sagged with the exhaustion of a party that had raged a few hours too long. Willa Grant surveyed the scene, a sense of weary satisfaction settling deep in her bones.
They had survived. Garter snakes, maternal meltdowns, and all.
She methodically began repacking her “Happily Ever After Helper” kit.
Each item was a testament to a crisis averted: stain remover for the red wine incident on the maid of honor’s dress, a tiny sewing kit that had reattached a rogue button on the father of the bride’s tuxedo, and a surprisingly large stash of high-protein granola bars that had revived a wilting groomsman.
Tucked in a side pocket was the USB-to-whatever-adapter that had saved Caleb’s bacon. She ran her thumb over its smooth plastic casing, a faint, traitorous warmth spreading through her chest.
She hadn’t seen him yet this morning. After their late-night data recovery session, they had parted with a stilted, mutually respectful nod.
It was a cease-fire, not a friendship. He was still the brooding storm cloud who viewed her life’s work as a performative sham, and she was still the woman who believed in the very thing his cynicism was trying to dismantle.
And yet… seeing the raw panic in his eyes when he thought he’d lost the ceremony footage had revealed a crack in his armor. It showed he cared, at least about his own work. That was something.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she pulled it out, expecting a logistical text from the rental company. Instead, it was a message from Sarah, the bride.
Sarah B.: Omg Willa, I can’t even begin to thank you. My mom just told me EVERYTHING you handled yesterday. The snake! The seating chart! You are an actual wizard. Best day of my life, chaos and all. You were worth every single penny. Glowing review coming your way!
A genuine, irrepressible smile broke across Willa’s face. This was it.
The validation. The fuel that kept her going through the sixteen-hour days and emotional whiplash.
The chaos didn’t matter if the clients were happy. This testimonial was her golden ticket, the centerpiece of her pitch to Bridal Bliss.
She typed back a gracious reply, her fingers flying across the screen.
“Find a four-leaf clover in there?”
The voice, a low rumble that was becoming far too familiar, came from behind her. Caleb Voss stood by a stack of his hard-shell equipment cases, a cup of coffee in one hand, his camera bag slung over his shoulder.
The grim satisfaction from the wedding day was gone, replaced by a neutral, almost tired expression. He’d shaved, and the sharp line of his jaw seemed more pronounced.
“Something like that,” Willa said, pocketing her phone. “Just confirmation that the bride and groom actually enjoyed their wedding, despite the best man’s foray into herpetology.”
A corner of his mouth twitched. “I’m sure they’ll treasure the footage of Aunt Carol trying to climb a table. It’s got real viral potential.”
“You are a menace, Caleb,” she said, but the words lacked their previous day’s venom. It felt more like a statement of fact, like observing that the sky was blue.
“I’m a documentarian,” he corrected, taking a sip of his coffee. “I film what I see.” He gestured vaguely at the deconstructed party around them. “And I see an expensive mess.”
“I see the remnants of a really good party,” she countered, closing the final latch on her emergency kit with a satisfying click.
They lapsed into a silence that wasn’t entirely uncomfortable. It was the quiet of two soldiers who had survived the same battle, now waiting for their transport home.
Her flight was in four hours. She’d be back in her quiet apartment, updating her portfolio and drafting her pitch.
He’d be… wherever cynical videographers went to edit their footage and brood.
His phone chimed at the exact same moment as hers. An email notification.
They both glanced down. Willa’s screen lit up with a subject line from a name that made her stomach clench with a mixture of excitement and dread.
Subject: Fwd: The Summer Tour – Final Itineraries! – Cassandra Dent Events
“Cassandra Dent,” Willa murmured, tapping the email open. Cassandra was the planner, a logistical genius with a client list that read like a who’s who of the one percent.
She was the one who had booked Willa for this wedding and held the keys to the kingdom of high-profile nuptials.
Caleb grunted beside her. “God, not her.”
Willa’s eyes scanned the first few lines.
Team, thank you all for a spectacular job in Napa! Your professionalism under… unique circumstances… was noted. As we gear up for our next two events, please find the final travel and lodging details for both Jackson Hole and Newport attached…
Her blood ran cold. Team?
She scrolled down, past flight details and hotel confirmations, to the vendor manifest at the bottom of the email. And there it was, in crisp, digital print.
Event Coordinator: Willa Grant (Happily Ever After Helper)
Videography: Caleb Voss (Voss Visuals)
The world seemed to tilt slightly on its axis. She looked up from her phone, her mouth slightly agape, and found Caleb staring at his own screen with an expression of pure, unadulterated horror. He slowly raised his eyes to meet hers.
“No,” he said, the single word flat and final.
“It has to be a mistake,” Willa breathed, frantically scrolling back up, as if rereading the text would magically change it.
“She wouldn’t make a mistake like this,” Caleb muttered, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “She’s a sadist, but she’s a precise sadist.”
Two more weddings. A Western-themed extravaganza in Wyoming and a high-society marathon in Newport.
A whole summer. With him.
The mutual dread was a physical thing, a heavy blanket that settled over both of them. It was the prospect of more clashes, more cynical commentary, more of his unnerving ability to see the cracks in the very foundation she built her career on.
But underneath the dread, something else sparked. A tiny, flicker of… something.
It wasn’t excitement. Not exactly.
It was a jolt of terrifying curiosity. It was the part of her that, despite everything, had felt a sliver of connection when they’d worked together to salvage his corrupted files.
It was the part of her that found his grudging respect more satisfying than a thousand empty compliments.
He seemed to feel it, too. His gaze held hers for a beat too long, the horror in his eyes warring with an unreadable emotion.
The air between them thickened, charged with the unspoken reality of their summer-long sentence.
Willa’s phone began to vibrate, buzzing insistently against her palm. She broke eye contact, grateful for the interruption.
The screen read: MADS. Her business partner. Her best friend. Her sanity check.
“I have to take this,” she said, turning away from Caleb and the suffocating certainty of their shared future. She walked a few paces toward the vineyard, the rows of dormant grapevines offering a flimsy illusion of privacy.
“Hey, you,” she answered, forcing a lightness into her voice that she didn’t feel.
“So? Report from the front lines,” Mads’ voice crackled through the phone, sharp and energetic.
“Did you save the day? Is the mother of the bride singing your praises? Is the Bridal Bliss feature basically a done deal?”
“One question at a time,” Willa laughed, the sound a little shaky. “It was… a lot. There was a snake.”
“A what?”
“A garter snake. Instead of a garter. Long story. But yes, I handled it. And the bride just texted me. She’s thrilled. We got the glowing review.”
“I knew it! You’re a miracle worker, Grant. Now, tell me about the B-plot. Any cute, single groomsmen? Or did you spend the whole weekend fending off the ‘brooding camera guy’ you mentioned?”
Willa’s gaze drifted back toward Caleb. He was leaning against a stack of his cases, staring out at the rolling, golden hills of Napa, his shoulders tight.
“About that,” she began, lowering her voice.
“He was… as advertised. Cynical, detached, filmed the whole snake fiasco like he was David Attenborough shooting a nature documentary.”
“Ugh. A film bro. The worst species,” Mads declared.
“But,” Willa continued, feeling an odd need to defend him, “his memory card corrupted, and he lost the ceremony. He was genuinely freaking out. I helped him get it back.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. Willa could practically hear Mads’ perfectly sculpted eyebrow arching in suspicion.
“You helped him? Willa, the man who was gleefully recording your professional nightmare?”
“He needed help, Mads. It was the right thing to do.”
“Or he’s just good at looking pathetic,” Mads countered. “Some guys have that whole wounded bird thing down to a science. It’s a trap. What’s his name again?”
“Caleb.” The name felt strange on her tongue. Too familiar.
“Caleb,” Mads repeated, tasting it.
“Sounds broody. I don’t trust him. A guy who makes his living at weddings but clearly hates them? That’s not just cynicism, that’s a red flag factory. He’s probably making some snarky documentary to submit to Sundance.”
Willa’s stomach did a slow, uncomfortable flip. Mads’ casual observation hit a little too close to the bone.
It was exactly the kind of thing Caleb would do. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s just a wedding videographer.”
“Yeah, okay. Just keep your guard up. My instincts are never wrong about these guys.”
“Well,” Willa said, taking a deep breath, preparing for the explosion.
“You’ll get to test your instincts in person. Cassandra just booked us—both of us—for the next two destination weddings. Jackson Hole and Newport.”
The silence on the other end was deafening.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Mads finally said, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous octave. “The Summer Tour from Hell. Absolutely not. I’m calling Cassandra.”
“You can’t. The contracts are signed. It’s done.” Willa watched as Caleb finally pushed off his cases and began loading them onto a dolly with grim efficiency.
“It’s just work, Mads. We’ll be professional. We’ll stay out of each other’s way.”
“Famous last words,” Mads grumbled.
“Just… promise me you’ll be careful, Will. This guy sounds like he’s looking for drama, and you’re in the business of erasing it. That’s a fundamental conflict of interest.”
“I’ll be fine,” Willa insisted, though a new seed of doubt had been planted.
She ended the call and turned back to face her fate. Caleb was looking at her, his expression unreadable.
For a long, tense moment, they just stood there, two unwilling co-conspirators on the edge of a long, complicated summer.
“So,” he said, his voice flat. “Wyoming, huh?”
Willa squared her shoulders. “Looks that way.”
A flicker of something—not dread, not excitement, but a sharp, unnerving awareness—passed between them. It was the tacit acknowledgment that this was no longer just a one-time clash.
It was a tour of duty. And they were in it together, for better or, far more likely, for worse.