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.