A man sauntered in, all worn leather, faded denim, and a five-o’clock shadow that looked like it had stories to tell.
The energy in the room didn’t just shift; it was hijacked.
He had a camera slung over his shoulder, and his eyes—a startling, whiskey-dark brown—scanned the room with an unnerving, predatory intensity.
The air he brought in with him smelled like autumn air, old paper, and something unapologetically masculine.
He was the human equivalent of a record scratch, a walking, breathing disruption to my carefully curated atmosphere.
His gaze scanned Marcus, then Chloe, then landed on me. And my binder.
A slow, deeply irritating smirk spread across his face.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, his voice a gravelly baritone that didn’t sound sorry at all.
He dropped into the empty chair beside me, his thigh brushing mine, radiating a warmth that felt like a low-grade electrical shock.
“Traffic was a beast. Did I miss the part where we schedule the spontaneous joy?”
Chloe shot him a look that could curdle milk. “Rhys, this is Ava Morgan, the wedding planner. Ava, this is Rhys Callaghan, Marcus’s best man and our photographer. Try to behave. ”
Rhys Callaghan. Of course.
The celebrated photojournalist whose work I secretly admired.
His photos were raw, chaotic, and devastatingly beautiful—everything my life was not.
He was famous for capturing the truth in war zones and disaster areas. What in God’s name was he doing here?
He leaned forward, propping his chin on his hand, his gaze zeroed in on my binder as if it were a strange and exotic creature.
“Wow,” he murmured, tapping the laminated cover. “Perfectly Planned. You’ve even alphabetized the appetizers. ” His eyes flicked up to mine. “What’s in Tab F, ‘Feelings, Scheduled Breakdown Of’?”
The barb hit closer to home than he could possibly know. I felt a hot flush creep up my neck. “Section F is Florals,” I said, my tone clipped.
“A shame,” he mused, leaning back. “I’d have loved to see the timeline for the existential dread. I find it pairs well with canapés. “
“And I find,” I countered, my voice pure ice, “that a detailed plan prevents costly mistakes and emotional distress.”
“Does it?” Rhys’s smirk widened, and his eyes—sharp, assessing—flicked from me to Marcus and back again. The look held a dangerous, knowing glint.
He saw it. He saw the whole goddamned train wreck in one glance.
“Because from where I’m sitting,” he said, his voice dropping low, “the emotional distress seems to be arriving right on schedule. ”
“Rhys,” Marcus warned, his jaw tight.
But the damage was done. The controlled, professional bubble I’d built around myself popped.
Chloe, oblivious or uncaring, plowed ahead, reclaiming the attention.
“I want a five-tiered cake. Fondant, not buttercream—I don’t care if it tastes like chalk, it photographs better. The theme is ‘Celestial Serenity. ’ Think midnight blue, silver accents, and at least ten thousand white orchids. Can you handle that?”
My mind was a screaming void, but my mouth moved on autopilot. “Ten thousand is a significant order,” I heard myself say. “I’d need to confirm availability with our international suppliers, and the cost for that volume alone—”
“Then confirm it,” Chloe snapped.
Marcus jumped in, his voice soft and placating, the one he used when he was about to let me down gently. “Chloe, darling, let’s give her a moment. Ava’s the best for a reason. She’s always been… thorough. “
He looked at me, his eyes full of a pity that felt worse than hatred.
“Her ambition is her superpower. It’s just… a lot to keep up with. ”