Page 81 of Knotting on Heaven's Door

“I know,” he said again, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes. “But you’re not alone this time, Ada. You’ve got me.”

Just like that, something deep in my chest loosened.

Maybe it was the bond.

Maybe it was love.

Maybe it was finally being seen—messy, tired, stubborn and scared—and being held anyway.

I didn’t say anything else. I just kissed him back. Then I finished my coffee, squared my shoulders, and reminded myself—he was right.I’ve got this.

The days passed in a blur of checklists, deliveries, schedules, and far too much coffee. And before I knew it, we were officially T-minus 24 hours to the event.

Mia and I headed up the mountain early, hours before the others, driving past winding cliffs and pine forests until Heaven’s Door appeared in the distance—carved straight into the stone like some ancient guardian. Even after all the photos and sketches, seeing it again took my breath away.

The logistics had gone surprisingly well. Generators? Check. Cooking tents? Check. Weather? Shockingly cooperative. Blue skies, mild air, not even a hint of a storm on the horizon. For once, the gods were playing nice.

By the time the florists and musicians arrived, the place had already started to transform. Roses, lilies, night jasmine—even a few carefully placed vines for that untamed, elegant look. The entire mountainside buzzed with quiet preparation, but inside the cave, time felt suspended.

Stone arches loomed above us like the ribs of some ancient beast. The old carvings glinted gold where the sun hit them just right. The air was cool, sacred. The kind of place where stories were born.

“Imagine the acoustics in here,” Mia said from beside me, her voice echoing faintly through the cavern as she pointed to the small ensemble setting up instruments in the corner.

I nodded, my gaze drifting across a row of wolf statues—each one uniquely carved, guarding the path deeper into the temple like sentinels of old. One of them had moss creeping across its back, like it had grown from the earth itself.

“It’s like something out of a fairy tale,” Mia added, quieter now.

I didn’t respond.

Not because I disagreed.

But because I couldn’t shake the weight of it all—what this place meant. What it symbolized.

A joining. A vow. A future.

It was beautiful.

It was overwhelming.

And tomorrow, it would be the stage where our food—my team’s food—would become part of someone else's sacred memory.

I just hoped we could rise to the moment.

Mrs. Whitmore arrived in a blur of pastel silk, pearls, and authority, flanked by a few equally well-dressed friends and family members. Her presence alone seemed to command the mountain air, and the entire floral team straightened like schoolchildren under her gaze.

“Ada, Mia,” she greeted with a tight smile that was more practiced than warm. “Things are looking... quite promising.”

“Thank you,” I said, returning the smile with one of my own. “We’re just doing a final sweep, but everything should be ready by this evening.”

She nodded, then pulled a small, leather-bound notebook from her purse. “There are a few last-minute adjustments. Three of our guests decided to bring plus ones. I do apologize for the short notice.”

“Not a problem,” I said smoothly. “We always prepare with extra portions in case of last-minute changes.”

Mrs. Whitmore seemed momentarily surprised—maybe even impressed—but quickly masked it. “Good. I do appreciate professionalism, Miss De La Vega.”

“We aim to please,” I replied, tone light.

As she moved on to give more instructions to the florist—something about the precise height of the centerpieces—I finally had a moment to take it all in.

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