Page 52 of No Strings Attached
At 7:30 a.m., I meet Kennedy in the house’s main hall, which is surrounded by the garden terrace. She’s already unloading boxes of frosted florals and crystal vases, her assistant flitting behind her like a shadow.
“Floral arch will go up by noon,” she says, handing me a coffee. “And I know the suspended greenery above the dance floor was supposed to be finished by now, but it is almost done. Don’t panic.”
“Panic? I don’t panic.” I smirk. “I thrive under pressure.”
At 8:45, Jules calls to confirm that the custom champagne macarons have arrived from Boston. I breathe a prayer of thanks and tell him I’ll be in for a walkthrough by ten.
Between that, fielding texts from the lighting crew, triple-checking the table linen order, confirming the fireworks display permit—Brianna will love me—I manage to snag ten minutes to stuff half a bagel into my mouth while walking through the garden with a clipboard in one hand and my phone glued to my ear.
It’s chaos. Bliss. The exact kind of controlled madness I live for.
And still, through the noise and movement and constant motion, my thoughts turn to Henson.
The man who, in the past few days since I saidyesto him, has been almosttooperfect. It’s surreal.
Every spare moment we’ve had, we’ve spent together—laughing over late-night tea, curled up on the cottage couch, wrapped around each other in a tangle of limbs.
He checks in on me like I’m precious. He kisses me like he means it. He looks at me like I’m something more than I’ve believed I am all these years.
I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. I worry I’m taking up too much of his time, that he needs space, that he’ll pull back once we return to the real world. Because soon, we’ll be back in Seattle. Back to work and reality. Back to not spending every waking moment in this bubble.
I hate how much I already miss it.
At 1:00 p.m., I check on the staff meal setup and discover that someone forgot to account for vegetarian options. A quick call to Jules fixes it, and I mentally remind myself to tip that man extra.
By three-thirty, the venue is transformed. Twinkling lights have been draped across every beam, the florals are decadent without being gaudy, and the heaters in the garden are up and running for the outdoor portion of the night.
By six o’clock, the first wave of guests will arrive, and I’ll be pretending not to obsessively track every passing second.
But for now, I take a moment, stepping outside into the crisp air, breathing in the salt from the nearby ocean breeze.
My phone screen lights up with a new message.
Mr. Billionaire: How’s my girl holding up? Need me to bring coffee? Or rescue you from floral-induced madness?
My thumbs hover over the keyboard, and I realize I’m grinning like a lovesick idiot. The Millers went out for the day to give us space to prepare everything for tonight, and I’m so excited for them to see it all later. Especially Henson.
Me: Your girl is alive. Barely. Kennedy is a floral wizard.Jules saved the vegetarian options. I haven’t cried yet. So I think I’m crushing it.
Mr. Billionaire: Didn’t doubt you for a second, but I’m still ready to play hero if needed. Just say the word.
Me: Tempting. But you might get trampled if you show up too early. The crew is still running around like caffeinated elves.
Mr. Billionaire: That sounds like a challenge.
Me: It’s not. Stay away. For your own safety. What’s your ETA?
Mr. Billionaire: Fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty if Worth decides to swerve for a latte.
Me: Don’t sneak through the back. You’re not allowed to see the grand hall until it’s finished. No peeking.
Mr. Billionaire: Fine. But only if I get to see you first.
My heart skips, and I bite my lip.
Me: You will.
By the time the last light has been adjusted and the final table fluffed, it’s just after four.
