I wait by the doorway.
Amos is nowhere to be seen.
I hover there for about fifteen minutes.
Still no sign of him.
My phone begins to ring.
The florist is running late too.
Of course she is.
The door opens behind me while I’m still on the call.
“No,” I reply firmly, pacing slowly across the floor. “The delivery window needs to stay where it is. If the florals arrive after six we can't test the lighting before guests arrive.”
Porter and Deacon step inside carrying three large catering crates between them.
At least everyone else is here on time.
I raise a hand to greet them, without breaking the call.
Pointing down the corridor, I show him where the kitchen is.
They acknowledge the gesture with a quick tilt of their heads.
Deacon follows beside him.
I can’t help but smile, seeing the two of them together.
“Yes,” I repeat as calmly as possible. “I understand that you would like your calendula lilies kept at a certain temperature. But that doesn’t change my client's schedule.”
The studio comes to life with rhythm and sound.
Tables unfold. Equipment shifts across the floor.
Someone tests a speaker that thumps twice with a low pulse of bass.
I close my eyes briefly, giving myself a pep talk.
Control the variables. Solve the problems.
That’s my job.
“Fine,” I huff. “Send me the updated ETA.”
Ending the call, I slide the phone into my pocket.
One crisis contained. I can deal with the rest later.
???
Still no Amos.
Where the fuck is he?
I push through the kitchen door.
