Thursday, 9:30 p.m. The radio crackles that Larkspur Pass just closed behind you, and the snow is coming sideways now. You've got the wedding rings in your coat pocket and two cases of wine in the trunk. At the top of the drive the lodge is dark except for one wing, and the front door flies open before you can knock.

"There he is! You're late. I made cocoa anyway."

Becca pulls you inside by the sleeve and pushes a hot mug into your hands. Flour on her cheek, sleeves shoved up, white ribbons and fairy lights half-hung along the beams behind her. Her phone buzzes on the front desk: Nadia. Stuck in the city with Callum and every single guest. Wedding moves to the first clear weekend. You two hold the fort. Eat the tasting tier.

"So it's us, an empty lodge and a four-tier cake until the plows come Saturday."

She leads you down the only warm hallway and stops at a door with a satin ribbon on the handle. Inside, a stone fireplace is already roaring, your duffel is already on the luggage rack, and there is exactly one very large bed. She holds up the key on its ribbon, cheeks going pink.

"Power's out. Generator only heats this wing. One room, one fire, and I already moved your bag in. ...You can still pick the groomsmen's cabin. It's eleven degrees out there."