A Certain Mr. Rit Co Chapter 8

Chapter Eight: The Detour

The quiet harmony of the Thornes' wedding lingered with Ellie and Leo for days, a soft afterglow. But in the world of wedding planning, calm was merely the prelude to the next storm. This one arrived via an urgent, crackling phone call to Ellie from a desperate groom three counties over. His venue had just burned down (a BBQ mishap of epic proportions), his wedding was in ten days, and he’d heard of the miracle worker who’d handled "the cat wedding and the boat one."

They had to go. In person. Immediately.

"So, we're crisis consultants now?" Leo grumbled, loading his kit into Ellie's sensible estate car. Noodle, sensing adventure, quivered in the passenger footwell. Pickle, on the back seat with a new chew toy shaped like a castle, was blissfully unaware of the impending road trip.

"Apparently," Ellie said, focusing on the GPS. "It's a five-hour drive. We'll assess, plan, and be back by midnight."

The universe, it seemed, had other, more romantic plans.

Two hours in, under a sky that had turned the color of a bruise, Ellie’s trusty car gave a sympathetic cough, a shudder, and died completely on a secluded country road, surrounded by weeping willows and silence.

"Perfect," Leo stated, staring at the steaming bonnet. "Just perfect. No signal. No passing cars. Just us, the canine corps, and the impending deluge."

The deluge arrived first. Warm, heavy summer rain that hammered on the roof, reducing the world to a grey, watery curtain. After an hour of futile attempts to flag down non-existent traffic, a lone farmer in a tractor, looking like a vision from a bygone era, took pity on them. He couldn’t fix the car, but he could give them a lift to the nearest village, which boasted precisely three things: a pub, a post office, and a small, weathered hotel called "The Shepherd's Rest."

"The last room," the elderly landlady said, peering at them over her spectacles. "The Attic. It's small, but it's dry. And we allow the dogs." She eyed Noodle and Pickle, who were creating a puddle on her clean floor. "As long as they behave."

The Attic was indeed small. It was a slope-ceilinged space with one large brass bed, a washstand, and a tiny fireplace. A single window looked out over the rain-lashed village green. It was cozy, intimate, and utterly, terrifyingly romantic.

A tense silence descended, thick as the blanket of dusk. The events of the day—the frustration, the helplessness, the shared defeat—melted away, leaving only the close proximity and the drumming of the rain.

"We should… strategize for tomorrow," Ellie said, her voice too loud in the quiet room.

"Right. Strategy," Leo echoed, not moving from his spot by the door.

They ordered food from the pub—a hearty stew and crusty bread—and ate it cross-legged on the floor, sharing the meal with the dogs. The simple act of breaking bread in the cramped space felt profoundly domestic. The professional barriers, the clipped conversations over clipboards, began to feel like costumes they’d worn for too long.

Later, with the fire lit and the dogs snoring in a heap by the hearth, they talked. Not about timelines or animal temperaments, but about their first weddings (his: a chaotic family affair with a runaway sheep; hers: a perfectly planned disaster where the bride’s mother fainted into the cake). They talked about dreams that had nothing to do with weddings. He confessed he’d once wanted to be a wildlife photographer. She admitted she secretly wrote terrible poetry.

The laughter was easy, warm, and real. In the flickering firelight, Ellie saw Leo not as the sarcastic wrangler, but as a man with kind eyes and a surprisingly soft smile. He saw her not as the unflappable planner, but as a woman whose determination masked a wonderful, whimsical heart.

The rain slowed to a patter. The room grew quieter.

"It's strange," Leo said softly, staring into the flames. "All day, I've been thinking not about the poor BBQ-groom, but about what you said at the castle. About the right setting, the right energy."

Ellie’s heart hammered against her ribs. "And?"

He turned to look at her. "And I think… this is a pretty terrible setting. Broken car, leaky attic, two smelly dogs. But the energy…" He trailed off, his gaze holding hers. "The energy feels inexplicably right."

It was the most unguarded thing he'd ever said to her. The space between them on the old rug seemed to crackle, not with professional tension, but with something new, electric, and beautiful. That night, as they reluctantly shared the large bed, a chaste foot of space between them, they both understood. This was no longer just professional camaraderie. This was the quiet, undeniable dawn of something more.

---

The next morning, the car was towed and fixed. They reached the panicked groom, salvaged his wedding with a military-style operation involving a borrowed marquee and a legion of local aunts, and returned home as heroes.

But everything was different.

The following week, they were summoned to the final consultation for their next clients: Maya and Ben. Ben was divorced, wary of big gestures. Maya was hopeful, wanting something meaningful but small. They’d chosen a simple, beautiful ceremony at the botanical gardens.

As the four of them walked through the rose arbour where the service would be held, Ben spoke about his past, his fears, his renewed hope in love. Maya listened, her hand in his, her eyes shining. It was raw, honest, and deeply moving.

Ellie felt Leo’s presence beside her, a solid, warm constant. She glanced at him and saw her own feelings reflected in his eyes—a longing for a connection that was real, not just planned.

Then Ben turned to them. "You two… you make it all seem possible. You’ve seen it all, the chaos, the love. What’s your secret?"

Leo didn't hesitate. He took Ellie’s hand, his fingers lacing through hers in a move that felt both shocking and inevitable. He looked at Ben and Maya, then at Ellie, his voice clear and sure.

"I think the secret," he said, "is knowing when to stop planning… and when to just begin."

He turned fully to Ellie, his other hand reaching into his pocket. He didn't pull out a ring, but placed his palm over his heart, then over hers—a mirror of the ancient Handfasting gesture they’d witnessed. The question hung in the fragrant air, silent and profound.

Tears welled in Ellie’s eyes. She saw the shared hotel room, the laughter by the fire, the countless crises averted side-by-side. She saw their future—a beautiful, chaotic, perfect blend of clipboards and dog leashes, of meticulous plans and spontaneous heartbeats.

"Yes," she whispered, for him alone. Then, louder, for their stunned and delighted clients, she smiled. "Would you mind… terribly… if we shared your beautiful setting? It seems we have a ceremony of our own to begin."

And so, amidst the blooming roses, with Noodle and Pickle as their best men, and with Maya and Ben beaming beside them, Ellie and Leo exchanged their own vows. Simple, heartfelt, promising not a perfect, planned life, but a shared, adventurous, loving one.

It wasn't just one wedding that day in the gardens. It was two. And as the sun set, casting a golden glow on the two newlywed couples, the line between planner and participant, between work and love, blurred forever into a beautiful, happy ever after.