Chapter Eighteen Reddit Revelations
Chapter Eighteen
Reddit Revelations
Poppy
CeCe’s lying on my bed, scrolling through her phone while I panic-pack for tomorrow’s wedding. She’s been here for a few days, supposedly to help but mostly to drink Dean’s wine and make inappropriate comments about his ass.
“Okay but seriously,” she says, not looking up. “His jawline?”
“Can we not?” I’m elbow-deep in my suitcase, searching for the backup backup shoes. Because you always need backup backup shoes.
“I’m just saying. That man looks at you like—”
“Like what?”
“Like he wants to eat you for breakfast. And lunch. And a midnight snack.”
I throw a shoe at her. She dodges without even looking up from her phone.
“He looks at me like I’m a problem he needs to solve.”
“Yeah. With his dick.”
“CECE.”
“What? I have eyes. That little jaw clench thing he does when you walk by? Pure sexual frustration.”
“He has TMJ.”
“He has feelings.”
“Same thing.” I find the shoes I was looking for and toss them in the bag. “Doesn’t matter anyway. Tomorrow’s the wedding, Sunday I’m gone.”
“Uh-huh.” She’s still scrolling. “That why you spent twenty minutes picking out pajamas last night?”
“It’s a wedding weekend. People might see—”
“The only person who might see your pajamas is—” She stops. Sits up. “Oh. My. God.”
“What?”
“Oh my GOD.”
“What??”
She’s staring at her phone like it personally offended her. “This absolute idiot.”
“Who?”
“Your boy.”
“He’s not my—”
“He posted on Reddit.”
Everything stops. My world narrows. “What?”
“Dean. Posted. On. Reddit.” She turns the phone toward me. “About you.”
I snatch it from her hands.
Am I the Asshole for wanting to evict a wedding planner from my guest house who’s turning my property into a three-ring circus (even though I technically agreed to host the event)?
“No.” I sink onto the bed. “No no no.”
“Keep reading.”
I do. Every horrible word.
She’s… a lot. Energetic, constantly smiling. Basically a total type-A.
“Type-A? I’m type-A??”
“Keep going.”
She’s not doing anything wrong per se. She’s just… everywhere. On my lawn. On my porch. In my brain.
“In his brain,” CeCe says. “Interesting.”
I’m going to throw up. Or cry. Or march over there and strangle him with his own perfectly pressed tie.
“Look at the comments,” CeCe says.
I scroll down.
[BagelDad]: As someone who has literally been pooped on by a goat at a winery wedding, I feel you. But also? You’re totally gonna fall in love with her.
[gayunclesrevenge]: Sir, you are not asking if you’re the asshole. You’re asking if it’s okay to be in love with a woman who smells like vanilla and organizes for a living. Yes. It’s okay.
“Oh my God.”
“There’s more.”
[cottagecore_cynic]: This is the enemies-to-lovers goat-inclusive wedding novel I didn’t know I needed.
“I’m going to kill him.”
“With what? Your type-A organizational skills?”
I stand up. Pace. Sit down. Stand up again.
“He posted about me. On the internet. To strangers.”
“To be fair, he didn’t use your name.” CeCe’s still scrolling, completely unbothered by my mounting panic.
“HE POSTED ABOUT GEORGE.” My voice cracks on the goat’s name. I’m pacing now, wearing a path in the guest house carpet.
“The goat deserved recognition.” She says it so deadpan I almost laugh. Almost.
“CeCe!” I whirl on her, and she finally looks up from her phone.
“What?” She spreads her hands innocently, eyebrows raised. “I’m trying to find the silver lining here.”
My chest feels tight. “There is no silver lining! He thinks I’m annoying!”
“He thinks you’re in his brain.” She taps her temple with one finger, giving me a meaningful look.
I sink back onto the bed, hands over my face. “Same thing!”
She grabs my shoulders. “Poppy. Breathe.”
“I can’t breathe. I’m too busy being ENERGETIC and CONSTANTLY SMILING.”
“You are kind of constantly smiling.”
“It’s called customer service!”
“It’s called coping mechanism but okay.”
I glare at her. She grins back.
“You know what?” I grab my phone. “Two can play this game.”
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“Poppy Monroe, don’t you dare—”
But I’m already typing.
Posted to r/weddingplanning
My client’s brother is a stuck-up control freak who hates joy. How do I survive this?
I’m planning the wedding of the year at this gorgeous estate, but the owner (groom’s brother) is making everything impossible. He’s:
Allergic to fun
Measures his coffee
Complains about EVERYTHING
Made me move the ceremony location three times
Has opinions about flower placement (WHO HAS OPINIONS ABOUT FLOWER PLACEMENT?)
Looks unfairly good in a suit which is BESIDE THE POINT
He keeps showing up everywhere I’m trying to work, making comments about “liability” and “property damage” like I’m some kind of chaos demon.
The worst part? He made me pasta at midnight and now I can’t stop thinking about his hands.
WAIT THAT’S NOT RELEVANT.
Anyway. How do I get through 2 more days without strangling him with fairy lights?
I hit submit before I can think better of it.
“Feel better?” CeCe asks.
“No.”
“Wanna go yell at him?”
My eyes flick over to hers. “Yes.”
“Let’s go then.”
“Wait, really?”
“Girl, he called you type-A on the internet. That’s basically a declaration of war.”
I love her so much.
We march across the lawn like we’re storming the beaches of Normandy. I don’t knock. Just bang through the front door, because apparently we don’t do boundaries anymore.
“DEAN!”
He appears from the kitchen, dish towel over his shoulder because of course. “Poppy? What’s—”
“Reddit? REDDIT?!” My voice bounces off his vaulted ceilings.
He freezes like I’ve caught him red-handed, which—fair. The color drains from his face in a way that would be satisfying if I wasn’t so furious.
“I can explain.” He takes a tentative step back, and I match it with a step forward.
“Oh, you can explain why you told the entire internet I’m annoying?” I cross my arms, nails digging into my biceps.
“I didn’t say annoying—” His jaw tightens, and there’s that clench again. Even now, even when I want to murder him, some traitorous part of my brain notices.
“Type-A? Constantly smiling? IN YOUR brAIN?” Each accusation comes out louder than the last.
CeCe helpfully holds up her phone. “You got 500 comments, bro.”
“It was anonymous,” he says weakly.
“IT WAS ABOUT GEORGE. How many wedding planners have GOATS, Dean?”
“I was… venting.”
“To Reddit!”
“You vent to CeCe!”
“That’s different!”
“How?”
“She’s not a million strangers on the internet!”
“It was only 500!”
“OH, WELL THEN.”
We’re standing too close now. Both breathing hard. He’s got flour on his shirt and his hair’s a mess and I want to shake him and also possibly climb him like a tree.
“I didn’t mean—” he starts.
“What? Didn’t mean to publicly humiliate me?”
“You’re not humiliated. No one knows it’s you.”
“I know it’s me!”
“Poppy—”
“No. You know what? Forget it.” I turn to leave. “Clearly I’ve been ‘in your brain’ too long.”
He catches my arm. The feel of his hand on my skin is warm and electric and ugh! “Wait.”
“What?”
“I…” He runs his other hand through his hair. Makes it worse. “I’m sorry.”
I blink. “You’re what?”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… it was stupid. It was several days ago, after Geroge was well, George. I was frustrated and—”
“And what? Decided to ask the internet if you should evict me?”
“I wasn’t actually going to evict you.”
“Oh good. So generous.”
“Poppy.”
“What?”
He steps closer. “You want to know what I really think?”
“Apparently I can read it online.”
“No.” His voice drops. “You can’t.”
“What’s that supposed to—”
“I didn’t write about how you looked that first day. In that blue dress with your hair down. Didn’t mention how you laugh with your whole body. Or how you take care of everyone but yourself. Or how you’re the first person to make me actually want to—” He stops. “I didn’t write any of that.”
I can’t breathe. “Dean.”
“I wrote the safe stuff. The annoying stuff. Because the real stuff would’ve been…”
“What?”
“Too much.”
CeCe clears her throat. “So, uh. I’m gonna go… be anywhere else.”
She disappears. Traitor.
Dean’s still holding my arm. Thumb brushing over my wrist.
“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I messed up.”
“Yeah. You did.”
“How do I fix it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe don’t post about me on the internet?”
“Done. What else?”
“Maybe…” I look up at him. “Maybe tell me the real stuff. Instead of telling Reddit the fake stuff.”
His jaw does the thing. The clenchy thing that makes me stupid.
“The real stuff?” His deep voice has gone soft and wow I like it.
“Yeah.”
“Like how I haven’t been able to focus on work all week because I keep wondering what you’re doing? Or how I made that pasta because the thought of you not eating made me physically angry? Or how I’ve checked your light every night to make sure you made it back safe?”
“Dean...”
“Or how about the fact that you’re leaving in two days and I can’t decide if that’s the best or worst thing that could ever happen to me?”
“Why would it be the best?”
“Because maybe then I could get my damn life back.”
“And the worst?”
He looks at me like I’m being deliberately obtuse. “You know why.”
“I really don’t.”
“Poppy.”
“What? I’m just a type-A wedding planner who—”
He kisses me.
Just… does it. Hands framing my face, mouth hot and desperate and tasting like mint toothpaste and lust and oh.
OH.
I kiss him back because what else am I supposed to do? My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he makes this sound—this broken, grateful sound—that shoots straight through me.
“Still mad,” I mumble against his mouth.
“I know.” He kisses me again. Harder. “I’m sorry.”
“You posted about me on Reddit.”
“I’m an idiot.” His hands slide into my hair. “Forgive me?”
“I posted about you too.”
He pulls back. “What?”
“About five minutes ago. Called you a stuck-up control freak who’s allergic to fun.”
“Am I?”
“Little bit.”
“What else?”
“Said you look unfairly good in a suit.”
His mouth quirks. “Unfairly?”
“It’s rude. The whole…” I gesture at him. “Thing you’ve got going on.”
“Thing?”
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
So I do.
We’re kissing again, rougher this time, him walking me backward until I hit the wall. His hands are everywhere—my hair, my waist, cupping my face like I might disappear.
“Dean.” I break away, breathing hard. “This is—”
“Complicated. I know.”
“I was going to say probably a bad idea.”
“Definitely a bad idea.” He kisses my neck. I forget how words work. “Terrible idea.”
“The worst.”
“Should stop.”
“Absolutely.”
Neither of us stops.
“Poppy?”
“Mm?”
“You really think I look good in a suit?”
I laugh. Can’t help it. “You’re not going to let that go, are you?”
“Never.” He pulls back, looks at me. Really looks at me. “I meant it. The apology. I was an ass.”
“Yeah. You were.”
“How do I fix it? Really?”
I think about it. About the Reddit post and the comments and how he’d said I was in his brain like that was a bad thing.
“Delete the post.”
“Done.” He nods once.
“And…”
“What?”
“Maybe stop acting like wanting me around is such a hardship?”
Something shifts in his expression. “Poppy. Wanting you around isn’t the hardship.”
“Then what is?”
“Knowing you’re leaving.”
Oh. Right.
We stare at each other. The kitchen’s too quiet. My heart’s too loud.
“I should go,” I whisper.
“Probably.”
“Big day tomorrow.”
“Right.”
But his hands are still on my waist. My fingers are still twisted in his shirt.
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“For what it’s worth? You’ve been in my brain all week too.”
He makes that sound again. The broken one.
“That doesn’t help.”
“I know.”
“Poppy—” he starts.
“I’ll see you later.”
I extract myself. Smooth down my shirt. Try to look like I haven’t just been thoroughly kissed against Dean Whitaker’s kitchen wall.
“Hey,” he calls as I reach the door.
I turn.
“Check Reddit later.”
“Why?”
“Just… trust me.”
I nod. Leave. Make it halfway across the lawn before my legs start shaking.
CeCe’s waiting in the guest house, grinning like Christmas came early.
“So?”
“Shut up.”
“Did you—”
“Shut up.”
“But—”
“SHUT. UP.”
She mimes zipping her lips. Hands me my phone.
I pull up Reddit.
His post has been edited.
UPDATE: I’m the asshole. She’s incredible. I’m an idiot. That’s all.
The commenters are losing their minds.
“Holy shit,” CeCe whispers, leaning over my shoulder to read the screen.
“Yeah.” It’s all I can manage. My thumb hovers over the refresh button.
“He just—” She gestures vaguely at my phone, at me, at the universe.
“Yeah.” My voice sounds hollow in my own ears.
She leans back, studying my face. “On the internet—”
“I know.” I press my palms against my eyes, but I can still see his updated post burned into my retinas.
She’s quiet for a beat—a rarity—then delivers the verdict: “You’re totally screwed.”
I collapse backward on the bed, letting gravity take me. The ceiling spins, or maybe that’s just me. I think about his hands in my hair and the way he said my name like it hurt, like it cost him something.
“Yeah.” The word comes out as a sigh. “I really am.”