Chapter Twenty
The Rehearsal Dinner Rescue
Dean
The rehearsal dinner is at a pretentious farm-to-table place that charges thirty bucks for what’s essentially a salad. I’m nursing a whiskey and actively avoiding my grandmother when a woman who looks like she raided a vintage boutique and a crystal shop approaches.
“You must be Dean.” Her voice has a knowing quality that immediately puts me on edge. “I’m Gloria. Poppy’s aunt.”
Ah, the flower witch. We haven’t been officially introduced. She’s wearing what I can only describe as aggressive bohemian—flowing pants, bangles that jingle with every gesture, and earrings that could double as wind chimes.
“Nice to meet you,” I lie, offering my hand.
She studies me like I’m a particularly interesting specimen, her grip surprisingly firm. “So you’re the one who’s been giving my niece fits.”
Fits?
“I haven’t—” I start, but she’s already smiling as if she can see right through me.
“She called me Tuesday night. Something about a goat and a man who compartmentalizes his feelings.”
My jaw tightens involuntarily. “I don’t compartmentalize—” I pause. Shit. I do compartmentalize my feelings. “That’s not relevant.”
“Mhm.” She sips what looks like champagne with flowers floating in it. Because of course. “You know, Poppy doesn’t usually get this worked up about clients.”
“I’m not a client. I’m an obstacle.” The words come out harder than I intend.
“Is that what you think you are?” She lifts her drink, and her bangles chime softly.
Before I can answer, the door opens.
And Poppy walks in.
The world does this annoying thing where it slows down, like I’m in some awful rom-com montage. She’s wearing a deep green dress that hits mid-thigh, her hair is down and wavy, and she’s laughing at something CeCe is saying. The sound carries across the restaurant, bright and unguarded.
Fuck.
My brain immediately supplies a dozen inappropriate thoughts. Her legs in those heels. The way that dress would look on my bedroom floor. How her hair would feel wrapped around my—
“Dean, darling, there you are!”
My grandmother materializes like a demon summoned by impure thoughts. Perfect timing, as always. I tear my gaze away from Poppy, blinking hard to refocus.
“Grandmother.” I accept her air kisses while trying not to look at Poppy. I fail. She’s across the room now, but I catch her profile, the curve of her neck.
“I was just telling your mother how thin you look. Are you eating?”
“Yes.” My voice sounds distant to my own ears.
“Properly? Not just those horrible protein bars?”
“I eat fine.” I take a sip of whiskey, the burn grounding me.
Poppy’s across the room now, checking something with the restaurant manager. She wears a professional smile, but I can see the tension in her shoulders and the way she’s gripping her clipboard like a lifeline, holding herself together by sheer force of will.
“—listening to me?”
I blink, realizing my grandmother has been talking. “What?”
Her eyes narrow as she follows my line of sight. “I asked if you’re seeing anyone.”
“No.” The answer is automatic, but something in my chest tightens as I say it.
“What about that lovely girl from the club? Patricia’s daughter?”
“Married. To a woman.” I drain the rest of my whiskey.
“Oh.” She sniffs, her lips pursing. “Well, surely there’s someone—”
“Excuse me.” I abandon her mid-sentence because Poppy’s got that look—the one that means something’s wrong, and she’s about to handle it alone. It makes my feet move before my brain catches up.
She’s in the corner with the restaurant manager, her voice low but her body language screaming stress. Her shoulders are hiked up near her ears, and her knuckles are white around her clipboard.
“—understand, but we specifically requested—”
“What’s the problem?” I interrupt, stepping into her space.
She glances at me, and for a second, her professional mask slips. I see exhaustion and frustration underneath. “Nothing. Just a small mix-up with the—”
“Poppy,” I warn, not afraid to use my lawyer voice on her.
She looks down at her heels, biting her bottom lip, then back up at me. “They, uh, gave away our private room.”
Heat floods through me, sharp and immediate. “Double-booked,” the manager says helpfully, tugging at his collar.
“You double-booked the rehearsal dinner?” My voice drops to that dangerous quiet that makes junior associates sweat.
The manager shifts his weight, avoiding eye contact. “There was a miscommunication—”
“Fix it.”
“Sir, I—”
“Fix. It.” I use my lawyer voice—the one that makes opposing counsel sweat. I step closer, and he actually backs up. “Or I’ll have my entire law firm here Monday morning going through your contracts with a microscope.”
He pales, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Let me… see what I can do.”
He scurries off. Poppy stares at me, her lips parted slightly.
“You didn’t have to—”
“Yes, I did.” The words come out rougher than intended.
“I was handling it.” Her voice wavers slightly.
“You were being polite. That’s different.” I cross my arms to keep from reaching for her.
She mirrors my posture, chin lifted. “I don’t need you to—”
“Poppy.” I step closer, close enough to catch a hint of her perfume, lowering my voice so only she can hear. “You’ve been handling everything all week. Let someone else be the asshole for once.”
Something flickers in her eyes—surprise, maybe. Gratitude. “Why do you care?”
Because you look exhausted. Because you’re trying so hard to keep it together. Because watching you stress makes my chest feel tight in a way I hate.
“It’s my brother’s wedding,” I say instead, the lie tasting bitter.
“Right.” She looks away, her jaw tightening. “Of course.”
The manager returns, sweating through his shirt. “We can set up a private section for the other group. Your group can move into the private room now.”
“Thank you,” Poppy says quickly, already moving, already back in professional mode.
She walks away before I can say anything else. I watch her go, the sway of that green dress, and curse under my breath.
The dinner goes fine. Mason stands to make a speech, glass raised, and I realize I’ve never seen him like this—open, vulnerable.
He’s more emotional than I would have expected.
I’ve only seen my brother cry a handful of times, and all of them were before he turned 11, but right now, he looks dangerously close.
“When I first knew I loved Ivy, it was while I watched her work in her kitchen, trying to recreate her grandmother’s wonton recipe for a video.
It was a total disaster. Flour everywhere.
She’d been at it for six hours.” He looks at her with that dopey love face, his voice cracking.
“That’s when I knew. Anyone who cares that much about getting it right—about honoring the people they love—that’s someone worth keeping. ”
Ivy cries, mascara running. Everyone claps. Mason kisses his fiancée with tears in his eyes, and something twists in my gut—envy, maybe. Or grief for the part of me that used to believe in moments like this.
My parents behave themselves. Mostly.
But I keep watching Poppy.
She’s everywhere and nowhere, adjusting flowers with quick, efficient movements. Checking with servers, clipboard tucked under one arm, making sure everyone has drinks, that smile never faltering. Never stopping. Never sitting.
Never eating.
“She’s good at this,” Gloria appears beside me like some kind of mystic ninja, silent despite all those bangles.
“Mm.” I take a sip, my eyes tracking Poppy as she laughs at something my uncle says.
“Takes care of everyone but herself, that one.” Gloria’s voice is gentle and knowing.
I say nothing, my jaw working.
“Bit like someone else I’ve been observing tonight.”
I turn to meet her gaze. “Meaning?”
“You’ve been watching her all evening, making sure she’s okay.” She smiles, her crow’s feet deepening. “It’s sweet.”
“It’s practical. Can’t have the wedding planner collapsing from exhaustion.” But my voice lacks conviction.
“Mhmm. Keep telling yourself that, dear.” She pats my arm before strolling away, leaving me with the uncomfortable truth.
But she’s not wrong. I’ve been nursing this same whiskey for an hour, watching Poppy work the room.
She has a way of making everyone feel like the most important person alive—touching arms, remembering names, laughing at terrible jokes.
Her whole body lights up with each interaction, genuine warmth radiating from her.
Professional. Polished. Perfect.
Nothing like the woman who wrestled a tent in the rain two hours ago. Nothing like the woman who kissed me back in my kitchen, her hands fisted in my shirt.
“You’re staring.” Mason drops into the seat beside me, stealing my whiskey glass.
“I’m observing.”
“With your eyes. That’s called staring.” He takes a swig, grinning.
“How’s Ivy?”
“Nice deflection.” He drains the rest of my whiskey, and I don’t even care. “She’s good. Happy. Thinks you and Poppy are, and I quote, ‘adorable.’“
“We’re not anything.” The words taste wrong coming out.
“Right. That’s why you’ve been eye-fucking her since she walked in.” He sets the empty glass down with a thunk.
“I haven’t—” But my protest dies when I realize he’s right. I know exactly where she is right now—third table from the left, laughing with someone’s aunt.
“Dude. You literally stopped mid-sentence when she bent over to fix that tablecloth.”
Okay. Fair. Heat crawls up my neck.
“She leaves Sunday,” I say, the words sitting heavy in my chest.
“So?” Mason leans back, studying me with that concerned-brother face.
“So what’s the point?”
Mason stares at me as if I’ve grown a second head. “The point? The point is she makes you smile. Actually smile. Not that weird grimace thing you do at client dinners.”
“It’s not that simple.” I run a hand through my hair, tugging slightly.
“Why?” His question is earnest, genuinely confused.