Chapter Twenty #2
Because I knew Emily for six years—six years of conversations, shared meals, and planning a future. I knew her favorite coffee order, her childhood traumas, her favorite blue jeans, and the specific ways her best friend drove her crazy.
And it still wasn’t enough.
I’ve known Poppy for just over a week. That’s insane. Completely insane.
No matter how right it feels when she looks at me.
“Dean?” Mason watches me with that concerned-brother expression, head tilted.
“It’s complicated,” I mutter, staring at my empty glass.
“Everything with you is complicated.” He takes another sip from somewhere. “Maybe try simple for once.”
Simple. Right.
Simple is not kissing your brother’s wedding planner against your kitchen wall. Simple is not spending every night checking to see if her light’s on. Simple is not this ache in my chest when I think about tomorrow—about watching her leave.
“I should mingle,” I say, already standing.
“You should talk to her.” Mason’s voice follows me.
“I should do a lot of things.”
But I stay in my seat, watching Poppy charm my parents’ friends. She catches me looking and winks.
Just… winks. Like we’re sharing a secret. Which I guess we are. Like that kiss never happened, and also like it’s all she can think about.
Damn it.
The dinner drags on—speeches about love, commitment, and forever. All the things I used to believe in before I learned better. Each speech feels like a knife between my ribs, a reminder of what I lost, what I gave up on.
By the time the evening winds down, I’ve had enough. Enough of watching Poppy run herself ragged. Enough of family members asking about my love life. Enough of pretending I don’t notice every time she tucks her hair behind her ear, every time she laughs, every time she moves.
I find her on the restaurant’s back patio, finally alone, shoes off, rubbing her feet with a grimace.
“Those look painful.”
She doesn’t look up, fingers digging into her arch. “Beauty is pain.”
“Beauty is stupid if it cripples you.” I lean against the doorframe, watching her.
“Spoken like someone who’s never worn heels.” But there’s no heat in her tone.
“You’ve got me there.”
She almost smiles. Almost. The corner of her mouth quirks up, then falls.
I lean against the railing, close enough to see the exhaustion around her eyes. “You haven’t eaten.”
“I’ve been busy.” She continues rubbing her foot, avoiding my gaze.
“You’re always busy.”
“Yeah, well.” She shrugs, her shoulders tight. “That’s the job.”
“The job is planning weddings, not martyring yourself.” The words come out sharper than I intend.
Her head snaps up, eyes flashing. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“I’m not martyring—” Color rises in her cheeks.
“When’s the last time you ate a full meal? Slept eight hours? Took a break that wasn’t forced on you by someone else?”
She stands, though I can tell her feet are killing her. She sways slightly, catching herself on the railing. “Why do you care?”
“Why don’t you?” I take a step closer.
“Because I have a wedding to pull off. Because this matters. Because if I stop for five seconds—” She cuts herself off, jaw clenching.
“What? What happens if you stop?”
“Nothing. Forget it.” She grabs her shoes, clutching them to her chest like armor.
“Poppy—”
“No.” Her voice cracks slightly. “You don’t get to do this. Swoop in and act concerned when it’s convenient.”
“Convenient? You think any of this is convenient for me?” I laugh, the sound bitter. Meeting Poppy Monroe might be the least convenient thing that’s ever happened to me.
“Then why are you here?” She’s breathing hard now, her chest rising and falling.
Good question. Why am I here? Why do I care if she’s eating? Why does watching her hurt herself make me want to shake her and hold her at the same time?
“Because someone should be,” I finally say, the truth raw in my throat.
“I don’t need—” She starts, but I cut her off.
“Yes, you do. You need someone to make you eat, to tell you to sit down, to care whether or not you’re okay.”
“And you’ve appointed yourself?” Her chin lifts, defiant.
“Apparently.”
We stare at each other. The fairy lights strung overhead cast shadows on her face, and she looks tired, beautiful, and so freaking stubborn that I want to—
“You know what your problem is?” she says, her voice low and dangerous.
“Please, enlighten me.” I cross my arms, bracing myself.
“You hide.”
“I hide?” The accusation stings more than it should.
Her posture straightens, and she lifts her chin, appraising me with those sharp eyes. “Behind work. Behind this whole grumpy, emotionally unavailable persona. You hide because it’s easier than actually feeling something.”
“That’s rich, coming from someone who can’t stop moving long enough to—” My hands curl into fists.
“At least I believe in something—love, marriage, happy endings.” Her voice rises, passionate now.
“Na?ve.”
“What?” She goes very still.
“You’re na?ve. You sell fairy tales to people who’ll be divorced in five years.” The words are cruel. I know it the moment they leave my mouth.
Her face changes. It goes hard, all the softness bleeding away. “Wow.”
“Poppy—” I reach for her, but she steps back.
“No, you’re right. I’m na?ve. A stupid little wedding planner who believes in love.” She laughs, but it’s sharp and brittle. “At least I’m not so damn scared of feeling something that I’ve turned into a robot.”
“I’m not—”
“You are. You’re terrified. Of wanting something. Of someone mattering. Of being human.” Her eyes are bright now, too bright.
“And you’re so desperate to matter to someone that you’ll kill yourself making everyone else’s dreams come true.” The words hang between us like grenades.
Her eyes shine with unshed tears. “Screw you.”
“Poppy—”
But she’s already leaving. Shoes in hand, dignity intact, walking away as if I didn’t just gut her. The door swings shut behind her, and the sound echoes in the sudden silence.
Shit.
I stand there like an idiot, replaying the conversation. The way her face crumpled before she hid it. The truth in what we both said. The damage we just inflicted.
“That went well.”
I turn. CeCe leans in the doorway, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.
“How much did you hear?” I run both hands through my hair, tugging hard enough to hurt.
“Enough.” She studies me, silent for a long moment. “You know she’s not wrong.”
“Neither was I.” But it sounds hollow.
“No,” she agrees, pushing off the doorframe. “You’re both disasters. Which is probably why you’re perfect for each other.”
“We’re not—”
“Good grief, stop.” She holds up a hand, cutting me off. “I’ve watched you two circle each other all week like horny vultures. Just kiss her already.”
“I did.” The admission slips out.
Her eyes widen, eyebrows shooting up. “When?”
“The other day.” After the Reddit incident. Against my kitchen wall.
“And?” She’s leaning forward now, invested.
And it was everything. It terrified me. I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.
“And it’s complicated,” I say, the understatement of the year.
“Yeah, no shit.” She pushes off the doorway. “Look, I don’t know you. But I know Poppy. And she doesn’t get worked up about guys. Ever. But you? You’ve got her twisted in knots even George couldn’t manage.”
“That’s not—” I start, but she talks over me.
“She’s leaving Sunday,” CeCe continues, her voice gentler now. “So whatever this is, whatever you think you’re protecting yourself from, you’ve got about thirty-six hours to figure it out.”
She leaves me with that cheerful thought.
I stay on the patio, nursing my whiskey and my bruised ego. Poppy’s words keep echoing in my mind. You’re terrified. Of wanting something. Of someone mattering.
She’s right. We’re both hiding, just in different ways.
An hour later, the party’s winding down. I’ve done my duty—smiled at relatives, shaken hands, pretended to care about small talk. Mason and Ivy left twenty minutes ago, glowing with pre-wedding happiness that makes my chest hurt in ways I don’t want to examine.
I should go home. I should review tomorrow’s timeline. I should do anything except what I’m about to do.
Instead, I go looking for Poppy.
She’s not in the main dining room. Not at the bar. Not on the patio where I destroyed whatever fragile thing was building between us.
“Lost something?” Gloria appears again, materializing from nowhere. The woman has supernatural timing.
“Have you seen—”
“She left.” Her expression softens slightly, knowing. “Whatever you said to her—”
“Was true.” I set my jaw.
“Truth and cruelty often wear the same clothes,” she says, tilting her head. “Doesn’t mean you have to let them.”
Cryptic flower aunt wisdom. Fantastic. As if my night couldn’t get any worse.
“Where did she go?” The question escapes before I can stop it.
“Back to the house, I assume.” She tilts her head, studying me like a particularly interesting bug. “Are you going after her?”
“No.” But my feet are already moving toward the door.
“Liar.” Her voice follows me.
“I’m going home. To sleep. Like a normal person.” I grab my keys from the valet.
“Mhmm.” She pats my cheek like I’m five. “She’s probably checking on the tent, in case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Of course not, dear.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m pulling into my driveway, definitely not looking for Poppy. The headlights sweep across the property as I park.
The property is quiet. The tent is secure despite today’s earlier drama. There are no lights on in the guest house—just darkness and silence.
I should go inside, leave her alone, and respect the boundary she clearly set.
Thunder rumbles in the distance.
Damn it.
Not again.
I grab a flashlight and head out because I’m apparently incapable of making good decisions when it comes to her.
The rain starts soft—a drizzle at first. But the thunder is getting closer, and I know what that means—the kind of storm that sends Nadine’s neurotic dog into hysterics.
Muffin.