Chapter Twenty-One Wedding Day Chaos
Chapter Twenty-One
Wedding Day Chaos
Poppy
Shit.
I slept here. In my dress. After ugly-humming Motown to a neurotic dog while Dean watched with that look that made my chest crack open.
I can’t process that now. It’s wedding day.
I carefully extract myself from the blanket—when did that get here?—and tiptoe toward the door. My dress is wrinkled beyond salvation, my hair feels like a bird’s nest, and there’s definitely dog drool on my shoulder. Perfect.
Muffin cracks one eye open, judges me with that special contempt only dogs can muster, and goes right back to sleep.
Smart dog.
The guest house is freezing when I stumble in, the morning air biting through my thin dress. CeCe is still passed out, one leg hanging off the bed, yesterday’s mascara giving her raccoon eyes. She’s snoring softly, dead to the world.
I shower, change, and armor myself in my responsible wedding planner outfit—a burgundy silk dress that projects “I definitely didn’t just do the walk of shame from your brother’s couch.” The fabric is smooth and professional, a shield against the chaos threatening to swallow me whole.
By the time my phone buzzes at 6:47, I’m already three coffees deep and cross-referencing my lists. My hands are steady now, controlled. I can do this. I’ve done this a hundred times.
TEXT: Can’t make it today. Food poisoning. Sorry.
I stare at the screen, blink, and read it again.
No.
No, no, no.
“Fuck.” The word comes out small. Broken. The phone trembles in my grip. “Fuck, fuck, FUCK.”
CeCe pokes her head out of the bathroom, toothbrush in her mouth, foam at the corners. “What’s wrong?”
“The guitarist.” My voice sounds weird. Far away, like it’s coming from underwater. “For the ceremony. He just… canceled.”
“Oh shit.” The toothbrush stops mid-brush.
“The ceremony’s in a matter of hours.” I’m doing that thing where my voice gets higher with each word, tighter, like a string about to snap. “Where am I supposed to find a classical guitarist in rural New York in a matter of HOURS?”
“Okay, breathe.” CeCe steps out of the bathroom, concern creasing her forehead.
“I can’t breathe. This is Ivy’s wedding. The wedding that’s supposed to save my career. The wedding that—” I stop. I can’t say the rest out loud. My throat closes around the words.
The wedding I’ve been using to prove I’m not a complete failure.
“We’ll figure it out,” CeCe says, but even she sounds worried. Her eyes are too wide, her usual confidence cracking.
I’m already scrolling through my phone, fingers flying, calling every musician in a fifty-mile radius. Each ring feels like an eternity.
“Hello, hi, I need a guitarist for—”
“Booked.” Click.
“Is there any way—”
“Lady, it’s Saturday.” The dismissal in the voice stings.
Call after call. Same answer. Booked. Busy. One guy actually laughs at me, the sound harsh through the speaker.
My hands are shaking now. That scary kind of shaking where you can’t make it stop. The phone keeps slipping in my sweaty palm.
“Poppy—” CeCe’s voice is gentle, worried.
“I’ve got it.” I don’t have it. The lie tastes bitter. “Just… give me a minute.”
I stumble outside because the guest house is too small, the walls pressing in. I need air, need space, need the sky above me. I need a freaking miracle.
And I almost run straight into Dean.
He’s carrying coffee, steam rising from two cups. His hair is still damp from a shower, curling slightly at the ends. He looks unfairly good for someone whose couch I just snuck away from—dress shirt and jeans, barefoot, looking relaxed and put-together while I’m falling apart.
“Whoa.” He steadies me with his free hand, warm and solid against my arm. “You okay?”
“Fine.” I step back, breaking contact. Heat blooms where he touched me. I can’t look at him. Not after last night. Not after being so close to him while I hummed off-key to a dog. Not after whatever that moment was.
“You left early.” His voice is careful, neutral.
My stomach flips. “I had to—wedding stuff.”
“Right.” Something flickers in his eyes—disappointment, maybe. Or understanding. “Wedding stuff.”
We stand there for a beat too long, the morning air cold between us.
“Dean, I really don’t have time—” I start, already turning away.
“What happened?”
The question stops me. Something in his tone—genuine concern, not just polite inquiry.
“Nothing. Just… a vendor thing.” I wave a hand dismissively, but it’s still shaking.
“What vendor thing?” He steps closer, and I catch a whiff of his soap—cedar and something else.
“The guitarist canceled.” The words tumble out, too fast, tripping over each other. “For the ceremony. Ivy specifically wanted acoustic guitar, and he’s sick, and I can’t find anyone else, and—”
“Give me an hour.” He’s already setting down the coffee cups on the porch railing.
“What?” I blink at him, not understanding.
“One hour.” He’s backing away, keys appearing in his hand like magic. “Trust me.”
“Dean—” But he’s already moving, purpose in every step.
But he’s gone, jogging toward his car like a man on a mission, leaving me standing there with my mouth open and my crisis temporarily forgotten.
“So,” CeCe says from the doorway, wrapped in a blanket now. “What was that all about?”
I watch Dean’s car disappear down the driveway, taillights winking in the early morning gray. “Shut up.”
“Okay, babe. You’re the boss.” But she’s grinning, that knowing smile that makes me want to throw something at her.
I flip her off and go back to panic-calling musicians, even though something in my chest has loosened just slightly.
An hour later, I’m helping Ivy with pre-wedding prep—her suite is chaos, makeup everywhere, hair tools plugged in, bridesmaid dresses hanging like pastel ghosts—when she starts screaming.
“IT’S NOT SYMMETRICAL!”
I nearly drop the veil I’m steaming. My heart slams into my throat as I run into the bathroom, disaster scenarios flooding my brain. Fire. Blood. Torn dress.
She’s staring at her face in the mirror like it betrayed her, leaning so close her breath fogs the glass.
“My eyebrows,” she whispers, voice thick with horror. “Look at them.”
I look. They’re… eyebrows. Perfect eyebrows, actually. Better than mine have ever been.
“The left one is half a millimeter higher!” Her finger jabs at the mirror, leaving a smudge.
“Ivy. Breathe.” I step closer, gentle.
“I can’t breathe! I have 13 million followers, and they’re going to notice and—” Her chest is heaving now, eyes too bright.
“Hey.” I grab her shoulders, firm but careful not to wrinkle the robe. “Look at me.”
She does. Mascara already smudging at the corners, threatening to run. Her bottom lip trembles.
“Nobody’s going to notice your eyebrows.”
“But—” Her voice cracks.
“Know what they’re gonna notice? How happy you look. How Mason can’t stop staring at you. How freaking gorgeous this entire estate is. How beautiful you are, inside and out.” I squeeze her shoulders gently, trying to ground her.
“But the photos—” She’s still staring at her reflection, critical.
“Forget the photos.”
Her eyes widen, snapping to mine in the mirror.
“I mean—we’ll get beautiful photos. But that’s not why you’re doing this, right?” I turn her to face me properly, away from the mirror and its cruel magnification.
She’s quiet. For so long, I start to really regret yelling ‘forget the photos.’ What kind of wedding planner am I? Her breathing is shallow, rapid. Then she whispers, “I’m scared.”
“Of what?” I soften my voice, my grip.
“What if people think—” She stops, swallowing hard. Her hands are twisting in her robe.
“You of all people know better than to care about what people think. There are always going to be a few haters.” I wait until she meets my eyes. “But you and Mason?”
She smiles involuntarily when I say his name. It transforms her face, chasing away the anxiety.
“You and Mason are going to have a beautiful wedding and an even more beautiful life together.”
She inhales slowly, nodding. Her shoulders drop from where they’ve been hunched near her ears. “Thanks, Poppy.”
“Anytime.” I grin, relieved.
Something in her face shifts. The influencer mask cracks, and I see the real Ivy underneath—vulnerable, uncertain, human.
“Where’d you sleep last night?” she asks suddenly, tilting her head.
My hands freeze on her shoulders. Heat floods my cheeks. “What?”
“Dean mentioned you helped with Muffin during the storm.” Her tone is carefully casual, but her eyes are sharp in the mirror now.
“Oh. That was… nothing.” I busy myself adjusting her robe, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles.
“Uh-huh.” She’s watching me in the mirror now, a small smile playing at her lips. “Is that why you’re being weird?”
“I’m not being weird.” But my voice pitches up slightly, defensive.
“You’re totally being weird.” She turns to face me fully, studying my expression.
Before I can argue, Mason appears in the doorway looking green. Actually green, like he might be sick all over Ivy’s pristine white bathmat.
“Babe? We need a minute.” His voice is tight, strained.
Ivy’s face falls, all the calm I just built evaporating. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just… wedding jitters. Guy stuff.” But his hands are shaking where they grip the doorframe.
“Guy stuff?” I question, because that’s the worst lie I’ve ever heard.
“Just need to talk. Privately.” He looks at me pointedly.
I give them space but hover near the door because I’m nosy and also because Mason looks like he might puke or bolt, and I need to know which emergency I’m dealing with.
“—Mom’s being impossible,” I hear him say, voice muffled. “And Dad brought Kevin.”
“Your cousin Kevin?” Ivy’s voice rises slightly.
“My perfect surgeon cousin Kevin who Mom wishes was her son instead.” The bitterness in his tone is sharp, cutting.
“Mason—”
“What if she’s right? What if I’m not—” His voice cracks, and my heart squeezes.
“Stop.” Ivy’s voice is firm now, steel underneath the gentleness. “Look at me.”
There’s shuffling. Soft voices I can’t make out. The quiet murmur of comfort, reassurance.
Then Ivy laughs, bright and clear. “Your mom can suck it. I’m marrying you, not her perfect son fantasy.”
“Yeah?” He sounds young, uncertain.
“Yeah. I love you, Mace. Forever.”
“I love you too,” he says softly. Then there are kissing sounds, and just as I’m starting to feel like a creeper, Ivy laughs again, lighter this time.
“Now go. Poppy needs to fix my allegedly wonky eyebrows.”
I step away quickly, pretending I wasn’t listening. Crisis averted. Thank God.
“Poppy!” CeCe calls from downstairs, her voice echoing up. “Hair and makeup’s here!”
Right. Back to work.
My phone buzzes. Flower delivery is here.
Caterer’s on schedule. DJ confirmed. Everything is falling into place like dominoes, one after another.
Everything except my ability to function around Dean Whitaker.
Oh, and my missing guitarist. The thought hits me like cold water, and my stomach drops. Now I feel like the one who might puke.
I can’t think about last night. About sleeping on his couch. About him tucking a blanket around me while I slept, the gentleness of it. About waking up to find him in the chair across from me, a book on his chest, like he’d been watching over us.
I can’t do any of this right now. Six hours until the wedding.
Six hours to pull off a miracle.
Six hours until I prove I can do this.
Or six hours until everything falls apart.